Nicholas's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 18
Nicholas flew to New York for the award ceremony. Eleanor was going to fly out the next day and join him. He’d never had much interest in New York City, but now here he was, staying at the Plaza, of all places. The publisher had insisted on the hotel, wanting their Pulitzer winner properly housed for the media appearances they’d scheduled around the ceremony.
He arrived a day early with strict instructions from Eleanor to buy a good quality suit. “The ceremony is formal, Nicholas. You’ll need something appropriate,” she’d explained with the patient tone she reserved for matters of social convention. “The publisher is picking up the tab.” That last part was good because there was no way he was going to shell his hard earned cash for a couple of $5,000 suits. He did have a nice sport coat and slacks that he’d worn for the university presentations, but apparently those wouldn’t suffice for a Pulitzer ceremony.
The Plaza was overwhelming—ornate lobbies, uniformed staff, luxury on a scale that seemed comical to him. His room was larger than his entire apartment, with views of Manhattan spreading out below. He spent an hour just watching the city from the window, observing the patterns of traffic, the rhythms of pedestrians, the way light moved across the surfaces of the buildings.
After setting up his laptop and unpacking his few belongings, he decided to explore. The publicist from Hartwick had arranged for a shopping appointment the next morning at some upscale men’s store, but dinner was his own affair. He opted for the Oak Room in the hotel itself, curious about this historic space he’d read about.
The restaurant was exactly what you’d expect from its name—dark wood paneling, dim lighting, leather chairs, an atmosphere of measured opulence. He was seated at a table near the center of the room, still dressed in the clothes he’d traveled in—clean jeans and a button-down shirt and a brown sport coat.
Nicholas had just ordered when a commotion at the entrance caught his attention. Two extraordinarily beautiful women had entered, followed by what appeared to be a pair of middle-aged businessmen in expensive suits. The women were tall, slender, and impeccably dressed in what even he could recognize as high fashion. One was a blond woman with dramatic cheekbones, the other a brunette with striking green eyes. Both carried themselves with the practiced poise of people accustomed to being looked at.
They scanned the room, and to his surprise, the blond locked eyes with him and immediately changed direction, heading straight for his table with determined strides. The brunette followed, leaving the businessmen standing awkwardly at the entrance.
“Hi there,” the blond woman said, flashing a dazzling smile. “Is anyone sitting with you?”
Before he could answer, she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Please rescue us. We’ll have to have dinner with a couple of creepy guys otherwise.”
Nicholas glanced past them to the men at the entrance, who were indeed watching with expressions that blended entitlement with disappointment.
“Sure,” he said simply, gesturing to the empty chairs.
That was all the invitation they needed. Both women sat down with practiced grace, the blond woman flagging a waiter with a subtle gesture that somehow communicated both urgency and authority.
“I’m Sonja,” the blond said, extending a slender hand. “This is Valentina.”
“Nicholas,” he replied, shaking their hands gently.
What followed was a torrent of conversation, the two women talking a mile a minute, barely pausing for breath. They spoke with the rapid-fire cadence of people who lived in perpetual motion, their words tumbling over one another as they ordered drinks, commented on the menu, critiqued other diners’ outfits, and occasionally remembered to include him with questions they rarely waited for him to answer.
He learned, in fragmented pieces, that they were models in town for Fashion Week, that the men at the entrance were “industry guys” who had latched onto them at a previous event, and that they had spotted him as their best chance for escape.
“You looked safe,” Valentina explained, her accent suggesting Eastern European origins. “Not trying too hard, you know? All these men in New York, always peacocking, always wanting something.”
“Plus, you’re big,” Sonja added pragmatically. “Those guys won’t start trouble with someone your size.”
He nodded, understanding the calculation. His size had always made him visible, for better or worse.
The conversation flowed around him rather than with him, which was fine. He found it interesting to observe them—their mannerisms, their shorthand communication with each other, the way they inhabited their extraordinary physical appearance with a combination of deliberate performance and occasional revealing moments of ordinary humanity.
They had just received their appetizers when another young woman approached the table, her expression a mix of irritation and relief. She was a bit shorter than the other two but equally striking, with dark hair cut in a sharp bob and intense, intelligent blue eyes.
“You two bitches snuck off and left me with those two assholes,” she announced without preamble, pulling up a chair. “Who’s this?”
The blond, Sonja, looked at Nicholas with the slightly startled expression of someone who had only just realized they never properly registered the presence of another person.
“This is Nicholas,” she admitted. “I think he’s a gangster or a bodyguard.”
The absurdity of this suggestion—him, with his philosophy background and handyman business, mistaken for a gangster—made him smile.
“Nicholas Carter,” he introduced himself properly.
He’d expected the name to mean nothing to them, but to his surprise, the new arrival’s eyes widened slightly.
“Wait, are you the writer? ‘The Excellence of Ordinary Things’?”
Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Yes, actually.”
“Holy shit,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Maya. I read your book on a flight from Milan to Tokyo. It was really good—not the usual self-help garbage I usually buy at airports.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
“You’ve read his book?” Sonja asked Maya, clearly reevaluating him.
“It’s about finding meaning in everyday work,” Maya explained. “Philosophical, but not pretentious.”
“Are you a philosopher?” Valentina asked him, suddenly interested.
“I’m studying philosophy,” he clarified. “I’m also a handyman.”
This revelation seemed to delight them all for different reasons. Maya appreciated the consistency with the book’s themes.
Sonja found it novel — “You’re like a character in a movie!”
Valentina, more practically, immediately asked if he could fix the stuck window in her New York sublet.
With the ice broken by this unexpected connection, the conversation shifted. Rather than talking around him, they began to engage directly, curious about this anomaly appearing in their world—a philosophical handyman author who had somehow ended up at a table in the Oak Room.
He found himself drawn to find out about their lives, curious about their experiences in an industry so different from any he’d encountered. “How has modeling changed your life plans?” he asked, his natural observer curiosity emerging.
This simple question unleashed a flood of surprisingly thoughtful responses. Each had a different story, a different relationship with the work that had brought them to New York.
Maya, it turned out, had been studying architectural engineering when she was scouted. “I thought I’d model for a year or two, make some money for school. That was six years ago. Now I’m trying to figure out if I still want to go back to engineering or if this industry has changed me too much.”
The way she said it—with a mixture of pragmatism and wistfulness—reminded him of conversations he’d had with tradespeople who had fallen into their professions by chance rather than choice.
Sonja had a more straightforward relationship with modeling. “I grew up poor in Sweden. Really poor. Modeling was a ticket out. I’m not pretending it’s saving the world, but I’m good at it, and it’s given me opportunities I never would have had.”
Valentina’s story was the most complex. She’d been a competitive gymnast in Ukraine before an injury ended that career. Modeling had been a second chance at success, but she spoke of it with a competitive athlete’s focus on technique and discipline rather than glamor.
“People think modeling is just looking pretty,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s work. It’s physical. Try holding unnatural poses under hot lights for eight hours. Try staying perfectly still while someone pokes your eye with makeup brushes. It’s endurance.”
As they spoke, he recognized patterns similar to those he’d observed in other professions—the pride in technical mastery, the frustration with public misconceptions about their work, the complex relationship between personal identity and professional role.
“Do you find meaning in it?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Beyond the practical benefits?”
The question landed differently with each of them. Maya looked thoughtful, Sonja slightly defensive. Valentina immediately nodded.
“I do,” Valentina said firmly. “It’s like any performance. When I get it exactly right—the movement, the expression, the energy—when I give the photographer exactly what they need for their vision, there’s satisfaction in that. Excellence, like in your book.”
“Sometimes,” Maya admitted. “On good projects with creative people who respect what we bring to it. Other times it’s just a paycheck.”
Sonja shrugged. “It’s a job. It lets me send money to my mother. That’s meaning enough.”
Their honesty was refreshing. There was no pretense that their work was more significant than it was, but also no apology for finding value in it where value existed.
As the dinner progressed, their initial rapid-fire conversation slowed into something more measured. They asked about his book, about handyman work, about what had brought him to New York. He explained about the Pulitzer, which impressed them in a distant way—like hearing about an accomplishment in a field you respect but don’t fully understand.
“So tomorrow you’ll be with all the fancy literary people?” Maya asked.
“Apparently,” he replied.
“Do you have a suit?” Sonja inquired, her professional eye clearly assessing his current attire.
“I’m supposed to buy one tomorrow.”
This casual statement electrified all three women. They exchanged glances loaded with meaning he couldn’t decipher.
“Where are they sending you?” Valentina demanded.
Nicholas pulled out his phone and checked the email from the publicist. “A store called Brooks Brothers.”
They reacted as if he’d suggested he was wearing a trash bag to the ceremony.
“Absolutely not,” Maya declared firmly.
“Criminal,” agreed Sonja.
“They think because you are a man, anything will do,” Valentina said, shaking her head. “This is your moment. You should look...” she gestured vaguely at all of him, “like yourself, but better.”
What followed was a rapid three-way conversation about designers, cuts, complexions, and price points that he couldn’t begin to follow. They debated his “look” as if he weren’t present, occasionally tilting his chin to examine his face from different angles or lifting his arm to assess his shoulder width.
“We’re taking you shopping tomorrow,” Maya announced finally. “Before your Brooks Brothers appointment. We know exactly where to go.”
He started to object—he had no particular interest in fashion and was perfectly content with whatever standard formal wear the publisher had in mind. But he found himself curious about their world, about seeing New York through their expert eyes, about understanding another domain of specialized knowledge.
“Alright,” he agreed. “But I need to be at a meeting by six tomorrow evening.”
This set off another round of scheduling discussion. They all had fittings and shows, but they strategized a way to take turns escorting him to specific stores in the morning.
As they finished dinner, he insisted on paying the bill—they had provided an evening of unexpected education, and that seemed fair compensation. They protested but ultimately relented, extracting a promise that he would meet them in the lobby at 9 AM sharp.
When he returned to his room that night, Nicholas found himself writing in his notebook about the encounter. These three women occupied a professional world entirely different from any he’d observed before—one based on beauty, on physical presence, on being seen rather than seeing. Yet beneath the surface differences, he recognized familiar patterns: pride in professional competence, specialized vocabulary and knowledge, the navigation of an industry with its own unwritten rules and power structures.
They, like the carpenters and mechanics and waitresses he’d written about, had developed excellence specific to their domain. They had adapted their bodies and movements to the requirements of their work, had developed techniques and strategies invisible to outsiders. They had found their own relationship with meaning and purpose.
As he wrote, he realized that his unexpected dinner had provided exactly what he valued most—a window into yet another form of human experience. The day after tomorrow would bring the Pulitzer ceremony, with its own rituals and expectations. But tonight had been a reminder that every world, every profession, contained its own mysteries for those who cared to observe them.
He met them at breakfast in the Palm Court restaurant, arriving precisely at 9 AM as agreed. They were already there, occupying a corner table with an efficiency that suggested they’d colonized the space. Maya was texting rapidly on her phone, Valentina was studying a small notebook with what looked like a hand-drawn map, and Sonja was charming the waiter into bringing extra pastries “for the table.”
Nicholas had expected them to be fashionably late—one of those unwritten social rules he’d observed but never understood. Their punctuality was a surprise.
“Nicholas!” Sonja called, spotting him first. “Coffee? We ordered you coffee. Black, no sugar or cream. That seemed right.”
It was right, though he couldn’t recall mentioning his coffee preference. Perhaps they’d simply observed it at dinner.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the empty chair at the table.
“We have a plan,” Maya announced, setting down her phone. “Six stores, three neighborhoods, strategic breaks for sustenance. We need to be efficient—Valentina has a fitting at two, I have a meeting with my agency at three, and Sonja has a show at four.”
He nodded, impressed by their organization. “I have only one request.”
They looked at him expectantly.
“Tell me odd facts about the city as we pass people and places. I’ve never been to New York before.”
This simple request seemed to delight them.
“Oh my god, yes,” Sonja exclaimed. “We’ll be like tour guides from hell.”
“We know the weirdest things about this city,” Maya agreed. “The stuff they never put in guidebooks.”
“Like which restaurants have rats and which designers are cocaine addicts,” Valentina added with a mischievous smile.
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” he smiled, “but whatever knowledge you want to share is fine.”
The ladies exchanged glances that contained entire conversations. Then Valentina took charge, pulling out her notebook. “First stop is Bergdorf’s Men’s Store. It’s across town, so we’ll take a taxi. After that, we’ll work our way downtown.”
As they finished breakfast, they outlined the plan in more detail. Each store had been selected for a specific reason—one specialized in suits for athletic builds, another was known for understated elegance, a third had a particular Italian tailor they insisted he meet. They had discussed his “look” extensively after dinner and had apparently reached some consensus about what would work best.
“Nothing to fashion-forward,” Maya explained. “You need something timeless but not stuffy.”
“Nothing banker-ish,” Sonja added. “No pinstripes, nothing that screams Wall Street.”
“But serious,” Valentina concluded. “Dignified. A Pulitzer Prize winner should look ... substantial.”
Nicholas appreciated their thoughtfulness, though he still found it fascinating that three fashion models were investing such energy in his appearance.
Once outside the hotel, Sonja asked the door man to hail a taxi, which he did with a shrill whistle.
As promised, the odd facts began immediately.
“See that building?” Maya pointed as they pulled away from the curb. “The one with the green copper roof? A famous architect allegedly designed it to look terrible on purpose because the client was sleeping with his wife. The proportions are subtly wrong in ways that make people uncomfortable without knowing why.”
He studied the building with new interest. “Is that true?”
She grinned. “Absolutely not. But it’s a great story, and once you’ve heard it, you can never look at the building the same way again.”
This set the tone for their “tour guide from hell” commentary—a blend of verifiable facts, industry gossip, personal observations, and outright fabrications delivered with such conviction that it was impossible to distinguish truth from fiction.
As their taxi inched through morning traffic, they pointed out landmarks both famous and obscure:
“That tiny restaurant there? Best dumplings in the city, but the health department has shut it down fourteen times.”
“That hotel? The doorman writes down the names of every celebrity who comes in and sells the list to tabloids.”
“See that park? There’s a society of urban archaeologists who meet there at midnight every full moon to exchange artifacts they’ve found in construction sites.”
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