The Gardener’s Garage
Rick Vance checked his reflection in the polished hood of the Obsidian X1, a hypercar worth more than most people earned in three lifetimes. His suit was Italian, his watch was Swiss, and his attitude was purely transactional. He was the top salesman at Prestige Automobili, the city’s most exclusive dealership, and he had a nose for money.
He could smell wealth. It smelled like cologne, dry cleaning, and entitlement.
What walked through the glass double doors at 10:00 AM on a Tuesday did not smell like money. It smelled like mulch.
It was an old man, stooped slightly, wearing a pair of denim overalls stained with green knees and brown streaks of fresh earth. He wore a floppy hat that looked like it had survived a war, and his boots were heavy work boots, caked in dried mud. Holding his hand was a little boy, maybe seven years old, wearing a simple t-shirt and shorts, licking a lollipop.
Rick stiffened. He looked around. The showroom was empty, save for the receptionist, Jessica, who was filing her nails.
“Unbelievable,” Rick muttered, smoothing his tie. He stepped away from the Obsidian X1 as if the old man’s poverty might be contagious and jump onto the paintwork.
Chapter 1: The Trespassers
Rick intercepted them before they could get past the front desk. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a hand. He stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, a human barricade.
“Can I help you?” Rick asked. The tone wasn’t a question; it was a challenge.
The old man looked up. His face was weathered, a map of wrinkles and sunspots, but his eyes were bright blue and crinkled at the corners. He smiled, revealing teeth that were straight but not blindingly white like Rick’s veneers.
“Good morning, son,” the old man said, his voice rasping slightly. “We’re just having a look around. My grandson, Leo here, he loves cars. Saw this big glass building and wanted to see what was inside.”
Rick looked down at the boy. Leo was staring at the Obsidian X1 with wide eyes. He took the lollipop out of his mouth.
“Grandpa, look at that one. It looks like the Batmobile,” Leo whispered.
“It’s not a toy, kid,” Rick snapped, his voice sharp.
Leo flinched, stepping closer to his grandfather’s leg.
The old man’s smile faded, just a fraction. He patted Leo’s shoulder. “He knows it’s not a toy, sir. He just appreciates the design. We won’t touch anything.”
“You’re right, you won’t,” Rick said, crossing his arms. “Because this isn’t a museum. And it certainly isn’t a public park. This is a private dealership for serious clientele.”
He looked pointedly at the old man’s boots. A small flake of dried mud had fallen onto the pristine white marble floor. Rick stared at it as if it were a radioactive isotope.
“You’re tracking dirt on my floor,” Rick said, curling his lip. “The cleaning crew just finished.”
“Oh, my apologies,” the old man said, looking down. He wiped his boot on the back of his other leg, which only made a second flake fall. “I was just pruning the hydrangeas. Lost track of time when the boy came over.”
“Look,” Rick sighed, checking his Rolex. “There’s a Used Ford lot about three miles down the road. They have vending machines and cars you can actually afford to sit in. I think you’d be more comfortable there.”
The old man looked at Rick. Really looked at him. “We aren’t looking for a Ford, son. I promised the boy we’d look at the best.”
“And you’ve seen it,” Rick gestured to the door. “Now, please. I have a client coming in twenty minutes. A real client. I need the floor clear.”
Chapter 2: The Test of Character
“Is that the V12 engine?”
The question came from the boy, Leo. He had stepped around Rick’s blockade and was pointing at the Obsidian.
Rick lunged forward, blocking the boy’s view. “Hey! I said don’t get close. That paint job costs twenty thousand dollars. You breathe on it wrong, and you’re paying for it.”
“There’s no need to be rude to the child,” the old man said. His voice had dropped an octave. The friendly gardener persona was slipping, revealing something harder underneath, like bedrock under soil.
“I’m not being rude, old timer. I’m being professional,” Rick sneered. “And my profession is selling luxury assets to the elite. Not babysitting daydreamers in dirty overalls.”
Rick stepped closer, invading the old man’s personal space. He was taller, younger, and in his mind, infinitely superior.
“Let me spell it out for you,” Rick lowered his voice. “You. Can’t. Afford. The. Air. In. These. Tires. You are bad for the brand image. If my manager sees you here, he’ll think I’m running a soup kitchen. So, take your grandkid, take your mud, and get out before I call security to escort you out.”
The old man stared at Rick. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cower. He just looked sad.
“You judge a man by his clothes?” the old man asked softly.
“I judge a man by his capacity to buy,” Rick retorted. “And your capacity is zero.”
“I see,” the old man nodded slowly. “Well. I suppose we should go, Leo. This gentleman doesn’t want our business.”
“But Grandpa,” Leo said, looking up. “You promised I could pick one.”
“I know, Leo. But not here.”
Rick laughed. A short, barking sound. “Pick one? Kid, your grandpa couldn’t pick the air freshener in that car. Go home.”
That was the breaking point.
Leo, who had been holding his grandfather’s hand, let go. He reached into the back pocket of his little cargo shorts.
He didn’t pull out a toy car. He didn’t pull out a wrapper.
He pulled out a wallet. It was small, Velcro, with a picture of a superhero on it. But inside, there was a single card tucked into the front slot.
Leo pulled it out.
It wasn’t plastic. It hit the sunlight and didn’t reflect; it absorbed the light. It was matte black, made of anodized titanium. The American Express Centurion Card. The “Black Card.” But not just any Black Card. This one had a specific, gold laser-etching on the corner that denoted a level of wealth that bypassed credit limits entirely.
Rick stopped laughing. He froze. He knew that card. He had seen it only once before, in a magazine article about billionaires.
Leo held the card up. It looked comically large in his small hand.
“Grandpa,” Leo said, his voice calm, bored even. “I don’t like this man. He’s loud and he smells like too much hairspray.”
The old man looked down at his grandson and suppressed a smile. “He is a bit loud, isn’t he?”
Leo turned to Rick, then looked around the expansive, two-story showroom filled with Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Bentleys.
“Grandpa,” Leo said, “I don’t want to just pick one anymore. This place is big. It has high ceilings.”
“It does,” the old man agreed.
“Can we buy it?” Leo asked.
Rick blinked. “Excuse me?”
Leo ignored him. “Buy the showroom, Grandpa. All of it. The cars, the building. I want to turn it into my garage. I have too many Lego sets at home. They need a bigger room.”
The old man rubbed his chin, his rough, dirt-stained hand making a scratching sound against his stubble. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the floor.
“It is a nice space,” the old man mused. “Good lighting for your Legos. And it’s close to the house.”
“Grandpa, please?” Leo waved the titanium card. “Mom said I could use the emergency card if it was an emergency. And this man is annoying me. That feels like an emergency.”
Chapter 3: The Manager’s Panic
“You… you’re joking,” Rick stammered. The blood was draining from his face. He looked at the card, then at the dirty overalls. “That’s… that’s a fake. It’s a prop. Nice try, kid.”
“Rick? What is going on here?”
The voice came from the glass office on the mezzanine. Mr. Henderson, the General Manager, was walking down the stairs. He was a stout man who sweated easily, and right now, he was looking at the mud on the floor with irritation.
“Mr. Henderson!” Rick said, relieved. “I’m handling it. Just some trespassers. I was just about to call security. They’re making a scene with a fake credit card.”
Mr. Henderson reached the bottom of the stairs. He looked at Rick, then he turned to look at the “trespassers.”
He stopped.
His face went from irritated to horrified in less than a second. He paled so rapidly it looked like his blood had evaporated.
“M… Mr. Sterling?” Henderson squeaked.
The old man in the overalls looked up and tipped his floppy hat. “Hello, Gary. It’s been a while.”
Rick looked between them. “Sterling? Gary, you know this gardener?”
“Gardener?” Henderson looked at Rick as if he were insane. He rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. He bypassed Rick entirely and bowed—actually bowed—to the old man.
“Mr. Sterling! Arthur! My god, I… I didn’t know you were coming in. If I had known, I would have rolled out the carpet. I would have… please, forgive the mess.”
Arthur Sterling.
The name hit Rick like a physical slap. Arthur Sterling wasn’t a gardener. Arthur Sterling was Sterling Industries. Real estate, shipping, tech. The man owned half the skyline. He had retired five years ago, disappearing from the public eye to “tend to his roses.”
The man was worth billions. With a ‘B’.
“It’s alright, Gary,” Arthur said, adjusting his suspenders. “I just came straight from the garden. My grandson, Leo, wanted to see the cars.”
“Of course! Of course!” Henderson was sweating profusely now. “Leo! My, you’ve grown. Would you like a juice? A soda? Anything?”
Leo looked at Henderson, then pointed the black titanium card at him.
“I don’t want juice,” Leo said. “I want the room.”
Henderson blinked. “The… room?”
Arthur cleared his throat. “My grandson has made a proposal, Gary. We had a bit of a rough welcome. The young man here…” Arthur gestured to a paralyzed Rick. “…was under the impression that we couldn’t afford the air in the tires.”
Henderson turned to Rick. His eyes were bulging. “You… you said what?”
“I… I didn’t know…” Rick whispered. His throat was dry as dust.
“Rick told us to leave,” Leo added helpfully. “He said we were dirtying the floor.”
“So,” Arthur continued, his voice pleasant but carrying the weight of a falling anvil. “Leo feels the service here is lacking. And he suggests that we simply buy the establishment to save ourselves the trouble of dealing with the staff.”
Arthur took the black card from Leo’s hand. He held it out to Henderson.
“We’ll take the inventory. All of it. The Obsidian, the Ferraris, the lot. And the building. I believe the lease is up for renewal next month anyway, isn’t it, Gary? I own the land, but I think I’d like to own the structure too.”
Henderson was trembling. This was the biggest sale in the history of the company. It was the biggest sale in the history of the city.
“Mr. Sterling… you mean… everything?”
“Everything,” Arthur said. “Leo needs a garage for his Legos. We’ll clear the cars out, maybe donate them to the local charities for auction. Except the Obsidian. We’ll keep that one to drive home.”
“I… I can draw up the paperwork,” Henderson stammered. “Immediately. Sir.”
Rick found his voice. It was high and desperate. “Mr. Sterling… Sir… I am so sorry. I judged you by your… I mean, I was just trying to protect the inventory… I can help you with the paperwork! I know the specs of every car here!”
Rick stepped forward, a desperate, oily smile plastered on his face. “I can give you the VIP tour now. I can—”
Arthur raised a hand. One finger.
Silence.
“Gary,” Arthur said, looking at the manager. “What is the commission on a sale of this magnitude?”
Henderson did the mental math. “Millions, sir. It would be… astronomical.”
“Right,” Arthur nodded. “Well, Leo and I are happy to proceed. The card has no limit. Swipe it for the full amount. Inventory and property.”
Arthur looked at Rick. The old man’s blue eyes were no longer warm. They were cold steel.
“But there is one condition.”
“Anything, Mr. Sterling,” Henderson said.
“We buy everything,” Arthur said, pointing a dirty finger at Rick. “Except him.“
Chapter 4: The Gara
The silence that followed was absolute.
“Sir?” Rick whispered.
“You are not part of the deal,” Arthur said calmly. “In fact, I don’t want you on the premises. When I sign the papers in ten minutes, this becomes my grandson’s private property. And he doesn’t like you.”
Leo shook his head solemnly. “You’re mean. And you have bad manners.”
Arthur turned to Henderson. “Gary, if you want this sale to go through, I assume you know how to handle personnel issues?”
Henderson didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even look at Rick. He looked at the commission check in his mind.
“Rick,” Henderson barked. “You’re fired. Get your things. Get out. Now.”
“Gary! You can’t… it’s Arthur Sterling!” Rick pleaded. “I made a mistake! Everyone makes mistakes!”
“You insulted Arthur Sterling,” Henderson hissed. “You’re lucky he’s only buying the building and not buying your house just to evict you. Give me your badge.”
Rick stood there, stripped of his armor. The suit didn’t look expensive anymore; it looked like a costume. He handed over his badge with a shaking hand.
“The back door, Rick,” Henderson pointed. “Don’t walk through the showroom. You might track bad attitude on the floor.”
Rick hung his head. He walked past the Obsidian X1, past the marble reception desk, and slunk out the back service exit, into the alley where the garbage bins were kept.
Chapter 5: The Drive Home
Thirty minutes later, the paperwork was signed. It was the fastest commercial real estate transaction in the state’s history, mostly because Arthur Sterling made a phone call to his lawyers and simply made it happen.
Henderson was beaming, shaking Arthur’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling. Thank you. We will have the cars moved to your warehouse by tomorrow?”
“Donate them,” Arthur said, putting his floppy hat back on. “Hospital charity. Veterans fund. You handle it, Gary. I just want the keys to this one.”
Arthur walked over to the Obsidian X1.
“Leo, hop in.”
Leo climbed into the passenger seat. His muddy sneakers rested on the $5,000 custom floor mats. He put his lollipop wrapper in the cup holder.
Arthur climbed into the driver’s seat. He looked ridiculous—a gardener in overalls sitting in a three-million-dollar hypercar. He started the engine. It roared like a captured dragon, shaking the glass walls of the showroom.
Henderson ran over. “Mr. Sterling! Uh, just one thing. The… the showroom. What do you want us to do with the staff? The receptionists? The mechanics?”
Arthur looked at the staff, who were gathered around, looking anxious.
“Keep them,” Arthur said. “Leo needs staff for his garage. Triple their salaries. They were polite. They just watched. But make sure they know: in this garage, we don’t judge people by their shoes.”
“Yes, sir! Triple salaries!” Henderson shouted to the cheering staff.
Arthur revved the engine. He looked at Leo.
“Ready to go home and get your Legos, kid?”
Leo grinned, holding up the black card. “Ready, Grandpa.”
Arthur punched the gas. The Obsidian X1 shot out of the showroom, shattering the quiet morning, leaving tire marks on the marble floor that nobody—absolutely nobody—was going to dare clean up.
As they sped down the highway, Arthur turned to his grandson.
“You know, Leo,” he shouted over the engine. “You didn’t have to buy the whole building.”
Leo shrugged. “I know. But Mom says if you want to kill a weed, you have to pull it out by the roots.”
Arthur threw his head back and laughed. “That’s my boy. Now, let’s go get some ice cream. I’m not dressed for a fancy restaurant.”
“Me neither,” Leo said, looking at his t-shirt. “But we have the card.”
“That we do, kid. That we do.”