Damien took in a deep breath as he made his way towards the bus stop, the stinging morning air doing nothing to ease the tension in his chest. He closed his eyes, wincing as Diana's words resounded through his mind, each word a slice to his already brought down ego.
"Richard can offer me something you never could—stability. Security. A future."
He clenched his teeth, jamming his fists into his pockets as he reached the station. He was going to show her-he was going to show everyone that had doubted him and taken him to be nothing.
The station was already packed with early rush-hour workers standing in groups, waiting for their taxis, but Damien wasn't like them, waiting for some cab to take them to some soul-sucking job interview or some crappy firm to sulk.
That was how he was before, not anymore. He had something different in mind this time.
But he needed a plan.
*****************
Damien stood in front of a dirty, old loan shop stuck between a laundromat and a pawn shop. He watched a peeling paint fall to the ground and he took a step back. He glanced up again, reading the sign for what seemed to be the upteenth time. MASON CREDIT & LOANS – Building Your Future.
Damien had avoided such places his entire life. He always thought he would never be in a state that would lead him to want to borrow-or at least that was what he thought. In truth, his pride was what stopped him.
But pride never paid bills.
If he was going to build the empire he wanted, he needed capital—just enough to start something of his own.
He took in a deep breath as his gaze traveled down to the doorknob on the door. Clenching his teeth, he grasped it, pushed the door open and walked in.
Damien was greeted with a stale scent the moment he walked into the waiting room. He took a step back and gagged as the smell of
cheap air freshener and old paper hit his nose. One ceiling fan whirred above him, offering no respite from the heat or the smell that enveloped the place.
Holding his breath, Damien looked around before stopping after seeing a large counter to his right. He walked up to it to find a receptionist sitting behind it, her fingers flying non-stop on the keyboard before her.
"Hello, good morning--"
"Take a number," she growled before he could even finish speaking.
Damien, being used to such attitude, merely nodded before taking a small ticket from the machine on the counter. His stomach knotted as he read it.
Number 17? But the small room contained only three others. It wasn't until he saw another man who had walked in collect a ticket from the machine with the number 35 that he realized it was faulty.
Taking in a deep breath, and then regretting it, Damien walked up to the benches where the other three people sat. Greeting the man beside him, he plopped down on the bench.
It didn't take too long for them to call him in.
"Number 17?" a fat man in a tattered suit called out as he exited an office.
Damien sprang up hastily, wiping his wet palms on his jeans before he followed the man into the office.
He was immediately taken aback by the situation of the room he had entered. The office was a mess-no, that was an understatement even.
Papers piled high on the desk with some littering the ground. A cup of coffee from Starbucks sat besides one of the coffee-stained papers, flies buzzing around it. A little fan oscillated in the corner, doing just enough to keep the stake air from the waiting room out.
The man, who had introduced himself as Mr. Mason, sat down with a groan, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he motioned for Damien to sit down too.
"So, what's your story?" Mason said, leaning back in his chair.
"I... I want to start a business," Damien muttered, his eyes never leaving the cup on his desk.
Mason's brow arched as he leaned froward. "A business, you say?" he asked and Damien nodded. "What kind is it?"
"Well, something small to begin with," Damien answered as he returned his gaze to the old man. "I do have some experience with logistics, so maybe deliveries, local transport. Or jewelries, cause it used to be a family business. Or maybe I could start a publishing firm of my choice since it was my last..." Damien paused as he suddenly realized how vague his suggestion sounded.
"So, you don't actually know then?" Mason asked as he chuckled dryly.
Damien swallowed uneasily. "I... I just want a chance."
Mason drew breath slowly through his nose, tapping his fingers on the desk. "And what collateral can you provide?" he asked as he began arranging some papers on his desk.
Damien immediately became uneasy as the question hit him. "I, uh… I don't have a lot right now, but I swear I'll—"
Mason raised a hand, stopping him. "Hold up," he said, pausing what he was doing. "I just want to make it clear to you, Mr..."
"... Damien," Damien completed.
"Mr. Damien," Mason said with a small nod. "I just want you to know that we don't give promise loans. You have to have either a steady job, property, or someone willing to co-sign for you. Do you have any of that?"
Damien frowned. He didn't.
Mason sneered and relaxed into his seat as he tapped his pen on the desk. "Here's what I'll do for you," he paused,his hands rubbing his chin as though he was contemplating saying what was on his mind, "If you can come back with a minimum of $2,500 as a start-up capital, I'll consider lending you the money. But until then, my hands are tied."
Damien swallowed hard. "$2,500?"
"That's the minimum," Mason said with a small nod. "Show me that you can save that kind of money, and I'll take you seriously. Otherwise, you're just another guy with a dream and no plan."
Silence stretched between them.
Damien wanted to argue, to tell Mason that he was serious, that he just needed a little help. But what would that change? He had already hit rock bottom. Still, it was about time he started climbing out.
"I'll be back," he said, nodding slowly as he stood up from his seat.
"I hope so," Mason muttered as he picked up his cup of coffee and took a small sip from it. Damien gagged. "Because if you don't come back, someone else will take your spot."
Damien nodded again before turning and leaving the office. As he walked out of the waiting room, the reality dawned on him, it's weight pushing down on his shoulders.
$2,500. It might just as well have been a fucking million.
He let out a deep sigh. He needed to get it.
He would get it.