Climat Perfume is a Capitalist Decadence

By J.B. Stevens

They’d gone from C-List to D-List to forgotten and it all happened so slowly they couldn’t see that it was happening fast—and now their savings were gone.

It was a Tuesday, late in the Fall. Outside his window, orange and red leaves blanketed the ground. Brandon was on his back with his head propped up on yellow-stained pillows. Glare penetrated the tight space under the apartment’s bedroom door, and he thought of an easy, clean escape, but that wasn’t realistic. To get out the right way would take time. It always took time to come out on top.

Julia lay next to him, breathing softly. Brandon smelled the white rose and jasmine of her perfume, Lancôme’s Climat. The scent coated the inside of his nose. It filled his mouth, every night he tasted it, chewed it, absorbed it. It surrounded him. Her presence had softly engulfed him, and he never saw it coming. But, he figured, that was how it goes with beautiful women, they keep you distracted, and things can sneak up on you.

At the beginning of their relationship, Julia had told him about the collapse of communism during her childhood. Her parents had considered expensive perfume a debauched example of capitalist excess and, back then, Climat was the brand. To Julia, the odor embodied success, growth—escape.

To Brandon, it smelled like a trap.

They’d met four years prior, online. She’d reached out first. They chatted and after a few months, he visited her in the Donbas region of Ukraine. While he was there, she’d carpet-bombed him with affection. After a week, he was in love. 

Back home in the U.S., he’d applied for a reality TV show about international marriages. The producers called immediately. Julia was gorgeous and from a place people cared about. Brandon was a redneck from the backwoods of Georgia. They were a match made in reality TV heaven.

She was apprehensive about the show but relented. They were on air for a year, and she grew into a minor influencer. But Brandon was homely, and Julia was low drama, so the world moved on. The producers quit calling, the reunions stopped happening, and the paychecks stopped coming.

The pain of existence, and a 9-to-5 regular-person life, lurked in unseen places. And, as he lay in bed, that hurt bubbled to the surface. He counted dots on the popcorn ceiling, around the old brown water stain (not the new one).

Julia was on her right side, eyes closed, facing him. He touched her bare shoulder. Despite her hard upbringing, her skin was smooth and firm.

He rocked, gently. “Babe, you awake?”

Her eyes jerked open. “Why?”

He sighed. Instead of a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, it was always another question, another way to show suspicion, another chance to keep Brandon on his heels. In all their years together, he had not strayed. He’d given her no reason to doubt. But something in her, she believed people were inherently dishonest and out to trick her.

He remembered their second date—he’d taken her to a fancy steakhouse down in Atlanta—the valet parking attendant had lost their keys. She immediately called the police, claiming the car was stolen.

She was always like that, quick to use the authorities, eager to win through force, raging at the idea the world was getting over on her.

Brandon had soothed her that night, tried to calm her down, but the only thing that really made her feel better was winning, crushing her opponent.

The whole thing had grown so tiresome. Instead of creating drama, she created stress and annoyance. She wasn’t a good wife. She wasn’t a good partner. She wasn’t a good friend. But worst of all, the unforgivable thing, she wasn’t good TV.

That’s what she didn’t get, TV was their profession. Reality shows were how they fed themselves. There were no jobs where they lived unless Brandon wanted to work the land, but he’d rather starve than run a chainsaw. If TV didn’t want them, they were washed up, poor. And Julia’s favorite phrase was, “Being poor is worse than being dead.”

He frowned.  And why did her eyes open immediately? Was she already awake? Pretending to sleep? Why was she always observing—spying on him?

He spun the questions in the back of his mind. He turned it different ways, looking at it from every angle, but he knew the truth. She didn’t trust anyone. The only living thing she ever talked about with affection was the older man, the one who looked exactly like Brandon, who’d looked after her and her little white dog, back when her parents had fallen deep into the bottle. She loved that man and Brandon often wondered if there was more to the story.

He pushed out the spinning thoughts. It was time to get the day going.

“I was just asking if you were awake,” he said. “I want to talk about the plan.”

She opened her mouth—started to form a word—stopped. She still looked so young and pure, as long as the lights were dim. She was pale with sharp cheekbones and smooth skin. But, up close, you could see that her hard life had taken its toll. Her teeth were grey, and her dull mud-brown hair was limp, there was no shine. A life of suffering screamed in muted strands. 

Brandon leaned forward and caressed her lusterless mane. “The plan is the only way out.”

She smacked away his touch. “We aren’t criminals. Stop bringing it up. I’m an honest person.”

As she pulled back, Brandon grabbed the swatting hand. “You could be bad—if you tried.”

“No.” Her blue eyes widened. She lowered her chin and looked up at him. “Actually, do you think so?”

“I do.”

Julia kissed his knuckles and smiled.

He smirked. Julia was so simple.

“It’s not hard,” he said, “And this will set us up for life. I even know someone who can fence the jewels.”

She released her grip. “What does ‘fence’ mean?”

He sighed, she always came back with a question, pure suspicion. “A person that will buy and sell stolen things.”

“Then why don’t you just say, ‘a person who buys and sells stolen things’?”

“Fence is simpler. My dad used the phrase all the time. He taught me a lot before he abandoned us.” Acid rose in Brandon’s throat.

“It’s good he left. You aren’t like him. You shouldn’t be dishonest—it leads to bad things. If you do wicked things, wicked things will happen to you.”

“Just, this one time, I need to do wrong.”

Julia smiled at him. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is. No one, other than us, knows Gabe stole those diamonds.” Brandon brought up the news article on his phone and put it in front of her. “And now he’s locked up for a hit and run.”

“Yes, but the whole world knows they were taken,” she said. “People are looking for the jewels. The robbery video went viral.”

“It was the first holdup I’ve ever seen that involved a flame thrower.”

“And that has everyone paying attention. The FBI is offering a reward. And how do we know Gabe told me the truth? Most men tell me bullshit when I deliver their bottles. After I told Gabe I like older American guys, he went nuts trying to impress me.”

“Ha.” Brandon leaned back. “Wait, you’re into older guys?”

“I made an exception for you.” She winked.

He flipped his hand, interlaced his fingers, and put them behind his head. “What Gabe said is true. He has the diamonds, and now he is in jail. This is our chance.” Brandon held up the article. “With how much Gabe stole—he can afford good lawyers. He’ll be out as soon as he sees the judge. We have to act fast.”

She rubbed her temples. “I don’t like this.”

“It’ll be okay. Trust me.”

***

Julia had wanted to eat at the Ukrainian spot, Nikolai’s Roof. Brandon didn’t care, he hated Ukrainian food, and Julia always did what he said. Brandon got his way with her, and they both knew it.

They arrived at El Super Pan, the best Puerto Rican restaurant in Atlanta, during the lunch rush. The smell of sautéed onions and garlic filled the colorful room. Jazz music played, softly, as black-shirted waiters scurried by.

His mom, Betty, was already at the table, drinking water. Brandon and Julia took their seats. He ordered a Sprite and Julia asked for a margarita.

Betty smirked. “A margarita? At this hour?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Margaritas are a Mexican drink. You realize we’re in a Puerto Rican place?”

Julia’s jaw muscles flexed and released. “I do what I want.”

“That you do.” Betty raised her water. “I admire your ability to cut loose and not worry what people think.”

Julia smiled, far too wide. “Your opinion is so important to me. I truly care what you think. Thank you.”

As they waited, the conversation drifted from innocuous drivel to Betty’s favorite topic—Brandon’s father, Kyle. Betty complained about ancient wrongs, Kyle’s mistresses from a decade ago, lies from before Brandon was born, and all the other general injustices wrought by a shitty husband.

As the rant concluded, Julia smirked. “But, honestly, is he all bad? Everyone has some good inside them.”

Betty slapped the table. “Kyle is a shady conman. He had more girlfriends than the beach has grains of sand. I would’ve divorced his sorry ass ten years ago, if I could’ve found him to serve the papers. I’m sure he’s off boozing in some shithole foreign countries, tricking stupid girls into bed, the ones that are too young to know better.”

The waitress delivered the drinks, and they ordered food—empanadas for Brandon, sofrito chicken for Betty, salad for Julia. 

Betty looked up from the menu. “Salad? Are you watching your figure?”

“I have to stay thin.” Julia folded her hands and placed them in her lap. “I’d hate for my man to have a reason to cheat.”

The women made eye contact. Julia smiled. Betty did not.

“Excuse me.” Julia stood. “I’m going to the restroom.”

Once Julia rounded the mahogany bar and was out of earshot, Brandon leaned towards his mother. “Can you back off a bit?”

Betty sipped her water. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know exactly what you are doing. Stop. I need Julia on my side.”

“She’s trying to take advantage of you. Playing you for a green card. I’m calling her out on her bullcrap.” She set her glass down too hard. The silverware on the table jumped. “I’m just looking out for my son.”

“I know, and that’s why I don’t feel bad taking advantage of her, setting her up to take the fall.”

Betty grabbed both of Brandon’s hands. “You’re a good kid. Ever since Kyle left, I—”

“Screw Kyle.” Brandon squeezed. His mother’s hands were rough, dry, calloused. “Me and you against the world.”

“And the world will never see us coming.” Betty winked. “All right, I’m in. Let’s do it. We steal the diamonds, set up Julia to take the fall, and live happily ever after.”

“The dumb ones never see it coming.”

***

At home, Brandon and Julia sat at their thrift-store table in their too-small kitchen. The neighbors in the next apartment over were fighting. He heard harsh words in a Slavic language and smelled frying oil. There was a thump, the wall shook, and glass shattered. The yelling stopped and a woman began crying.

Brandon looked at Julia. She glanced at the wall, shrugged, and looked back down at her phone. The wails grew louder. Brandon sighed. If something didn’t affect Julia directly, she gave it no attention.

He thought about the plan to take the jewels and wondered, was he really willing to let Julia go to prison?

He almost felt guilty for what was going to happen to her, but then he thought of his mom and the feeling dissipated. Mom, she deserved everything. Back when his father had left, his mom had stepped up, she’d given Brandon her life, her youth, her sanity—she deserved everything.

When Julia agreed to help with the robbery, she knew what she was getting into, he was upfront about the risks—nothing was hidden. They’d even discussed the possible jail time. Karma was on Brandon’s side.

Julia was unaware, and the oblivious deserved what they got.

At the table, they went over the plan to steal Gabe’s diamonds. Brandon pops the door, Julia sneaks in, Brandon is the lookout. She would toss the apartment and find the jewels. They’d probably be right where Gabe had bragged, under the 9mm handgun in the nightstand. As soon as she secured the bag, she’d come outside, and they’d get out of there. It was a one-bedroom apartment, easy stuff.

She caught his gaze. “You promise everything will be okay?”

“I do.”

***

It was 10 am on a Monday when they parked outside Gabe’s apartment. The lot was littered with empty McDonald’s burger wrappers and brown glass beer bottles, and, on the other end of the cracked blacktop, an uncollared dog barked.

They stepped out of the car wearing surgical face masks. Brandon had donned a set of blue mechanic’s coveralls and a hard hat—the coveralls were rough against his arms. Julia wore an extra-large Goodwill-purchased t-shirt that said, “Go Braves,” a snapback trucker hat, and oversized sunglasses.

At Gabe’s lime green front door, Brandon set down his toolbox and put on leather work gloves, his heart rate spiked. He looked around—he didn’t see any people or cameras—and booted the door. The frame cracked and the portal swung open. 

He immediately pulled the door shut, lifted a wrench, and acted as if he was engrossed in maintenance work. After a minute, he glanced over his shoulder, no one was in the hallway.

He lowered his tool. “You’re up.”

Julia strode past Brandon, slipped inside, and shut the door. As she moved, she slid on blue nitrile gloves.

Brandon hadn’t told her to wear the gloves. He scratched his chin. What did that mean? Julia was always so oblivious—how’d she think of that? Was there something going on? No, she’d probably just watched some true crime documentary. Nothing to worry about.

The door creaked and his mind snapped back to reality.

Julia whispered from inside. “It’s empty. I’m going to find the diamonds.”

He dropped his tools, slipped in, and closed the door.

She turned and looked at him. “I thought you were the lookout?”

“Right, right.” Brandon nodded. “I am, sorry. Confused.”

He opened the door and acted like he was leaving. Julia nodded, turned, and hurried into the bedroom.

Once she was out of sight, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of her perfume. He put it under a stack of mail on the front table. He grabbed a bill addressed to Gabe, put it in his pocket, and went outside.

He looked up and down the hall. Still no visitors. He picked up his hammer, kneeled in front of the wood, and play-acted fixing the damage.

A minute later the door cracked, and she spoke from inside. “Is it clear?”

He checked. “Yes.”

She exited the apartment and the two hurried to the parking lot.

***

Inside his car, Brandon finally exhaled. He peeked out the windows. No one was running towards them.

In the passenger seat, Julia seemed calm.

She had a slight grin. “That was fun.”

“Yeah.” He tried to put the key in the ignition, but his arm was overtaken by a tremor. “I think we’re good.”

Julia grabbed the key with a still hand, inserted it, and started the vehicle. The radio began to play Kanye West’s “Heartless.”

She looked at him. “You’re shaking. Want me to drive?”

“No, I’m fine.”

As he pulled away, she held up the black velvet bag, tugged the drawstring, and glanced inside.

“They’re so little. I can’t believe they’re worth so much. Shiny rocks. They look so innocent.”

“Yup. Sometimes innocent will fool you.” Brandon held out his hand. “Give ‘em to me.”

She tied the bag and did as she was told, just like always. “Where will we hide them?”

He smiled. She was so predictable—controllable. “I have a false-bottom olive oil container from a fake company called Brutus and Julius,” He slipped the baggie into his pocket. “I’ll put them there.” He reached over, took her hand, and squeezed it. “Love you.”

She returned the pressure. “Love you, too.”

She closed her eyes and, as the Kanye song ended, she began to snore.

Alanis Morrissette started singing “You Oughta Know” and a warmth filled his belly. For so long, things hadn’t broken his way but that was finally changing. 

After he parked at home, he gently slid out of the car. He put all of the diamonds, except for three, into a plastic sandwich bag. Then, he found the rock he and Betty had identified. He put the plastic bag under the stone, texted Betty, and told her to pick up the jewels after the next day, sometime after midnight.

Brandon carefully re-entered the car. Julia was still sleeping.

He touched her shoulder. “Babe, everything worked out. Let’s go inside.”

She looked at him with doe eyes. “Sounds good.”

A sense of calm enveloped him.

***

Around 1 am, Brandon stared at the back of Julia’s head as she lay on her side, beneath the paisley comforter, a gift from his mother. He tasted Climat.

“Babe, you awake?”

She didn’t answer. He slipped out of bed. The floor groaned—he glanced back—she hadn’t moved.

He grabbed his phone, tip-toed into the bathroom, closed the door, flicked on the lights, and ran the faucet to create white noise. As he sat on the toilet, he thought he heard the floor creak.

He switched off the light, opened the door, and looked. 

She was still in bed, blanket-less. He closed the door and placed three of the stolen diamonds in Julia’s makeup bag. A ripped corner of the mail taken from Gabe’s apartment with the address still visible went into her jewelry drawer, beneath a heap of costume junk. Every piece of the puzzle carefully laid out for the authorities to find.

Brandon flushed the rest of the letter and texted his mother, “It’s done.”

***

The next evening, at 11 pm, Brandon was lying in bed, scrolling Instagram, looking at pictures of all the exotic places he’d soon visit, when he noticed the blue lights—no sirens. The only sound was Julia’s steady breathing. Soon, the flashing lights overwhelmed the room. A minute later, there was a pounding at the front door.

Police, warrant, open up.

Police, warrant, open up.

Police, warrant, open up.

Julia turned and looked at him. Her eyes were unafraid.

BOOM

The house shook, there was yelling, and a moment later their bedroom door flew open. Men in dark clothing with white patches that said, “SHERIFF” crowded in. They smelled of gun oil, leather, and adrenalized body odor. 

Brandon was yanked from the bed and thrown to the ground. A cop kneeled on his lower back.

The handcuffs were cold and smooth. They clicked as they encircled his wrists. Floor dust inundated his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but it stuck in the back of his throat.

A thick, tattooed set of arms lifted Brandon and marched him outside.

In the cool night air, he squinted at the shifting silhouettes of neighbors as they recorded with cell phones. He looked at the rock where he’d hid the diamonds for Betty. It was overturned and the little hole was empty—at least the jewels were where they belonged.

The cop shoved Brandon in the back seat of the patrol car, it had the antiseptic smell of a freshly cleaned doctor’s office.

His stomach clenched. He thought of his father and all the time his dad had spent in jail for fraud. Brandon wondered, was he going to end up the same way—locked up and rotting as the world moved on? And why was he the one in cuffs—not Julia?  Why was he in the car? He’d set it up perfectly. After Betty had called it in and told the cops where to find the evidence, Julia should be in the car, not him.

What was all this?

He looked out the rear window. He saw Julia, un-restrained, crying, wrapped in a grey fleece blanket, talking with a female officer. 

Brandon became hyper-aware of his restraints. His shoulders ached and his wrists burned. The tight confines had him dizzy and out of breath—the walls were closing in.

The driver’s side door opened—a blast of crisp wind hit—and a fat, balding cop got behind the wheel. He closed the door and started the car.

Brandon tapped his forehead against the plexiglass divider. “Where are we going? What’s happening?”

The cop held up an evidence bag with a bullet inside. “9mm, asshole. Found it under the seat in your car. It matches the bullets from the weapon in the jewel thief’s apartment.”

Brandon leaned back, staring at the smudge his face oil had made on the clear plastic. As they got to the interstate, the cop turned the radio to a Taylor Swift song about bad blood.

Brandon closed his eyes and wondered what the hell was going on.

***

He called both Betty and Julia from the jail. Neither answered.

***

The initial hearing was held two days later. The courtroom featured dark wood panels, it reminded Brandon of a church. He sat alone at the defense table. His legs were shackled but his hands were free.

The chamber’s door squeaked open, and he turned. A man who looked like Zack Galifianakis dressed in a suit three sizes too small rushed in and sat at Brandon’s side.

The man reached out. “I’m your lawyer.”

Brandon tried to hide his disappointment as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

He turned and looked for his mother or Julia—neither were there.

The lawyer leaned in and whispered with coffee-stained breath. “I need you to tell me the truth. Why was that ripped piece of Gabe’s mail in your car’s trunk? How did the diamond get into your sock drawer? How long have you and Gabe been working together?”

Brandon’s nostrils flared. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. How could this be? This was all wrong. That was the Julia evidence.

As he went to answer, a bailiff bellowed, “All rise!”

Behind the bench, a hidden door opened, and a black-robed judge appeared. Her features were sharp, and she put off a don’t fuck with me vibe.

As the hearing progressed, Brandon’s attorney droned about guilt, evidence suppression, and illegal searches. He talked about how the scrap of Gabe’s mail, the bullet, and the three diamonds were all planted. This was clearly a mix-up, a frame-up, a set-up—but certainly not Brandon’s screw-up.

It was all a mistake.

As the lawyer blabbed, Brandon worked the events in his mind. He’d planted the mail and the three sacrificial diamonds on Julia. Somehow, they’d been used against him. And what was with that 9mm bullet? What happened to Julia’s Climat bottle Bradon had stashed at Gabe’s?

The world spun.

He grabbed a cup—clear plastic—it felt artificial. The whole world felt like a simulation.

He filled it from a carafe and took a sip, it tasted of sulfur.

After his lawyer and the prosecutor finished, the Judge stood and everyone stopped talking. She turned and went through the hidden passage.

Brandon set down the drink. “What now?”

“When she comes back, we’ll fight for bond.”

Brandon swallowed and looked to the spectators. His women still weren’t there. “Have you talked to my mother or Julia? Do you know where they are?”

The lawyer stood. “I’ll step out and call them.”

“Thanks.”

***

Five minutes later, the lawyer returned. “Betty’s locked up.”

Brandon’s chest seized. “What?”

“They found a diamond in her purse, after an anonymous tip,” the lawyer said.

“Anonymous?” The simulation started to tear. “What?”

None of this was real. This was a bad dream.

The hidden door opened, the Judge marched out, and time bent into infinity.

***

Brandon shoved Betty’s letter into the pocket of his bright orange county-issued coveralls, turned back to the day room’s steel table, and dealt the cards. He smiled. It sounded like she was getting along okay. The women’s prison seemed nicer than the men’s.

His opponent, a white supremacist who wouldn’t stop talking about his “spicy” Mexican girlfriend, coughed and Brandon smelled tuna.

Brandon heard a familiar voice. He looked from his cards to the television—encased in a solid plexiglass box in the center of the room.

His father, Kyle, was on screen. His arm was around Julia’s waist. Julia’s mouth was spread wide—her grey teeth had been replaced with perfect white veneers. Her hair was voluminous and sparkled in the light.

“Anyway,” Kyle said. “My ex is a bad person. She isolated me from, and corrupted, my poor, innocent son, Brandon. When I heard Brandon was locked up, I rushed home to try to help.”

The television host’s plastic-stretch face was a mask of serious contemplation. 

Bile rose in Brandon’s throat.

On camera, two tears dropped from Kyle’s right eye. “But I was too late.”

The host nodded. “Then what happened?”

“Well, after a few of the missing diamonds and the flamethrower were found in Betty’s house, I knew it was bad. I talked to the cops and, once they cleared the crime scene, I went inside the home. As Betty and I were never divorced—I’d tried to get her to sign but she’d dodged service—the house is still technically half mine.

Anyway, I searched for something, anything to help prove my son innocent. I was unsuccessful. I’m sure he didn’t do this. Betty must have corrupted him. Brandon has never been a smart boy. He’s easily fooled by wily women, like Betty.”

The host smiled. His forehead didn’t move. “What a turn of events. And where were you during all this? You said you were away on a mission trip?”

“Yes, I was helping the less fortunate. The war victims in Ukraine. I’ve spent a large portion of my time there for the past five years.”

The host pointed at Julia. “And who is this young lady?”

“My son’s poor, unfortunate fiancé, Julia. A true innocent caught up in Betty’s lies.” Kyle tightened his grip on Julia. “Julia and I met five years ago. I was in the Ukraine to spread the word of our lord and savior and saved her from a life of debauchery. I actually introduced her to my son, and the two hit it off.

Now that Julia is alone in America, I feel a sense of responsibility. I’m going to look after her, since my boy cannot.

Julia and I have remained close ever since I began ministering to her family five years ago. She’s a great young woman.”

“You’re son is lucky to have you.”

“I try to be a good man.”

The botoxed presenter stared into the camera. “With the discoveries in Betty Chestnut’s home, the case appears to be coming to a close. Here are the facts as presented by the prosecutor. Gabe White committed the robbery with the assistance of Betty and Brandon Chestnut. When Mr. White was arrested, the Chestnuts broke in and stole Mr. White’s share of the diamonds. An anonymous call alerted the police to the situation, and all parties are now where they should be, in jail.

Seventeen diamonds have still not been located but law enforcement is confident they will soon be found.”

Brandon closed his eyes and dropped his head. His mind went dark. Julia had messaged him four years ago. She had contacted him first, out of nowhere. She added him off of his private, unsearchable, social media profile. She’d known where to find him. At the time, he couldn’t believe his luck, a beautiful young exotic woman, pursuing him. It seemed too good to be true.

Julia had started all this, four years ago.

On the television, Kyle had said he and Julia had known each other, and kept in close contact, for five years.

Julia never said anything about Kyle—she’d been playing everyone the whole time.

Now Kyle has the house and Julia must have the diamonds.

Brandon, Gabe, and Betty have taken the fall for the heist.

Kyle’s voice sliced through Brandon’s rage. He looked at the screen.

Kyle smiled into the camera. “I just want to divorce my dishonest ex and take care of this young lady. I want to do the right thing. I’ve always been a very honest guy.”

Julia smiled and kissed Kyle on the cheek.

A scream rose from Brandon’s gut. His fist slammed into the metal table.

A burly female guard ran up, taser out, yelling, “Settle down!”

She fired the weapon and electricity flowed through Brandon’s body.

As he twitched, he smelled the guard’s Climat.

J. B. Stevens writes short stories and poetry. He lives in the Southeastern United States with his wife and daughter. His war poetry collection, The Explosion Takes Both Legs, is available from Middle West Press. His short story collection, A Therapeutic Death, is available from Shotgun Honey Books. His pop poetry collection, The Best of America Cannot Be Seen, is available from Alien Buddha Press.