One Chauffeured Volvo For 83 Apartments: Fight To The Death For Me

Manhattan sunlight streamed in through the blinds, lighting up the small flecks of glitter still dancing in the air from the night before. Someone was knocking at the door. Tap tap tap.

I stirred beneath the silk jacquard covers and squinted blearily at the mess of the room—piles of Vertu burner phones and kopi luwak grounds strewn about—that lay before me. The knocking persisted, louder than before. TAP TAP TAP. I pressed my palms to my eyes. The knocking was coming from inside of my own head.


I checked the diamond Piaget strapped to my wrist. 4:00 pm. This lifted my spirits considerably. It was still early. Time for some breakfast.

Yes, I grow moss in my bedroom. Don’t you? Image credit: Sky

My shoes were where I left them, by the door. I took one last glance around the Vue penthouse suite atop the Sky luxury high-rise to see if I forgot anything and ambled down the hall to the elevator.

I was looking to be driven around in the building’s Volvo XC90 Excellence, which I’d heard about in Fortune:

Moinian Group is collaborating with Volvo to launch luxury house car service at Sky, a 1,175-unit residential tower in Manhattan’s Midtown West neighborhood. But not just any of the thousands of the residents can access this chauffeured-Volvo service. Only residents living in one of the 83 penthouse units at the top of the building get a ride in the roomy limited-edition XC90.


Louboutin heels clicking smartly across the marble lobby floor of the building, I breezed by the smiling receptionist who wished me a good day. At some point these people will learn not to address me.

Image credit: Sky

Outside, my chauffeured Volvo waited—except some other skinny girl was already climbing into it. Bitch, please.

I rushed up behind her and seized her by the ombre ponytail and yanked her back out. She landed on her back with a yelp, earrings clattering. “What the fuck is your problem?”


“What the fuck is your problem?” I snarled back. “Who said you could get into my car?”

The driver hurried forward and bent down to pick up the other girl. “There’s only one car, Madam,” he explained apologetically.


“Only one car?” I snorted, kicking aside the girl’s bag. She glared at me reproachfully but didn’t speak. Probably because of the two large gashes in her elbows that dripped blood onto her white linen pants. “One car for how many people?”

“F-for all the penthouses. Eighty-three units.”

I laughed but then quickly realized he wasn’t kidding. “What am I supposed to do, then? Share?


The driver looked down at his shoes. “Well...”

“Tell you what,” I said, graciously picking up the girl’s purse and handing it back to her. “Why don’t you go to the hospital because that cut seems pretty deep. You have insurance, right? And when you come back, you can use the car. I need to get some breakfast.”


“It’s four in the afternoon, you crazy bitch,” she spat.

“Yes, like I said, early!” I waved for a taxi and when one pulled up, I yanked open the door and stuffed the girl into the back seat. She may have protested but I didn’t hear because I was still talking. “Who wakes up early enough to see the sun rise? The poor, working class, that’s who! For me, the sun only sets, it never rises.


“Anyway!” I turned back to the chauffeur, who was watching the entire interaction with his mouth hanging open slightly. “I’m hungry. Take me to the River Café.”

“I can’t do that, I’m sorry, Madam.” He helped me into the backseat of the Volvo. “This service only runs on the West Side between the High Line and Columbus Circle.”


“So... three miles?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Until when?”

“The service hours are between 4 and 9 p.m.”

I slumped back against the seat. What good was a car service that ended at lunch?


“Take me to the Meatpacking District, then. I’m in the mood for something trendy and stacked on top of itself.”

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About the author

Kristen Lee

Writer at Jalopnik and consumer of many noodles.