Trust Fund Baby ~ 5 A Satire

Chapter 5
I opened the door to my swanky office. I expected the receptionist to rush over to greet me handing me a cup of hot coffee telling me this is the happiest day of her life. I stood in the doorway and stared at a lifeless reception area. Two large, I mean really large paintings hung on the wall. One of Grandmother Houston and the other of her pet toy poodle, Jimmy III. Jimmy, Jimmy II, and Jimmy III were named after the one term Democratic president from Plains, Georgia. Mother and Father frown on mentioning Democrats by name, it was as evil as cursing, maybe worse.
The receptionist’s cherry desk acted as an appropriate barrier in front of the door to my office. I knew it was the door to my office because I read Dr. Artin M. SanderStuff in gold italic letters. I’m starting to get the hang of Artin. It may be a good conversation starter at the bars. I can see the conversation starting, “Hi, my name’s Artin, I’m a trust fund baby and I’m loaded. Is this stool taken?”
There were three black leather chairs appropriately placed against the wall opposite Grandmother Houston and Jimmy III. The paintings were signed by Liam. Mother and Father have two large Liams in their bedroom. One on the ceiling over the bed. Sounds kinky. I don’t know how you get kinky out of the Golden Gate Bridge. The other is a painting of Grandmother Houston holding Jimmy II in her lap hanging on the wall opposite the entrance to their one thousand square foot bathroom. I made a mental note to tell the secretary to get rid of Grandmother Houston, Jimmy III and any other reference she can find to Liam. Then the thought hit me, what if my secretary is a he? Mother and Father wouldn’t dare. But, Pottybone? I wouldn’t put it past the weasel. I can hear him saying it was Grandmother Houston’s wishes and giving me his smirky smile.
There was a Keurig coffee maker on a cherry table underneath Jimmy III. I made a mental note not to drink anything under Jimmy III. I made another mental note to have the receptionist move the Keurig closer so I could call for my coffee at any time. Suddenly, I felt exhausted. I understood how common people feel after a day’s work. Work is hard and I haven’t reached my real office. I walked around the receptionist’s desk, reached for the gold colored door nob, turned it and pushed the door open. I expected to see the receptionist tidying up. Granted there’s nothing to tidy up, but practice makes perfect.
All I saw was a large office with a large cherry desk. The desk was polished and sparkled in the sunlight coming from the window behind it. I looked out the window and stared at the Pacific Ocean. A tall ornate lamp stand stood in both corners behind the desk. A door was on the south wall of the room. I walked over to the door, opened it and discovered my personal toilet. A vanilla candle was lit and there was a can of citrus spray sitting on the back of the toilet. I was always told, the Sanderstuff’s fecal matter didn’t stink. I’m not allowed to use the S word. I turned around, closed the door and walked behind my desk. Against the wall opposite my desk were a deep red leather sofa and two matching chairs. On the north wall of the room, there was Grandmother’s Houston’s picture again. Mental note, get a magic marker, darts, and make a dart board out of her.
I turned around and faced the window. Twenty-one stories below me and two blocks away I recognized Dolphin Beach. I made another mental note to have Petrolbone buy me a high powered telescope to check out the sun bathing babes. I’m making so many mental notes, I’m losing track. Work is hell. I don’t know if I can last five hours let alone five years.
I pulled out a luxurious sheepskin chair that matched the cherry desk and the large Oriental rug that covered three-fourths of the floor. I sat in the chair the way a monarch might sit in her chair. I swiveled it around to the right. Then, I swiveled it around to the left. I scooted it back and put my feet on the desk. I closed my eyes and was interrupted when I heard the outer door open and female voice say, “Anybody home?”
I took my feet off my desk and sat up straight. I hoped this wasn’t a patient. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if it is a patient. I’ll tell her, the doctor isn’t in and to call in for an appointment. I heard the door close, footsteps seemed to be coming closer to my door. Then I heard, “This old broad’s got to go and she can take the scrawny looking rat with her. No dog is going to poop in my coffee.”
My intuition worked overtime. It had to be my receptionist. Please, please, please God I prayed, let her be hot. If she’s not, she’s fired for being late. I’m the boss here.

Author: Ray Calabrese

I am an optimistic, can do, and never quit guy. The spirit of hope indelibly marks my DNA. My research at The Ohio State University helped people discover the best in themselves and change their personal lives, public organizations, and whole communities. I bring the same spirit and enthusiasm to my blog to help those who grieve who find themselves suddenly alone, navigate their grieving. Join my more than 24,300Twitter (@alwaysgoodstuff). I promise my tweets are always good stuff. Please feel free to email me at

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