I left with a runner’s high when I left the elevator and walked into my office. I figured it was a runner’s high because I wasn’t drinking, I don’t do drugs, and Mother and Father didn’t keel over and leave every cent to me with no strings attached. I got my high from turning down Carlos’s attempts to make me into a bad boy to win J. I never felt this good before. This was a different feeling. I felt good when I bought something. It never lasted. I felt good when I went drinking with friends. I felt good when I hooked up with a woman I didn’t know and she took me home and we had acrobatic sex. This was a different kind of good.
“It feels good doing the right thing. You need to do it more often.”
“Don’t take the feeling away from me. Let me alone,” I begged my conscience.
“Far from it. Do it more frequently and you’ll get used to it. It’s a good feeling,” said my conscience. Then he added, “Caio.”
I walked into the office prouder than a peacock. Hell, I was good. There’s got to a special place in heaven for me when the time comes. No sir, I may be the best man that ever lived. I was thinking of my drinking buddies, I was better than all of them. I was better than Father. I was better than Oscar. I’m not comparing our sexual prowess. Oscar is a superstar if I’m to judge by Mother’s demand for services. I’m better than Victor. I’m better than Carlos. It’s moments like these that I consider converting to Catholicism. The Pope would declare me a saint before I died. I wonder if there ever was a Saint Artin or a Saint Double M?
The office was dark, I turned on the light. Grandmother Houston cast me an approving look from her wall sized photo.
I said, “Good morning, Grandmother Houston. I am your best and brightest grandchild.”
I didn’t hear anything from the craggily faced bitch, so I know she agreed. Albeit, I’m her only grandchild. That is besides the point. I opened the door to my inner sanctum, turned on the light and there was Mother staring at me from her wall sized photo. I wondered if she was having an orgasm at the moment. As soon as the thought struck, I looked back, hoping my conscience was too busy social networking to catch that thought. The next thought that rambled across my mind, was what would Mother do if Father suddenly had a heart attack. He’s at least twenty pounds overweight. I feel sorry for his secretary. If Father died, would Mother marry Oscar? Would I have to call Oscar Father? The series of confusing, disjointed thoughts ripped my good feeling away. I tried to get it back, but it was as slippery as an eel, whatever that is, but I read the metaphor somewhere.
“Get centered. Get centered,” I told myself. I learned this phrase watching a Public Broadcasting special about meditation. I got bored after three minutes, surfed the cable channels before turning to Netflix to watch a standup comedy act. The way I understood it, to get centered you have to be in the center. This meditation stuff is not that complicated.
I approximated the center of my office. The center, as close as I could calculate was the front edge of my mahogany desk. I walked around my desk, moved my chair out of the way, placed my two hands against the desk and pushed. I’ll skip the weights today, I’m hoping I didn’t get a hernia. I climbed on top of the desk and stood at the front edge and faced the door. I didn’t care for the view. I turned and faced west looking out above the city and all those who serve the filthy rich. My gaze settled on the pristine sandy beaches exclusively reserved for the filthy rich and the blue ocean.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do while I stood in the center. I took my iPhone out of my pant’s pocket and checked my emails. I checked my messages in case J sexted to me to bring our relationship to whole new level. I felt a tinge of disappointed when I didn’t see a text from her. I took a selfie and posted it on Instagram and told my followers I was getting centered.
I was counting my likes on my Instagram photo when I heard, “What are you doing on top of your desk?”
The words from J’s lips to my erotic zone, supercharged my libido. Until the charge ran its course I didn’t turn around. Think of something, anything, anything but J, I told myself.
“Are you going to answer me, or are on drugs? I need to know. If you’re on drugs, two things will happen. One, I will call emergency assistance. And, two, when you get off drugs I will personally kick your ass and quit.”
J is a miracle worker. Whatever she did. Whatever she said, I was depleted of sexual energy or desire. At least momentarily. I turned and said, “I was getting centered. I was in the zone when you interrupted me.”
J put her hands on her hips, “You were centered? You didn’t look centered to me. You looked like you were scrolling through Instagram photos.”
I jumped down sticking the landing. I said, “Ten point zero, ten point zero, ten point zero. A perfect score from the three Olympic judges.”
J took a step closer to me. She grabbed hold of my right bicep, the one Carlos wanted to tattoo, and looked into my eyes. I wanted to kiss her. I thought she was going to kiss me to as she moved her face closer to mine. She stopped two inches away and smelled my breath. She let go and backed away, “You’re clean. You didn’t watch the whole PBS special did you?”
“The first three minutes. I got bored and switched to Netflix.”
Before J could speak the outer door opened and a female voice called, “Doctor Sanderstuff, I’m here a few minutes early for extra one on one.”
J turned around, “The only one on one you’re getting is my foot and your behind, Amber. Don’t come in here until the rest of the group arrives.”
“It may be a few minutes. I hurried ahead of them and when I reached the 21st floor, I pressed all the buttons.”
“She might really need my help, J. I’ll be okay alone with her. I won’t pay attention to her breasts.”
J cocked her head, and turned slightly sideways, “I know he can’t be trusted with her. I know. I know I have to keep an eye on him. I know he is emotionally immature.”
“Who are you talking to?” I asked.