Trust Fund Baby ~ 15 A Satire

Chapter 15
My right eye squinted at an empty bottle of Sangria laughing at me from my bedside table. I used my fingers to ply my left eyelid apart. I last remembered sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed thinking I was thirty-three years old, still living with my parents, and my black Venus wasn’t in bed with me.. My eyelids started to close. I didn’t fight it. Let them close. Let me die. I hope it’s the weekend and I don’t have to go to work. I drifted in an out of a sleep like a seagull bobbing up and down on the ocean’s swells.

Somewhere in the depths of the swells I heard the painful squeal of tires burning rubber on asphalt, “Martin. Martin. Are you awake? Father and I are waiting breakfast for you.”
Work? It’s only Tuesday? Doesn’t the lower class have a holiday called Thank God It’s Tuesday, TGIT? My mind shifted gears and a vague vision of a naked black female celestial appeared in my semi lucid state beckoning me with her index finger to come to her. “Yes! I hollered. Yes! Wait, I’m coming.”

Mother called from outside the door, “Thank you, Martin.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” I said. “I was talking to my betrothed.

“That is so sweet, Martin. I must meet this woman who has captured my heir apparent’s heart.”

There is no force on Earth great enough to make me break up with the woman who has the power to appear to me in a vision. I refuse to let go the woman who stole my heart and won’t give it back until I give myself to her completely. An inner voice spoke to me,

“Don’t make a fool of yourself, it’s your hangover talking.”

“Whoever you are leave me alone and let me enjoy my rapture,” I said.

Father said from the hallway, “Son, were you into the Sangria last night? You know how it affects you.”

An hour later I kissed Mother on the cheek and left for work. I dressed to impress J. I wore my soft calfskin leather boat shoes handcrafted by an old Italian peasant in a mountain village in northern Italy over my sock-less feet. I chose a light blue linen shirt hand sewn by another Italian peasant whose shop overlooks the Adriatic Sea. At the time, I was fitted for a dozen shirts. I only wear them once and give them to Victor, or Oscar. I wore matching slim fit white trousers exposing enough ankle to let J know I matured and was ready for a serious relationship.

I didn’t want to wrinkle my outfit so Oscar drove me to the Loomis Building. On the way

I casually said, “Are you having sex with Mother?”

I thought Oscar was going to careen off the cement center barrier, pile into the car in front of us, and rollover. Somehow, he got control of both the car and himself. He had two hands placed on the steering wheel, and said in a falsetto voice, “What would give you that idea?”

I wasn’t sure if Oscar was a violent man. I didn’t want to take any chances, so I said, “It’s not incest even if Mother is the name she uses. It’s only incest if you have sex with your mother, not Mother.”

I could see life being choked out of the steering wheel. Evidently, I accidentally broached a touchy subject. I took a different tact. I said, “I heard a rumor Nicole is pregnant.”
“You did, who told you she was pregnant?” said Oscar, a hint of alarm etched in his voice.
I felt much better about the direction of the conversation since this was a topic fully vetted at breakfast yesterday with Mother and Father. I said, “I can’t say, but her breasts look larger than usual. Do you think she’s getting ready to lactate?”

I caught a sudden look of relief on Oscar’s face when he skidded to a stop in front of the Loomis Building. I opened the door, stepped out and looked inside, “Oscar, thanks for the conversation. We have to do this more often. You can circle the block until I’m through with work. I shouldn’t be too long.”

A look of alarm ran across Oscar’s face. His right eye started twitching faster than a Vegas blackjack dealer dealing cards. “No, man. I mean, Martin. I’m scheduled to do your mother. I mean, give your mother her weekly massage. It’s not like you think, man. I mean, Martin.”

“I understand, Oscar,” I gave him a knowing wink only men understand.

I walked into the Loomis Building and nodded at Joe Maples, the security guard on duty. Joe is beginning to give me the type of respect I deserve. His eyes carefully took in my casual, yet filthy rich yacht party outfit. He said, “Welcome aboard, Martin.” Then he saluted me. I wasn’t sure if that was a smile or smirk on his face. I decided to Google images of smiles and smirks during group time. I like that about me, I’m always learning.

I returned the salute and headed for the elevators carefully avoiding Genevieve Loomis’s piercing stare from the top of her twenty story portrait. I stepped into the elevator my mind on winning the love of my luscious, caramel colored Venus when Carlos, the custodian pushed his cart into the elevator.

Carlos stared at me for a moment, then said, “Chu back to see the shrink in two oh two?”

I answered, “I am the shrink.” I stared at the numbers on the elevator above the door and avoided eye contact with Carlos. My only thoughts were in making J a Sanderstuff.

“Chu a shrink? How you get such a soft job?”

“I hate work, Carlos. It’s a bitch. I worked twenty minutes yesterday and it nearly killed me.

“You work for twenty minutes and ot nearly killed you? Man, you got a tough life,” said Carlos.

“Thanks, Carlos. It’s nice to have someone understand how I feel.”

Carlos blessed himself four times. He started mumbling something in Spanish and kept shaking his head.

We rode silently through fifteen floors before Carlos said, “Where’d you get that outfit? Walmart or Target. I hear they got some pretty good clothes at both places. Me? I rely on handouts from the church.”

Mother would have developed a migraine in seconds with the mention of those stores. I’m not even sure how you spell them correctly. I smiled.

“It must be nice to be filthy rich, señor.”

I answered, “It is very nice. But being rich keeps you busy trying to make sure no one is trying to take your money, if you know what I mean.” I was proud of myself for engaging in a conversation with someone beneath my social status as if he were an equal.

Carlos answered, “My cousin, Rico. He’s doing five to ten years in prison for trying to rob the rich to give to the poor.”

I was saved by the elevator stopping at the 21st floor. I saluted Carlos and said, “Give my regards to Rico.”

“Thanks, man,” said Carlos as the door closed.

The lights were on in my office. I knew my passion flower was waiting for me. I knew she was ready to beg forgiveness for walking out on me at the restaurant. I knew she was going to say, M, take me to Paris. Take me to Rome. Oh, M, take me into your arms.

I walked across the marble tiled hall and opened the door to my office. I wanted to ask J if she wanted to be referred to as my mistress or lover. I wasn’t sure which was more appropriate. I didn’t see her. My heart dropped twenty-one floors. Then it bounced back and I thought J must be hiding in my inner sanctum. I scurried around her desk, opened my door and said, “I love you.”

The only female in my room was Mother staring at me from her floor to ceiling portrait on the east wall. Then I thought, my black pearl was hiding in my private bathroom. I walked to the door, knocked on it because I am both discreet and sensitive. There was no answer. I fought a panic attack. My black Venus is lying on the floor, blood gushing from her wrists because she couldn’t go living with me. I took a deep breath and put my hand on the door nob. I closed my eyes and steadied myself to see the new star of my sexual fantasies lying unconscious on the floor. I knew in that moment, the first thing I would do would be to place my lips on her and allow my kiss to bring her back to life. When she opened her eyes she would know it was time to surrender herself, body and soul to me. I didn’t care about the order, it could be body and soul or soul and body. I’m a patient man.

I flung the door open, and hollered, “I’m here to bring you back to life with my kiss of life, J.”

From behind the voice, “You try that M, and you be picking your white ass off the floor. I stepped out to use the woman’s room, because the help don’t have a special toilet like the filthy rich.”

I turned and said, “Oh, J. You came back to me. You’re alive.”

J was wearing a black v-neck tank top that clung to her the way green clings to grass. It dropped to hip level over her Gucci jeans.”

I knew I died and went to heaven. If I wasn’t dead, I needed someone to call 911 for a love emergency. My brain slowed to a waltz. All I could think to say was, “Nice outfit.

J said, “I told Pettibone I quit unless he gave me a clothing allowance.”

“Drinks when work is over?” I said hopefully.

J stared at me, then said, “Who dressed you today? Your mama?”

“I did it all myself. Do you think I’ll impress the ladies in the group?” I said hoping to make J jealous. Then I added, “Wine, cheese and crackers, you and me, soft music in the background. How can you say no?”

“No. How’s that?”

“I’ll give you time to reconsider. We can keep our relationship secret until you’re ready to make it public.”

“Don’t you ever quit? I’d file a lawsuit against you, but like a fool I signed a non litigation clause in my contract.”

“Let’s cancel group and have a long lunch? We can about how group went? We can go wherever you want to go and I promise to behave. Please, please, please,” I begged.

J said, “What is it about me that makes you think I would ever go to lunch with you again? Be a good little trust fund baby and get ready for your group.”

J turned and walked out to greet the group. I made up my mind to impress J with how I handled group this morning.

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Trust Fund Baby – 3 A Satire

Chapter 3 ~ What’s Work?
I said, “Father, I don’t know how to work. What’s work?”
Father said, “Honestly, Son. I don’t know. Neither one of us have ever worked. Believe me, Mother and I have thought about it. It’s a vexing problem, that’s for sure. We didn’t want to ask Nicole or Oscar or Victor about work because that would make them think they were smarter than us. I asked Pettibone and he said it had something to do with exertion. He even said some people have told him it is about exerting oneself for a purpose or a cause. Son, we are filthy rich capitalists. For us, work is an abstraction. It’s only a word and nothing to cause you worry. Sure, you’ll have to leave home and go to an office and pretend your working.”
I interrupted, “Will I have a secretary?”
“Of course, Son. She’ll do your work for you.”
I had a flicker of hope. I said, “If the secretary is beautiful, can we have sex and call it work?”
“Martin,” came the voice of the avenging angel across from Father. “Is sex all you think about?”
Mother may be reading my mind. I do think about sex often. Make that, quite often. I read in a men’s magazine it was normal for the male species. If I’m not thinking about sex, I’m thinking about where to go eating or drinking. I turned my head slightly toward Mother and said, “Not all the time, Mother. But it takes up my thoughts about 80 percent of the time.”
“Father,” Mothers said. “Do you think Martin needs hormone therapy?”
“It’s only a stage, Mother. Do you think sending him to a brothel in Las Vegas for a week will help?”
I interjected, “Can I leave this afternoon?”
Father answered immediately, and it burst my balloon. He said, “No, Son. You have to go to work. Now listen to our plan. We created a job based on your education and experience where you won’t have to work. All you have to do is show up each day, tell your secretary what to do, and meet with a few people each day. All you’ll have to do is pretend you’re a psychologist. You’ll have all the props. Certainly you can do that, don’t you think?”
I looked at Father and said, “You mean I’m going to be a head doctor, a shrink?” I asked.
“Now, Martin, watch your language. Mother and I want to know what you thought of using the name Sanderstein instead of Sanderstuff?”
“Why?”
“It sounds Jewish. You’ll be able to charge more and the people will think you’re brilliant.”
“No,” I said. “It will be too hard to spell. It’s a tough learning curve. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”
“Martin makes a good point, Father,” said Mother. “Can we hurry this along, I’m having my Evian bath and Caviar facial this morning.”
“Sorry, Mother. I’ll hurry it along.” Then Father addressed me, “Working as a psychologist ties perfectly into the dissertation Mother wrote for you.”
I turned to Mother, “What was the subject of my dissertation?”
Mother beamed with pride and said, “Using Love Therapy as a Counseling Technique.”
“I love my dissertation. Will I be a sex psychologist?”
“No, Son, your dissertation had nothing to do with sex or the erotic form of love. It focused on the altruistic notions of love.”

I felt a depression beginning to build in me. When this happens I either eat, drink, or have meaningless, nameless sex. My only choice at the moment was eating. I finished the remainder of my Danish and drew my forefinger on the bits of strawberry and frosting on my plate. When the tip of my forefinger was loaded with sugary substances, I put it in my mouth and licked it off with my tongue.
Mother suppressed a dry heave, “Martin, that is so low class. If you want another Danish, I’ll have Victor get you one.”
I suppressed the temptation to lick my plate, turned toward Father and said, “Dad, I mean Father.” I like to throw dad in there every now and then to cause Father a bit of acid reflux. “It sounds like work to me. I’d prefer other four letter words.”
“Martin!” shrieked the wicked witch of the West.
She surprised me. I didn’t know she knew any other four letter words. I better keep a closer eye on Oscar.
Father raised a hand signaling Mother, he was taking the lead, “I’ve already had an agency hire a secretary from a minority class. This will show the world that the Sanderstuffs do not have a biased bone in their body.”
“Is she hot?” I asked.
“Martin,” shrieked Mother. I wonder if she had problems being potty trained as a child. It was not a good time to raise the topic. I noticed she was beginning to develop an eye twitch. I wonder what is causing the reaction.
“Father? Father?” I said as I raised both hands up over my head my palms toward Father, he was tossing some serious stuff my way and I needed to understand it.
“What is it, Son? Mother and I don’t have all morning. Mother has her day at the spa and I’m playing golf with Senator Pratt. He’ll hit me up for the usual donation. I’ll pledge the usual donation after he renews his vows to vote for the rich every time there is conflict between the rich and poor.”
“I really don’t know anything about being a psychologist. I know how to mix drinks. I know how to play golf. I know how to play tennis. I know how to dance,” I said thinking of all the things I could do well.
“Son, be serious for a moment. Mother and I thought you will make an excellent psychologist. It’s a lot like being a bartender. Attorney Pettibone filled out all the papers. He paid off the appropriate approving agencies, and best of all you are set you up in an office in the swanky Loomis Building with a view of the ocean. All you’ll have to do is sit and listen to people having problems and give them some advice. You don’t have to study. Think of it as sitting at a bar with one of your friends.”
“This qualifies as work, Father?” I asked.
“I cleared it all with Pettibone. One other slight problem, but Pettibone will clear it up, nothing to worry about. You’ll just have to sign a few papers, no work involved.”
Father said this as if he were knocking a flake of dust off his silk cuffs. Alarms sounded in my brain. I asked, “What exactly is Petty balloon clearing up?”
“Son, it’s Pettibone. I know your fondness of playing with his name, but Mother is present. It’s nothing. Want to know how the stock market is doing?”
There was only one way to deal with Father. I said, “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to tell Mother what Helen and I did on Saturday.”
“Harold. Just tell him. For God’s sake it’s not all that important. He’ll find out sooner or later. He may as well start getting used to it,” Mother said with icicles laced on each word.”
“Okay, okay, Mother. Be careful of your blood pressure. I can see the red blotches beginning to appear on your neck,” said Father.
I watched Mother and Father and wondered if they’d have makeup sex. Nah. It won’t even come to mind. I said, “Will both of you act grown up and stop squabbling.” I like acting the grown up in the room every once in a while. Not too often, though. “What is it? You’re not trying to slip a power of attorney passed me. That’s it, isn’t it. You want to send me to a clinic for six months. No way I’m signing anything.”
“Son,” said Father. “It is nothing so drastic. We’re only changing your first name from Martin to Artin. Before you say anything, let me explain. In Internet searches for psychologists the results will be reported alphabetically. Martin will be stuck in the middle with all the run of mill psychologists. Mother and I want you to stand out from the crowd. It’s what a Sanderstuff does.”
“Artin? Artin? What’s an Artin? I don’t want to be an Artin,” I said almost pathetically. I need a life. I really need a life. I know they’ll win, they always do. My backbone … what backbone. I have a hard time standing up to my image in the mirror. Why don’t they just change my middle name to Samual from Milgram and my initials will be ASS, Artin Samuel Sanderstuff. I said what I always say in these situations, “Whatever, but will I still have my BMW and allowance, right?”
“Of course, Son. That’s the old spirit. Grandmother Houston is probably looking down on your from her gorgeous palace and estate in Heaven with her servants gathered around her feet and smiling.”
I thought for a second, Grandmother Houston is looking up at me from the hottest furnace in hell. I hope hell has reserved seating for Mother and Father.
Father continued, “Just show up to work for five years. Think of your experience as doing hard time like they say on the television. When you’re finished with serving your sentence, Mother and I promise to set you up in your own estate with a cast of lower class people to cater to your every need. You may even want to write a book on how to survive work.”
“It’ll be tough, Father. Do you think I can do it?” I asked.
“Son, you’re a Sanderstuff. You can do anything.”

Trust Fund Baby – 1 – A Satire

Chapter 1 ~ The Four Letter Word
Her shrieking voice pierced through me like a needle being stuck into a helium filled balloon.
“Martin, wake up Martin,” she said with a voice that would curl straight hair. She didn’t pronounce my name as Martin. She drew it out as if it were a fifteen letter name Maarrt teeeeeeeen.
Her shrill, crackling voice disrupted my brain’s synapses. I no longer could tell if it was morning? Or, was it evening? Where was I? My brain’s electrical circuits short circuited. Electrical signals were frantically searching to find the breakers and reset them. The voice stopped. Silence. Then, I heard foot steps carefully measured and strutted as if she were on the red carpet, walking across my floor, passing the front of my bed, nearing the windows. The footsteps stopped, then the sound of drapes being pulled open followed by the harsh glare of sunlight splashing cold water across my face.. I thought I must be at Guantanamo. Did the CIA give me a mind altering drug and whisk me away while I was unconscious?
The voice from hell moved away from the windows and drew closer to the bed. She said, “Martin, Martin. You know what day it is. Father and I discussed this with you over dinner last night. You promised you would cooperate.”
I am in Dante’s eighth circle of hell, there is no other explanation for what I am experiencing. Mother’s voice, now part nasal, part sweeter than maple syrup, all seasoned with liberal dose of guilt. Why was I born Episcopalian? Episcopalians are almost Catholic where the keys to guilt are tightly held.
“Martin? Martin, dear, it’s time to wake up. You’ve got a big day ahead of you. It’s your first day at work.”
My muffled voice came from under my pillow, “Easy for you to say, Mother. You don’t work. You’ve never worked. Let me rot away. Feed me to the lions. I don’t want to live. I don’t want to work. I don’t know how to work. I want to go to school.”
Mother’s voice was growing more calm by the second. She placed her hand on edge of my pillow and I could feel her energy sending pulsating waves of gamma rays through me. “Don’t be so dramatic, Martin. You know I was born privileged and I’m better than anyone you know, including Father, but don’t tell him. He can be such a dolt at times. Besides, he’s a Sanderstuff without a drop of Feathering blood in him.”
How many times have I heard that story? She wanted to marry her first cousin Alfred Feathering to keep the race pure, but they couldn’t get anyone to sign off on a marriage license. So, she settled for a Sanderstuff, what does that make me? I answered, “No, no, and no. I am not going to work. Now that we’ve settled that, let me go back to sleep so I can be rested to party tonight.”
“Now, Martin. Is that a way for a big boy to talk? You’ve been going to school since you were enrolled in pre school after your first birthday. You have a PhD. I admit Father had to speak to the dean and promise to contribute one hundred thousand dollars to the College’s endowment fund so you could get a waiver to finish.”
“The dissertation was a killer, Mother.”
“I know it was difficult, Martin. I wrote it for you.”
Oh she knew how to lay on the guilt. She never forgot anything. It was always near the surface ready to use.
“I didn’t mind writing it. I wrote all your papers since you were in third grade.”
I fought back, the best I could, “Not all of them. You hired a ghost writer from one of the publications houses.”
“True, dear. But I oversaw the project and made sure their work was perfect. It’s why you had so many A’s.”
She was on a roll piling guilt on thicker than turkey on a turkey rueben from Katz’s Deli in New York. Before I could answer, Mother was tugging at my pillow. “Martin, Martin let go or I’ll pull the covers off you.”
“I sleep nude,” I hollered.
“Who do you think changed your diapers where you were a child?”
“My nanny and wet nurse, Maria. You psychologically harmed me by making Maria stop breast feeding me.”
“You were six years old. Anyway, that’s besides the point. I watched her once in a while. Father is waiting for you. He made Peter polish your shoes. Nicole laid out your clothes. And, the biggest surprise of all, Victor made your favorite breakfast, a cherry Danish and coffee with a splash of cream.”
“Okay. Okay. I promise I’ll get up and shower and get dressed. Give me twenty minutes. Please?”
“Martin.”
“What?”
“If you are not out of the shower in ten minutes Oscar will come in and scrub you down.”
“No, not Oscar. What about Nicole? Can she shower with me?”
I peaked out from the side of my pillow hoping Mother would agree. I fantasize daily of having sex with Nicole, our Mexican maid. I don’t know and don’t care if she has a green card. I want to run away with her. Mother was shaking her forefinger at me as if it were a loaded gun.
“Stop thinking those thoughts. I can read your mind. Nicole is off limits. You know Father and I do not want you involved with someone who is not of our social standing. Besides, her brown skin is not from lying out by the pool, if you know what I mean. You know what happened to that terrible governor who talks funny from California?”
“What was wrong with that? I love her brown skin. I want to kiss her beautiful red lips, I want to caress her body.”
“No you don’t. The funny talking governor was simply eliminated from our class by his wife. He’ll never get back in. He can’t summer any longer in Martha’s Vineyard. And, he’ll be arrested if he shows up at the Cape. You don’t want to get tossed out of our class do you?”
Mother answered for me, “Of course you don’t. After you’re settled in your work we’ll throw a celebratory party for you and invite women we think are good for you.”
I was sitting up in bed, the blankets pulled up to my hairless chest, “Can it be a pool party so they’ll wear bikinis?”
I thought Mother was going to pass out. She gasped. Raised her hand to her head as if an aneurysm struck, “Oh God no. It will be very formal, nothing trashy about it. Now, hurry on. Father and I will be waiting at breakfast for you. Remember, Oscar is timing you.”

 

TRUST FUND BABY CONTINUES ON MONDAY