Trust Fund Baby ~ 8 A Satire

Chapter 8
“Good morning, Mother. Good morning, Father,” I said as I sat down in front of my raspberry Danish and cream colored coffee. I stared at my coffee and saw J’s image swirling around in the cream. Maybe it was an apparition.

Mother interrupted my fantasy, “Artin?”

Artin? What’s an Artin. I did a quick mental check of who sat at the table. Mother on one end. Father, ten feet away from Mother at the other end. And, me in the middle of the demilitarized zone. Did we hire a new cook?

I heard it again, this time more insistent, “Artin. Artin, look at me.”

I took a bite of my Danish and sip of my coffee, then said, “I don’t think he’s here, Mother. Try paging him.”

“Martin, don’t you remember, we’re legally changing your name to Artin?”

“I don’t want my name changed. I like Martin. I didn’t like it at first because when I was in first grade grade, Ronald Cranston called me fartin Martin. When I was fourteen and met Rachael, she let me feel her breasts and she like my name. I’ve liked Martin ever since Rachael.”

“Thank God you didn’t have sex with Rachael Madison. You know, her mother did not go to Holyoke or Smith.”

I thought about Mother’s comment for a second, then decided not to say anything about the sex part.

Mother continued her rant, “The mention of the Cranstons makes me want to have Nicole spray the room with disinfectant. They always thought they were better than everyone else. Can’t say I feel a bit sorry for them when the crash of 2008. They’re no longer listed among the top five hundred wealthiest people in the world. What a pity. But, between us, it looks good to see them left off of the RSVP list for Aspen and Palm Springs.”

The Cranston’s grovel? I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought they owned half the world and Grandmother Houston owned the other half. I said, “I will not answer to the name Artin, Mother. Now, that’s settled, I have some important news to share with you and Father.”

Father set his Wall Street Journal down and pulled his glasses down to the tip of short stubby nose that more appropriately fit on a bull dog than a human head. Mother placed both of her bony hands palm down on the table, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes trying to pierce into my brain and read my thoughts.

Before I could speak, Mother spoke, “Martin, if you’re going to tell us you got Nicole pregnant, don’t. I don’t want to hear about it. How much do we have to pay to keep her quiet and not list you as the father?”

Father said, “Mother, let’s be reasonable. Perhaps he didn’t get Nicole pregnant. Maybe it was Oscar.”

Mother said, “You should see the way Martin leers at her. I know what’s going on in his mind. It couldn’t have been Oscar, he used condoms.”

How does Mother know Oscar uses condoms? I didn’t think it was an appropriate question at the moment. I was watching the tennis match. It was Father’s turn. He said,

“We don’t even know if Nicole’s pregnant. As for our son, he didn’t get his lascivious tendencies from the Sanderstuff side of the family.”

Father took a nasty shot at Mother. He won’t be getting any tonight. Then again, I’m too sure he ever gets any anyways.

Mother returned the salvo, “Martin’s perverted sexual tendencies do come from your side of the family. What about Allison, your niece? You know the tramp who moved in with her boyfriend after college. Everyone knows she lost her virginity when she was in the tenth grade and they took a vacation to Venice and some Italian gondola driver seduced her. She could have been more descrete.”

“Leave Allison out of this, Mother. You know her mother is a Jenkins. The Jenkins worked for their money and didn’t inherit it, so they have no idea how to be rich.”

I thought, no, don’t leave her out of this. I’m enjoying the family gossip. But I didn’t want to be late for my second day of work. Truthfully, I wanted to be in my office waiting for my Venus to arrive. I said, “I didn’t make Nicole, pregnant, although I have many sexual fantasies about her. I don’t think I’m perverted. My sexual interests are normal.”
Mother looked at me and said, “If you didn’t make Nicole pregnant, who did?”

“Is she pregnant?” I asked.

“I don’t know. You brought it up,” said Mother sarcastically.

“I didn’t bring it up, Mother. I said, “I have something important to tell the both of you if you can get Nicole off your mind for a moment. First of all, I have not had sex with Nicole. I want to have sex with her, but she has a boyfriend and I’m afraid he’ll kill me if founds out we’re lovers.”

“You’ve got a Sanderstuff’s brain on shoulders, Son. It’s well and good to have an affair with someone in our class. The worse that will happen is you’ll snubbed at a social event. Discreet affairs are seen as a sign on good breeding, wouldn’t you agree, Mother.”

A shade of pink appeared on Mother’s neck and began it’s slow rise through her face. Fortunately, Father missed this faux pax because he set his glasses on the table when the discussion began.

“You’re so right, Father. Discretion is important in liaisons. Keep that in mind, Artin.”

“Thank you, Mother. Son, one more piece of advice, never, step out of class to have a sexual dalliance. A one night stand every once in a while, why that’s healthy as long as there are no strings attached. By that I mean always use a condom. Never take a lower class woman’s word she’s on birth control. Now, for heaven’s sake, tell us your important news, Son,” said Father.

I almost forgot what I was going to say. I’m sure Mother and Father do not have sex, unless they are totally wasted. Now, I think they’re both getting action on the side. I could use this to blackmail them into increasing my allowance. I saw them both locking in on as if they had a laser and were ready to push the fire button. I blurted,“I’m in love and I’m going to get married.”

Mother hollered, “Victor. Victor. My drink please.”

Father said, “A bit early for gin isn’t it, Mother?”

Here we go again. The tennis match was about to restart. I had to stop it so I get to work.

I said, “I’ve a bit of a problem. I know I’m in love with her. I know I’m going to marry her. I haven’t told her yet.”

Father rubbed his hands together. “I’ve been waiting for this, Son. You’ve come to Mother and me for relationship advice.”

Mother cut right to the chase, “Is she of good breeding? They must live on this side of the city. This is where all the good people live. You can tell by the all the guarded and gated communities. The air is cleaner over here. The better restaurants are over here. And, all our help comes from over there. It’s not that we’re afraid of them. It’s that we want to remain pure. Surely, you understand this, Martin.”

A thought raced through my mind. Am I the sole beneficiary in their will? If I tell Mother and Father J is black, but her skin is the beautiful shade of coffee and cream and her body is as lithe and supple as a gymnasts I foresee three possibilities. One, two massive coronaries; two, a stroke and a massive coronary; or three, they overpower me and send me off the Betty Ford Clinic for rehab.

I looked at Mother and said, “Her lineage can be traced back to ships the earliest settlers welcomed into the US. It may go all the way to Thomas Jefferson and his plantation.”

“Is she one of the Jeffersons? This is too good to be true,” said Mother already thinking of holding a soiree to host J and me.

“What’s her name, Son?” asked Father.

I truthfully said, “She likes to be called by the first letter of her last name.”

“That is delightful. I can’t wait to meet J,” said Mother.

I decided to leave on a high note. Mother and Father told me not to work too hard and let my administrative assistant do it all for me. I confidently strode out the of dining room believing J would be mine tonight. I was soon to learn, I had a lot to learn.

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Trust Fund Baby ~ 7 A Satire

Chapter 7

At noon I told J to take an extended lunch hour until 9 in the morning. She flashed her white veneers, did a pirouette and walked away. My eyes swayed to a Caribbean beat until she was out of sight. I closed my eyes to fight a touch of vertigo. I wish I could talk to a psychologist about office romances. The thought struck me, I am a psychologist. It says so on my door. I sat back up an swiveled my chair so I was looking out the window. I said, “I’m confused.”
“Of course you are. Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.
“It’s why I’m here. Do you know anything about love?” I asked.
“Love? Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. I think I’m in love.”
“The Sanderstuffs don’t fall in the love. To use the guttural language of today, they hook up long enough to check breeding and get the woman to sign a prenup.”
“You don’t understand?”
“Oh, I understand. I know what’s best for you.”
“You sound like Mother. Mother? Mother? Get away from me. Get out of my mind,” I screamed. I swiveled back toward the door hoping J was gone and didn’t listen to my conversation. It is privileged after all.
I needed downtime and I wanted to center myself to get back on an even keel. I hoped I wasn’t going to suffer from PTSD so I stopped by the tennis club for lunch and drinks. If anything, I’m monogamous. I’m also a male, so I flirted with Judith, she lives two mansions down from us and is ten years older than me. But she’s married to guy twenty years older. I’ll take what I can get. Monogamy can only go so far when your libido is raging out of control. I took my drink from the bar and sauntered over to Judith’s table.
I said with my self-assured smile, “You taking tennis lessons today or did you wear that cute outfit for me?” This stuff comes natural.
Judith took a sip of her white wine, her eyes never leaving my eyes. When she finished her sip, she held the glass in her right hand, her elbow resting on the table, and said, “Martin, of course I wore it for you, if I knew you were coming. Unfortunately, I didn’t know, so I wore it for Vince. He’ll be here in a minute. Maybe next time, sweetheart.”
Ouch, this one hurt. Vince Tomazo, the club tennis pro and stud. My guess is Vince cancelled all his afternoon appointments. I needed a face saving get away, so I bent over and kissed her cheek, and whispered, “Have fun.”
Judith got the last word in, “Count on it, but it won’t be on the tennis court.”
I tossed my drink down, set the glass on an empty table and headed home. I think J will be proud of me for remaining faithful.
I was physically and emotional exhausted. I went home and crashed. I woke up at 9:30 and called Oscar at his apartment and had him make a run for me to Lizzo’s Pizzeria for a sausage and pepperoni pie and then over to Ralphie’s Bar to get two bottles of Wilson’s Golden a locally brewed beer. I didn’t feel bad for Oscar, I went down to Mother’s cookie jar and pulled out a C note, she’ll never miss it. She and Father call it loose change. When Oscar arrived, he handed me the pizza and beers. I handed him the C note. He kept his hand out. I went back to the cookie jar and pulled out another C note.
Oscar said, “Thanks, man.”
Mother disapproves of my informality with the help. She says it makes them feel they are equal to Sanderstuffs. I heard her tell Grandmother Houston, when the old bat was alive, “God must really love us because we’re so much better than the people we hire. Why sometimes I think I am saint because I give them a job and let them do so much for me.” F
or my part, I never saw myself better than Victor or Oscar. I’ll never tell J, but I wouldn’t mind an affair with Nicole. Mother knows all this and says it’s the poor DNA I received from the Sanderstuff’s, If I were pure Featherstone, I’d no such inclination. I could add or passion or fun or a desire to party.
I was sleeping soundly dreaming of lying on lounge chair on a beach in Cancun when a beautiful, black haired and dark eyed señorita, wearing a flowered covered peasant blouse pulled low across her shoulders and breasts, came up to me and bent over and whispered in my ear. She touched my shoulder. Her touch woke me up and I was staring into Nicole’s dark eyes and wet red lips. Love hit me again and oh did it hit me. My first thought was, what will will I tell J when I see her this morning?
“Nicole? Is that you or am I in heaven?” I tossed my best line at her.
Nicole laughed, “Señor Martin I already have a boyfriend, Antonio. You make me laugh. The señora said to wake you up for work.”
“It’s not the weekend?” I asked.
“Oh no. It’s only Tuesday. Chu got three more days after this one.”
“Work is hell, Nicole.”
“Tell me about it,” she laughed and walked out the room. My eyes followed her Latin beat. These women are killing me slowly or is it killing me softly, whatever.

Trust Fund Baby ~ 6 A Satire

Chapter 6
The door to my office swung open. My jaw dropped bouncing three times of my chest giving me a touch of whiplash. My blood pressure spiked. A light haze covered my deep blue since baby eyes. I felt as if I were pushed through the window behind me and I was floating carefree through space. I am the prince and my Cinderella stood in the middle of the door frame. She was a tall woman with skin the color of my coffee having the perfect touch of cream. Her body was as lithe and supple as a gymnast. In my mind or perhaps it was an angel sent from heaven singing I Will Always Love You. If this was work, I wanted more, lots more of it. I stared a her long blonde hair parted in the middle, perfect white teeth, and pink lipstick, and perfectly displayed cleavage. Her hands rested on each of her beautiful hips slightly cocked to the right. My mathematical mind quickly calculated size 38 c cups. I knew then that being rich and being in love are the two best things in the world.

My Venus opened her mouth and her voice was like Ella Fitzgerald or Beyonce singing straight from her lips to my heart without a detour.

“You must be the spoiled brat, rich trust fund baby who’s the shrink. If you’re not, you touch me and I’ll wrap you up in a ball so tight you will make a golf ball look big,” She said giving me an icy stare that could cut through steel. Then she added, pointing with two fingers toward her face, “My eyes are up here. Let’s get that straight.”

I put to use my highly honed communication skills to get passed this little stumbling block on my way to romance, “Huh? Are you the receptionist?”

“Receptionist? Is that what you think I am? If that’s what you think, you a bigger fool than Pettibone told me you was.”

Her voice was an angelic choir. What are words when the melody sets your heart on fire,

“I said, you can be whatever you want to be. Want to have dinner with me after work?”

“Dinner? With you?”

“Un huh?”
“No. What fool said you were getting a receptionist?”

Actually, no one did. I thought that’s what you called a woman sitting behind a desk in a waiting room playing solitaire on her computer. If anything, I am quick on my feet I said, “The guard in the lobby called and said my receptionist was on the way up to see me. He didn’t tell me she was black Venus.” I gave her my award winning, impossible not like smile.

“I know Lawrence. We used to date. If I tell him what you said he will hit you hard on top of your head and you be looking out between your toes.”

I said, “If you won’t go to dinner with me, say we quit work early and go out for drinks.”

She jabbed a beautiful long index finger with a perfect nail, whose color matched her lips, at me and said, “I am your administrative assistant. What this means for you is that I do not do coffee. I do not run out and bring back lunch or donuts or whatever. I already know the kind of support you want and the kind of support you need. You’re not getting any of the first part. We straight on that?”

“Un uh,” I answered. “What exactly does an administrative assistant do? And, cut me some slack. This is the first day of work in my life and I’m worn out. It’s been rough.”

“How long you been at work?” she demanded.

I checked my iWatch, “About ten minutes. It’s a killer.”

“Pettibone was right. You are going to need all the help you can get.”

“I’m a quick learner if I’m tutored,” I said trying to butter her up.

She walked toward my desk. I scooted my sheepskin chair back until it hit the window overlooking the Pacific Ocean. She placed both hands palm down on my desk and bent over and stared at me. I could die now and know I’ve seen an angel.

“Eyes up here,” she said pointing to her eyes then placing her hands back down on my desk.

I quickly moved my eyes from her cleavage to her eyes then back down to her cleavage.”

She lifted both hands up and turned her palms toward her. I looked at the fingers I want to kiss. I looked at the hands that I want to hold me. My thoughts were interrupted.

“These nails do not type. They got several purposes. One, to make me look beautiful. And two, to scratch the eyes out of anyone who bothers me.”

“What’s your name?” I asked. I made a mental note to check Pondbone to find out if this woman had a license to wear dangerous weapons.
“My name is L Johnson. You can call me L or you can call me J. But you can’t call me Johnson.

I said. “Nice to meet you J. I’m Dr.” I had a brain burp. I couldn’t remember my last name. I knew I had a PhD so I was a doctor. I wasn’t sure what kind of doctor. Mother attended my classes. She wrote my dissertation. She hired a tutor to teach me enough to defend my dissertation. Paid trips to London, Paris, and Rome for each member of the committee and one guest may have pushed the needle a bit in my direction.

J said, “You need me to come over there and slap your white ass so you can remember your name?”

I said, “No, it’ll come to me. Say, do we have any patients in the waiting room I need to see?”

J started laughing. She stood up and her laugh turned into a belly laugh and tears rolled down her cheeks. When J composed herself, which was a good ten minutes later, she said, “You’d have to be crazy to voluntarily come to you for help.” Then she started laughing again. When she stopped she said, “You vote for Trump?”

I cringed. Was she working undercover for Costa Rica? I heard they tried to influence the election for Hillary. I truthfully said with a sigh of relief, “No.”

L or J or whoever she is bent forward a bit and stared into my eyes. It took a superhuman act of will not to drop my line of vision six inches. She said, “I can tell if you lying. You better no lie to to me. You vote for Hillary?”

I truthfully answered, “No.”

She said, “You write in Bernie’s name?”

I said, “No.”

“Who you vote for?”

I twisted around on my chair and stared out toward the ocean, I was losing control of my line of vision. I had a sudden urge to urinate. I always do when I’m nervous. I kept staring at the ocean. I answered, “I was at the spa on election day. Who won?”
“Hell, you don’t even know who’s President?”

“It’s either Obama or Bush. I’m not sure of which one. I don’t watch the news. I’m into reality shows.

J answered, “We gonna have one hell of reality show in this office with you in charge.”
I had a brainstorm. It was the best idea I’ve had since I had the idea I wanted a Porsche for my high school graduation present. I said, “Let’s make that your first job, see if you can get Netflix or Amazon or HBO to do a reality show here. We’ll be stars. I get top billing.”

J was silent. This was a welcome relief. I swiveled around but didn’t stop in time and ended up doing a 360. I tried it again let my sandals skid me to a stop. My arms outstretched, my palms landing face down on the desk.

J said, “Another four inches and I’d break every one of those fingers.”

“I said. “You never answered about having a drink after work. We should be done in another five minutes.”

“Is this a pickup line?” asked J.

“Uh huh?” I said with a questioning inflection in my voice.

J started laughing so hard she stumbled back and fell into one of the chairs. When she recovered, she said, “I give you a maybe on the reality show. It’s got possibilities. That’s the worse pickup line I ever heard. It ever work?”

“Uh huh, when I add after drinks we’ll fly to Rome for dinner.”. I believe I had a chance. My heart did a double flip, and a triple twisting jump scoring 9.9, 9.9, 9.9 on the love scale. I stared at my creamy skinned goddess with my tongue sending a message to my brain to let it drool. My thoughts were interrupted by my Venus rising.

J said, “No on dinner. No on drinks. No on Rome. Pay attention. You get to work with a group of criminals who are at a half way house. That means they half way between full time prison and half way to full time freedom. They live together in a house and they can’t go nowhere without supervision. They going to come here as a group and you’re supposed to help them get ready to go back into society. Some white fool must have made this decision. You ain’t going to help nobody.”

“I don’t want to work with criminals. I want to work with nymphs,” I said.

J said, “You crazier than the people you gonna be working with. Listen up Dr. Something.”

I interrupted, “That helps, my last name begins with an S.”

J said, “Group starts tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. sharp.”

I said, “Huuh?”

TRUST FUND BABY – 7 A SATIRE CONTINUES ON MONDAY

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.

Trust Fund Baby ~ 4 A Satire

Chapter 4 ~ Fashionably Late
I drove my black BMW downtown to Ocean Drive, pulled up in front of the Loomis Building. It wasn’t difficult to miss the Loomis. It takes up an entire city block and rises 52 stories stretching toward the sun. The Loomis Building is a clear violation of a city ordinance that states that no building can be constructed more than two stories high within three miles of the ocean. City ordinances are for ordinary folk. Not folk like Mother or Father or Father’s cousin Genevieve Loomis. Cousin Genevieve, prior to her passing from this life, owned the city council, the mayor, the city attorney, and any one else who might get in her way. She was as mean as a pit bull, stabbed more people in the back than any politician, and would take her own child off life support without shedding a tear or saying goodbye. She was Father’s favorite cousin.
The law abiding, ordinance following citizens on the east side of Loomis building get to stare at the 52 Loomis Building stories. They get t bask in the building’s shade every day from one p.m. until sundown. Like Father says, “those folk learned an important lesson, don’t mess with cousin Genevieve.” I got out of my BMW, left it running and stepped onto the sidewalk. I took a valet ticket from a black valet attendant wearing a three thousand dollar suit by Zegna.
I walked up to the Loomis entrance and stared up at the glass edifice. The sliding glass doors parted for me and I thought this must have been how Moses felt when the Red Sea parted for the Israelites. I entered what Father calls the Cathedral and stepped into an Italian marbled space that Julius Caesar would have envied. Fifty yards in front of me four glassed in elevators traveled up and down. I watched them for a second and stopped when I started to develop vertigo. I never met cousin Genevieve or as I like to refer to her as the creepy old broad and I glad I didn’t. I’m only five feet into the building and I’m staring at her blood curdling, two story image hanging on a wall overlooking the lobby. It’s one of those paintings where the eyes follow you. She had a face that’d make grapes turn into raisons. I’ll bet my five thousand dollar weekly allowance she never had an orgasm.
I averted Genevieve’s freaky eyes turned my head toward the guard. He looked like ex military with the buzz haircut, square jaw, and a Brooks Brothers made his navy blue suit that didn’t fit right on his chiseled body. I made a mental note to get a personal trainer and workout when my five year hitch of working is over. I wonder how he likes the tie? He’s got an eighteen inch neck that looks like the stem to his mushroomed head. He doesn’t move his head, his eyes slightly shift toward me and he said in a voice that sounded my like a low growl than human speech, “Good morning Dr. Sanderstuff, I’m Joe Maples. I’ve been expecting you. Your office is on 21st floor facing the Ocean. It’s room 2002. Do you want me to write it down so you’ll remember?”
I caught the dig. Of course I needed it written down, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. I smiled, and said, “No.”
I wanted to tell him there’s help for ex military who relied on steroids to bulk up, but I wasn’t sure he’d accept it as friendly advice. I began repeating the room number to myself as I walked toward the elevator bank, “Twenty oh two, twenty one two, Twenty two two.” I know it’s one of those rooms. I should have concentrated. I lost concentration because I starting thinking about asking Prettybone if I could hire the guard to sub for me. It’s better than being a guard.
I walked across the marble floors to the bank of elevators and joined three men and two women in tailor made business suits. I’m six feet even, not real tall but I was a bit taller than each of them. I looked at the men and quickly decided I was a more good looking, taller, and had better hair than any of these yuppie dweebs. Then, I checked out the women. The taller of the two, wore a dark blue business suit, skirt instead of pants. Nice legs, skinny hips, and small breasts. Not my type. I looked at the other woman, a Latina caliente. Hot, very hot. I might asbestos gloves to get close to her. My brain searched for the perfect waiting the elevator pickup line. Like her colleagues, she wore a business suit. Her’s was a pinstripe and her skirt was four inches above her tanned and toned legs. She hit all my markers, especially the c cup marker. I admit I’ve never emotionally matured. That’s what my dissertation adviser told me the few times I met with her. The only reason I asked her to be my adviser, she met all my markers as well. I mentally rehearsed a pickup line for my Latina. Before I could use it, one of the suits turned to me and said, “Can I help you?”
Do I look like I need help I thought. He may make a good salary, but he’s not in the Sanderstuff league, so I gave him a Sanderstuff putdown, “Can you make a run to Starbucks? I’d like a Chai Latte with extra whipped cream,” I said with all the faux sincerity one can muster on the first day of work. I hoped this impressed the Latina who stole my heart.
“You’re serious?” the suit said.
I nodded half expecting him to apologize for his faux pax. Instead, all five stared at me as if I belonged in a leper colony. One of the women turned her head toward Joe Maples attempting to make eye contact. Too bad Joe was staring at the Weather Channel on the console on his desk. My Latina put her hand in her hand bag, I think she was reaching for pepper spray, perhaps a Taser, or mace. It could have been a gun, there’s an open carry law in this state. I’m not sure dating her would work out. Mother and Father would never approve. She’s probably a first generation college graduate, strike one. She’s of Mexican descent, strike two. And, if she’s Catholic, strike three. The ballgame is over. I don’t agree with Mother or Father, but I really want my trust fund.
Two elevators opened simultaneously and all five suits rushed in the elevator to my left without so much as wishing me a good day. I walked into the empty empty elevator. I stood in the middle of the elevator cabin and did nothing. What was I supposed to do? Usually, everything is done for me. I stared at bunch of buttons on the elevator wall, each with a number. Nice tough I thought. I saw the elevator door start to close. Before the door closed, a thin brown skinned man stuck his arm in causing the doors to stop and retreat back into their shell, turtle like. He pushed a custodial cart carrying every cleaning item recommend by Martha Stewart into the elevator. He smiled at me and flashed a gold canine tooth. The door hesitated for a second then began its ascent.
He said, “Hey, man. I saw you checking out Maria Torres. She’s got a nice ass, but you got no shot. She’s an attorney with Longman, Longman, and Longman.”
I answered, “She’s not a Longman?”
He laughed, “No, but she’s sleeping with one of them.”
The elevator slowly made its way to the 21st floor. I said, “How do you know she’s sleeping with one of them?”
“Hell, man. I got ears. I got eyes jus like you. They on the 21st floor. Where’re you heading?”
“The same floor. What’s their office number?” I said with a faint hope I could magic on Maria Torres and bring her under my spell.
“I tink its 2001 or maybe 2003. I know it’s not 2002, there’s some psychologist guy coming into that space. I hear his parents set him up. It must be nice.”
I said, “Some people have all the luck.”
“You said it man. You look like you not doing too bad for yourself. You selling grit? That how you get your bread?”
I thought I was up to date on street lingo. I made a mental note to check Reddit out. I’m pretty sure he’s referring to drugs and not the southern dish of grits. I said, “You buying?”
He said, “No, man. But a couple of the attorneys are into that crap. They can afford it. I was jus gonna help you out.”
“Why do you want to help me out?” I ask. I wondered if I look needy.
“You look at yourself in the mirror before you come here, man? I bet you never did a day’s work in your life. I got five dollars says I’m right.”
Before I could answer, he said, “Here’s your floor. Who you here to see?”
“The psychologist,” I said.
“Good luck with that one,” he laughed and pushed the button for the 35th floor.
I used my Spanish as I left the elevator, “Hola.”
He gave me his gold toothed smile, waved and said, “Hola.”
Friendly guy. I’m glad I paid attention in Spanish class. I know how to say goodbye.
I stepped out of the elevator and stepped onto the marble floor staring at 2002. Good job Pettibomb I thought. Nice touch putting my name on the door to make sure I can find my office each day. I wouldn’t want Attorney Torres to think I’m stalking her. I read the door to my office, Dr. Artin Martin, Psychologist. Office Hours 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. I lifted my wrist and looked at my iWatch. It was 10:30 a.m. I already missed an hour and a half of work. I’m off to a great start. It’s something Mother taught me when I went to private school. She always said, “When you make people wait for you, you show them you are more important than they are.”
I planned to use this tried and true upper crust tactic on my secretary. Before I opened the door, I wondered if I was a bit too early. I’ll check with Prettybone on my required hours. Perhaps a cameo is all I need. I tussled my hair, unbuttoned a second button on my shirt, and dialed up a sexy smile. I know Pettybong won’t disappoint. I opened the door to my office.

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 – 2 A Satire

Chapter 2 ~ Grandmother Was A Closet Democrat
Mother closed the door the only way Mother could close a door. She grasped the door nob as if it were a fragile vase, twisted the nob as if it were being guided by an adagio piece of classical music. I felt like applauding when the nob silently fell back into place and Mother disappeared. I tossed the blankets onto the floor, and walked barefooted across the marble tile to my bathroom. I’ve heard rumors, that some people do not have bathrooms connected to their bedrooms. I mentioned it once to Mother and she said it was true. Even worse, she said was that many lower class families share the same toilet facilities. When she finished telling me this, she had Nicole bring her gin, shaken, not stirred, to settle her down.
I walked into my bathroom and smiled when I saw the towels laid out, my razor and shaving cream placed perfectly on the counter, and toothpaste already spread on my electric toothbrush. A soft vanilla scented candle flickered on the counter filling the bathroom with an odor that reminded me of a cookie bakery. Mother banished offensive odors from the home years ago. I stared at my reflection and smiled. I was naturally slim, no matter what I ate. I have a personal trainer who comes to the mansion three days a week to work with me in our exercise room. I’m not muscular, I’m just perfect, I thought. I have sandy hair, it’s hard tell if I need a shave. If I wait three days, I can tell. I decided to go for a grunge look. Shaving is too hard, and I don’t want to make this day any more difficult than it has to be.
I opened the door to the large walk in shower and turned the faucet on to hot as hell. I stepped under the shower praying it would wash this nightmare away.
I’ve never had a job, at least not a real job. Work is what Father and Mother pay other people to do. I don’t know how to work. I know how to spell work. What do you do when you work? I might be scarred for life because I had to work. My thoughts were interrupted by Oscar’s voice.
“Martin, you got two minutes before I’m coming in. I can’t afford to lose this job, help me out.”
I like Oscar. He’s the official chauffeur and Mother’s personal trainer. He lives with his girlfriend Denise in an apartment over on Ocean Drive. I wonder if Mother fantasizes about him when she’s having sex with Father. Nah, I can’t imagine she and father having sex. I’m pretty sure she’s frigid and he’s impotent. They’re perfect for each other. When I was fourteen, Mother said it was time to have a talk with Father about S E X. Yes, she spelled it out. When I went into Father’s study, he handed me a book of pornographic photos depicting actual sex scenes. Then told me it was okay for Episcopalians to masturbate but not Catholics. I didn’t tell him I’d been masturbating for three years. What did he think a fourteen year boy does in his spare time? I wonder if Mother is my real Mother. I think Father donated his sperm to a surrogate. Mother would never carry a baby to full term. She wouldn’t fit into her size two clothes, and have to give up tennis lessons and her precious wine tasting parties. At the right time, I’m going to ask her about it.
When I came out of the bathroom with forty-five seconds to spare, Oscar gave me a fist bump. I made my way into the dining room. Mother and Father were sitting across from each other at the ends of the table. Father, dressed in a silk business suit, Ralph Lauren white shirt with French cuffs, and a power tie. He was reading the Wall Street Journal. Mother wore a tight fitting beige dress barely exposing her collarbones. The tight fit was no problem since I’m pretty sure she wears an A cup, although I’m not an expert on small breasts. Her long, boney fingers that looked like they could strangle the life out of a turnip were doing something with the latest iPhone. She tried to raise her eyebrows and stare at me, but the last Botox injection prevented that from happening. Instead, she tilted her chin toward me and said, “Martin, did you forget to shave and wear a suit for your job? Please, promise me you will get your hair styled. It’s staring to touch your ears and curl in the back.”
“But, Mother, my shirt is by Brioni, Tom Ford jeans to go with my Tom Ford slide leather sandals. And, grunge is latest style.”
“It’s a fad, dear. A clean shave and close haircut help to make the man. As for your clothes, I suppose that will do, but your toes are atrocious. You haven’t scheduled a pedicure in two months. I’m embarrassed looking at them.”
The last time I wore a suit was to Grandmother’s funeral. The old bag, that’s my Grandmother Houston, created a ten million dollar trust fund for me administered by the old bag’s lawyer, Jacob Pettibone III, Esquire. She set specific conditions to the trust fund if I were to collect my annual allowance. I had to have a full-time job and work at my full time job for five consecutive years before I can start collecting the money. Here is the real kicker, I have to do it before I reach forty. As of last month, I’m thirty-three, my biological clock is ticking. It may not be a biological clock in the sense that most use the term, but I believe I will slowly shrivel and become half the man I’ve become if I don’t get to use my trust fund. I asked Pettibone if being a permanent full-time student qualified. Pettibone said it didn’t. If I didn’t meet the trust fund requirements, the money all went to save the sea turtles or dolphins or whales. What about saving Martin Sanderstuff I asked him? Pettibone told me Grandmother Houston gave him a healthy stipend to fulfill her wishes.
“Martin? Martin? You have to eat. Stop day dreaming,” said Mother.
I took a bite of my Danish and followed it with a sip of my coffee. I already knew she was going to say, “Martin, let me call Victor to make you a healthy breakfast.”
One, two, two and a half, then, “Martin, let me call Victor to make you a healthy breakfast.”
I looked up at Mother, my mouth filled with Danish and coffee and smiled with my lips closed tightly. She turned her attention to Father, “Father, please tell Martin about his new job. And, then tell him to chew all his food before swallowing it.”
Father, set his Wall Street Journal down aside his fresh squeezed orange juice, lightly browned on both sides whole wheat toast, and scrambled eggs with two slices of bacon. He turned his head a bit toward me, moved his glasses toward the tip of his nose, and spoke as if he were given the eulogy at the funeral of a colleague in the country club, “Mother and I have put much effort into finding the right kind of work for you. We both understand work is beneath a Sanderstuff. God blessed the Sanderstuff’s with substantial inherited wealth because God knew He couldn’t trust the lower classes to manage money. Son, we are God’s angels on earth.”
Father never, ever called me by my name. I not sure he knows it. He’s always called me Son. Now, I’m thinking he didn’t donate sperm, because he doesn’t have any. I wonder if Victor is my Father and Nicole my mother. Nah, Victor is black and Nicole is brown and I’m white, but I’m trying to get a tan. I’m sure Mother, whose pale white skin gives her the appearance of frost on a November morning, was barren. Eggs couldn’t live inside that cold, calculating, desert like interior. I took another bite of the Danish and looked at Father.
He folded his hands in a prayerful poise. “We can’t let all that money slip out of the family. It is our God given burden to be as the lower classes say, filthy rich. Mother Evelyn, always had a fondness for you. The only rationale I have for her fondness for you is you’re her only grandson or you reminded her of an abandoned sea turtle. She always loved sea turtles more than me. That being said, I did inherit the bulk of her 500 million dollar estate. The sea turtle foundation received five million. Therapy dogs of Marfa, Texas, received four million provided they name their center after her. Pettibone told me when she put this in the will she laughed so hard she started crying..”
“What’s a Marfa? I’ve never heard of it.”
“She had Pettibone cut the names of two thousand towns that began with the letter M. She made Pettibone sit in her room and do it front of her. It took him two weeks. She never liked him. She hated his nasal voice and his habit of saying ‘aforementioned.’ But she pays him well. She still paying him, she put him on permanent retainer in her will. She picked Marfa out of pot. Getting back to you, Son, your ten million should be worth forty million by the time you work for five consecutive years. I always thought Grandmother was a closet Democrat. Her will proved it. If I knew she was Democrat, I would have had her institutionalized. But what is done is done.”