Trust Fund Baby ~ 42 A Satire

Chapter 42

I wasn’t capable of driving to work. I over the legal limit in love. If a policeman pulled me over and asked me to take a sobriety test, I’d step out of my M760i and when asked to stretch my arms out to the side and touch my nose with my index fingers, I’d poke my eyes out. I’d be handcuffs and taken to the station. The only saving grace would be a blood test, which would show no alcoholic content, but a libido gone wild. I’d no choice, I asked the Big O as he’s know to Mother and his other girlfriends, or Oscar to drive me to work. 

Oscar took the Mercedes, although I prefer the sexy Porsche. The Porsche was being detailed by a detailing crew Oscar called in on orders from Mother. Oscar explained Mother wanted him to use the Porsche to take her to a private and isolated beach this afternoon. As soon as Oscar turned right on Rockefeller Drive, he reached over with his right hand and tapped me on the arm.

I turned my head toward Oscar, “What’s up, amigo?” Amigo is part of my limited Spanish vocabulary. 

Oscar quickly returned his right hand to the steering wheel. He’s a strong guy, proud of shirt popping physique. He said, “You got to help me, man. I’m dying.”

My heart crashed into my gut. He’s only twenty-seven years old. He’s got his entire life in front of him. Oscar is the stud all other studs emulate. And, he attracts beautiful women like I attract mosquitos if I go outside after seven at night. He’s macho with a capital M. Oscar exercises, eats healthy, limits his drinking to red wine. Sometimes life isn’t fair to those who are not filthy rich. I wanted to show empathy. I said, “Too bad, man. Everybody has to go sometime.”

“That’s not what I mean, man. Can we talk hombre to hombre? I mean man to man. You got to promise me, man, whatever I tell you is sacred. You can’t repeat it to nobody. It’s like I went to church and I’m in the confessional. You a Catholic?”

“No, we’re Episcopalians, we’re close to being Catholic, but without all the guilt,” I said.

Oscar seemed to think that one over. He scratched his chin, and ran his hands through his grunge. I made a mental note to check Mother for razor burn. He half turned to me and said, “My friend Jesus, won’t like it if you tell anybody what I’m going to say to you.”

“You’re friends with Jesus?” I asked.

“I hope so man, but I’m talking about Jesus, Jesus Cruz. He just got paroled after serving ten years for manslaughter ,” said Oscar.

I remembered Jesus is a common Mexican male name. It’s pronounced Hey Zeus. I’m a licensed psychologist so I should listen and be able to keep a confidence. It’s been my profession for seven days, but who’s counting. I said, “We got four miles before we reach the Loomis Building. I can’t be late I have a hot chocolate waiting for me. You’ll have to talk fast..”

“I didn’t know you like hot chocolate,” said Oscar.

“I’m not talking about the drink. I’m talking about the woman I’m going to marry,” I said.

Oscar turned toward me and said, “Let me know when you going to take her to meet your Mother and Father, I’ll take a day off. This is a good segue into what I want to talk to your about. Your Mother is killing me. She wants sex all the time. I enjoy the ladies. The ladies know an evening with me is like slipping off into a erotic movie. The problem is, your Mother is insatiable. What is wrong with her?”

I said matter of factly, “She’s nuts.”

Oscar nodded, “I knew that after the first time. What am I going to do? I can’t take this pace much longer.”

I saw the Loomis Building looming three blocks ahead. I had to give Oscar some advice. The man is desperate. I don’t know how I do it. Answers come to me directly from some hidden place in the cosmos available only to those who are pure of heart and filthy rich. I said, “Do you know The Mayor Ronald Bitters Low Income Housing High Rise Apartments?”

“I visit my abuela Maria every Sunday over there. I know where it is, why?”

I didn’t want to show my ignorance and ask Oscar what an abuela is. At first I thought it was the name of another girlfriend. Then, I thought, Oscar might be hiring himself out as male escort for older women. I later learned it meant grandmother. I responded, “You familiar with the guard at the gate?”

“Treyvon. We’re buddies.”

I said, “I tried to hire him to spell you. I have your best interests in mind. Why don’t you ask Treyvon to substitute for you while your body recovers. I’ll pay him in cash so he doesn’t have to report it to the IRS, then I’ll write it off as a charitable cash deduction.”

Oscar pulled in front of Loomis. He sat still for a second, then looked at me, “You the man.  You deliver the goods, amigo.”

We fist bumped, I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Life was good and getting better. I took one look back and saw Oscar smiling and singing in Spanish as he drove away. I walked toward the Loomis entrance singing an Ed Sheeran song. Lawrence, twisted his head, turtle like and shot me a look. He said, “Mr. Sanderstuff are you high?”

I answered, “Should I sing an octave lower. I have great range. I once won a karaoke contest.”

“Have a nice day,” said Lawrence then made a note on his iPad.

I ignored Genevieve’s perpetually vacant stare and planned how I can cut the group session shorter than the fifteen minute average time I’ve spent with them.  As soon as I got rid of them, I’m going to ask J to meet my parents over dinner tonight. I don’t believe in long engagements. 

I caught a break, I was too early for Carlos to ride the elevator with me. I spoke too soon, the elevator stopped at the sixth floor. I repeatedly jabbed the “close door” button to no avail. The sliding elevator door opened and a custodial cart entered, followed by Carlos.

“Hola, amigo. How they hanging?” said Carlos standing in the elevator door way preventing the doors from closing.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by hola. I knew what he meant by “How they hanging.” It’s guy speak for how are things going. I responded, “Good to see you, Carlos.” I thought no it isn’t, but I don’t want to get you angry, you might be carrying a gun. I added, “Life is good and I’m in love.” 

Carlos gave me his five tooth grin and stole a look down both ends of the sixth floor corridor, then stepped in. “Don’t tell anybody, but I just stole two iPads to supplement my income.”

Why was Carlos telling me this? Before I could respond, he said, “You wanna buy one, I let you have it real cheap since they got a pass word I don’t know. You’re a smart guy, you can figure it out. I give them both to you for a hundred dollars.”

“No thanks,” I said.

“You driving a hard bargain. How about fifty for the pair.”

I said, “What if I give you twenty-five and you return them.”

“You kidding me, right?”

“I’m in love, Carlos. I’m a changed man.”

“It’s a deal. You in love with the black lady who has the body men fight over? The one with the eyes that melt your heart? The one with the lips you want to kiss and not stop kissing? The one with skin that looks like coffee with a swirl of cream?”

“Uh huh. I’m going to ask her to come home and meet Mother and Father,” I said thinking Carlos described J perfectly. 

Carlos shook his head, “Man, you making the mistake of your life. You a filthy rich white guy. She’s a hot black woman. One of two things gonna happen. They’re going to write you out of the will, or she gonna dump you because you not bad.”

“How do I show her I’m bad, Carlos?” I asked.

“I am the right hombre to speak to. I wrote the book on being bad,” said Carlos.

“Is it available online?” I asked.

Carlos looked at me quizzically, then added “I like you. I’m going to help you to be bad. We going to bypass the 21st floor and take the elevator up to top, then we’ll come back down. This will give me time to give you an introductory lesson to being bad.”

That’s what Carlos did. He finished my intro lesson as the elevator jerked to halt at the 21st floor. 

 “Thanks for the advice,” I said. I gave Carlos twenty-five dollars and knew he wasn’t going to take the iPads back, but I felt good the way I was helping humanity. 

I walked into the office determined to show J and the group I was a bad boy.