Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard

by Auld, Alexei

  Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright © 2015 by Alexei Auld

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  BILLIONAIRE SECRETS OF A WANGLORIOUS BASTARD

  Alexei Auld

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  1

  I CAUGHT YOU looking. Really, I did. I mean, you liked what you saw and wanted a little peek. So now you're here.

  Welcome.

  Images mean a lot. My BFF Percy Winkler has his own book. Chumped. A book he didn’t even write with all of that third-person crap. And you can tell, given how pathetic he appears. With each volume, he's on the cover, or really a cartoon representing him, with increased states of bustedupness. Never heard the word before? Doesn't matter, because although Percy is my boy and I tried to help him in my own way, this book is all about me and how I ended up loaded.

  It all started with an interview. A freaky law firm interview.

  I was supposed to meet with a litigation attorney named Lola. Litigation Lola? Her secretary met me at the elevator lobby and gave me a once-over.

  “You will definitely do.”

  I didn’t know what that meant. “Thanks.”

  She giggled and led me to Lola’s office. Then she departed with a wink, nod, and chortle. I totally didn’t feel like I was going to an interview.

  When we reached the office, I saw Lola.

  She was an Amazon. Unnaturally small waist accompanying wide hips, big butt, and massive bosom. Her outfit undermined her professionalism. She was dressed in an erstwhile sausage casing. A mix between Julie Newmar’s Catwoman outfit and Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow body suit. I could see every nook and cranny smoothed out. She had brown hair and piercing dark eyes. Her handshake lingered and she caressed my forearm.

  She exchanged naughty glances with her secretary.

  “Sit.”

  Her office looked like a lair. Soft leather couches. No chairs. No desk, either. How could she do work without a desk?

  I sat on a black leather couch.

  She poured herself some cognac and asked, “Would you like something to drink?”

  I was always taught to accept a drink for the sake of manners. I said, “No thank you.”

  She pursed her lips. I squished my eyebrows. She lounged on an adjacent couch, sipping on cognac and playing with her necklace. Then she moved to her glass, rubbing it up and down with her fingers like she was paddling her pink canoe of pleasure. Staring at me and biting her lower lip. My interview prep suggested maintaining eye contact in a triangular manner: left eye, right eye, eyebrows. That was how you avoided looking at cleavage or crotch.

  Lola's triangle targeted my frank and beans.

  What kind of interview was this? I felt like I was at her apartment, especially after Lola dimmed the lights and played with her hair. I didn't know what to do. There I was at an interview that was more like a date.

  The phone rang. She rolled over and picked up the receiver. Lying upside down, head on the ground. Phone in one hand, necklace in the other. Eyefucking me as she grunted. I didn’t know what the other person was saying, but Lola’s pouting didn’t make it seem that good.

  Lola hung up and contorted her body until her feet were on the floor.

  Then she leapt on the ground like a cat and crawled toward me. My first impulse was to run the hell out of there. I didn't know this woman and wasn't about to know her biblically. I mean, I had a girlfriend. A live-in girlfriend. Sure, I wanted the job. Hell, I needed the job, but not this way. She engaged in an exaggerated catwalk, directly on her toes, very precisely, with her hind parts jutted in the air. Each cheek switching and swaying. She placed each paw, I mean hand, directly in the same part that her hand left. She started speeding up with diagonally opposite hind and fore legs moving simultaneously.

  I was impressed.

  When she crawled into my lap, I was embarrassed.

  I said, “So, what about those Knicks?”

  She replied by undoing my shirt with her teeth.

  I felt undone, until her secretary busted in.

  “Walker needs Mr. Wang in his office immediately for the interview.”

  Lola pouted and gave me her card. “Let's get together sometime.”

  “Sure.”

  She went for a kiss, but I gave her my cheek.

  “Hard to get, Rufus?”

  “It’s not even our first date.”

  “Touché.” Her secretary exchanged a nosy, impish look with Lola. “Follow me, Rufus.”

  ***

  I had to wait forty-five minutes inside Walker’s office before the interview. I didn't know whether to sit or stand. And where to stand instead of sit? He didn't have any photos anywhere, so I had no clue what he looked like. Not that it would have helped, since one could look at diplomas and pictures only so many times before going apeshit. I felt grateful for cell phones until I realized I didn't get a signal. And I couldn't break out a video game app. So I stared at everything, hoping to get my mind in a calm place

  I wondered what Lola was doing. Was she all about me or was it a test? No one in my family went to law school or worked at a firm, so I didn't know if waiting for donkey years was the norm. I tried psyching myself into thinking it was all a test. Would they raise the stakes with this Walker guy? Maybe he'll be a guy dressed up like a White Walker from GOT. The secretary could say, “Walker is coming.” That would be a hoot.

  Eventually, Walker strolled in with what I assumed was my résumé.

  He was tall and WASPy. Hair looked wispy and dusty. And his mouth reminded me of an anus. All tight and puckered.

  We shook hands. He pretty much broke mine. Ouch. I never went in strong with handshakes.

  He said, “Sit.”

  So I sat across from him. He looked at me like I’d slapped him in the nuts.

  “Why are you sitting there?”

  I looked at my chair. “Here?”

  He made a “come here” gesture with his finger. Did he want me to sit on his lap? I gulped and walked to Walker. He pointed at a chair next to him. “Sit.”

  So I sat.

  He said, “Did you know the average summer student costs the firm one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in salary, training, extravagant dining, drinks, and activities?”

  Why was he telling me this? To make me feel good or guilty? “I did not know that, sir.”

  “The firm needs to ensure the students are worth the trouble.” He tossed me the paper I thought was my résumé.

  It was a résumé from some dude with a BA in Economics from Princeton, MA in American History from Columbia, PhD in Philosophy from Harvard, and JD from Yale.

  “What does this résumé say about the applicant?” Walker said.

  “Smart, great conversation, worldly guy or gal.”

  “Do you think he’ll fit?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wrong. This candidate is unfocused. He doesn’t know what he wants to be. An economist? A philosopher? A lawyer? He is untrustworthy, for he will scoff at direction. A horrid
fit for this or any firm.”

  “But Krueller wants smart, independent-minded people, right?”

  “Trust me. You do not want this person and his brand of insubordination corrupting the fragile minds of associates.”

  His analysis floored me. It seemed to suggest that Krueller wanted simple-minded worker ants. I viewed myself as many things, but not a simple-minded worker ant.

  His secretary came in with a young guy in a suit. Seemed like he was in for an interview.

  Walker gestured to the chair across the table. The one I originally sat in. Smiled and shook hands with the guy. The guy reached for my hand, too. I shook it. And he was worse than Walker. I feared not being able to wipe my butt for a week. Learning how to wipe with the other hand didn't seem pleasant at all.

  Walker said to him, “Sit.”

  So he sat.

  Walker said, “Have any questions that won’t incriminate you?”

  The guy shook his head. I wasn't sure if he meant “No” or “WTF.”

  Walker said, “No?”

  The guy, seemingly cotton-mouthed, barely squeaked out a no.

  Walker said, “Good. Any questions?”

  Drool dripped from the interview subject's mouth.

  Walker stood, extended his hand, and said, “Pleasure meeting you.”

  The secretary came in immediately. Had she been listening in? Did she know Walker's routine? Before I could figure it out, another person emerged. It was a woman in a suit. Flat-chested, but nice calves. Kind of thick. She reminded me of a girl I met at a comic con in Baltimore. She opened my mind to how unrealistic women's bodies were rendered in my favorite books. Of course, she meant her body, but that wasn't the point. I totally understood where she was coming from. I never saw people who looked like me in comics unless there was a coloring error. Not that my folks raised me to be political. Hell, my mother said she was an “American Indian” because being American was more important than being Indian. And my father was Chinese-Jamaican but never talked about being Chinese. I figured that if I didn't look like the spitting image of his father, I would've been told I was the illegitimate son of Bob Marley and one of those pink Miss Jamaica pageant winners. The ones who looked pretty much white to me.

  Anyway, I'm not here to go off on that, it's just that this interviewee reminded me of a girl.

  And boy, was she funny. Cracking jokes I couldn't repeat because I'd mess up the punch line. Talking about her time after law school, when she was conducting research on bee pollen. I could barely follow the science, but she didn't make me feel dumb. She broke it down in a way that elevated my intellect. She was the most intelligent, conversational, funny person, regardless of gender, I’d ever met. And I thought she nailed a callback.

  Soon as she left, Walker said, “She wouldn’t fit at Krueller.”

  “Wouldn’t fit? Why not?”

  “Too smart. Won’t take direction.”

  I wondered what that said about my chances at the firm. Should I play dumb? Or was it a trick to make me think I had to play dumb? Whatever the reason, I felt dumber just thinking about why he was making me witness this.

  The final interview was with an almost obscenely buxom law student. No matter how hard she tried to hide them, I could still see them. I felt embarrassed, so I kept my eyes on Walker during the entire interview. Walker never spoke to the buxom interviewee, or really interacted with her at all. He acted like he was too busy using his BlackBerry for work.

  Until I noticed he used the camera function to zoom in on her cleavage.

  Walker said, “Look, I've seen your résumé. It's impressive. You'll fit in perfectly here at Krueller.”

  After she left, I saw her résumé. From community college to a state school I’d never heard of to a state law school that was no longer licensed. Without any work experience whatsoever.

  Walker leered at the boob shots. “Yes. She’ll fit perfectly at Krueller.”

  Guess the prior girl would've had a chance if she had bigger tits. Walker disgusted me. This was a law firm, not a strip club. Bust size has no place in the hiring process. Anyway, Walker must've known I thought he was full of shit, because he followed up with, “When you’ve been at this game as long as I have, you know how to size up an applicant in seconds. One day, you’ll understand.”

  Walker didn't bother shaking my hand. He was too busy zooming in on the boob shot images. His secretary escorted me to another office for my next interview with a partner named Jack, who wore a perpetual smile like Batman’s nemesis Joker, and an associate named Taylor who was ethnically ambiguous. It would seem great for a fellow ethnically ambiguous person. Unfortunately, ethnically ambiguous people could be, well, ambiguous. Especially to mixed-race people. I found them to be either really racially kewl or hostile, in a self-hating, mulatto apologist, prove-my-loyalty-to-pure-blood way.

  I barely contained a laugh when I saw Taylor's suit.

  It was cayenne chili pepper colored, with a lime-colored tie. I didn’t know if Taylor came from a country where bright suit colors were acceptable or if Taylor was just country. It reminded me of my visiting cousins from Jamaica who didn’t know how to dress for a colder climate, so they walked around with thick-ass winter jackets in early fall.

  Taylor stared at my résumé and sneered. “What is your affiliation with the Black Law Students Association?”

  “I'm a dues-paying member who goes to meetings.”

  I lied. I didn't pay dues and went to one meeting. When they ended it by holding hands and singing the black national anthem, I was flabbergasted. I was the only one who knew all the words, including the second verse. It would make no sense that I'd know, since my parents weren't political. But I really liked that song. Made me proud, even though it wasn't about Jamaicans. And why should that matter? I felt proud of the Rebel Alliance in Star Wars, but wasn't a, well, you get my drift.

  Taylor said, “When I was at Columbia, BLSA excluded students who weren't black, so many biracial people didn't know if they’d be next.”

  I guessed Taylor was mixed race. After all, Taylor looked like some of my cousins. I replied, “BLSA isn't like that anymore. I'm mixed too, a founder of the Caribbean Law Students Association, co-chair of Native American Law Students Association, and a dues-paying member of Latin American Law Students Association, South Asian Law Students Association, Asian Pacific American Law Students Association, and OUTLaws. I haven't had any problems.”

  “But you have BALSA on your résumé, not BLSA, so I thought there was a rift.”

  “No, just a typo.”

  We laughed. I guess that meant I had a job offer?

  A secretary escorted me to a room. I waited for a half-hour before calling the recruitment coordinator to check if I was in the right place.

  “You are, and someone will be right with you.”

  Swell. So much for that offer. Unless my experience was a weird hazing ritual or if they were arguing about me.

  I hoped Lola had my back.

  About twenty minutes later, a receptionist apologized for having me wait, and guided me out of the office.

  I asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “Nope. You can go home.”

  Two weeks later, I received an offer to work at Krueller that summer. But I didn’t know what I would be agreeing to, if I decided to accept. Unbridled love from Lola or cell phone cleavage photos from Walker?

  2

  “TODAY'S YOUR FIRST day, Mr. Wang?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many times I gotta tell you to call me Tully? My father's a sir.”

  “Okay, Tully. Just as long as you remember to call me Rufus. My father's Mr. Wang.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Aren't you supposed to work or something?”

  “No, I'm a summer associate.”

  “The fuck does that mean?”

  “The firm spends the summer wining and dining us so we’ll come back.”

  “So that’s how they pay you?�
�

  “No, we get thirty-one hundred.”

  “For the entire summer?”

  “Per week.”

  “But what do you gotta do?”

  “Eat, drink, and be merry.”

  “Fuckin’ A. I shoulda gone to law school.”

  Tully. Nice guy. Reminded me of home. A gentler time. Before I could get any more melodramatic, someone bumped me. So hard, chocolate milk flew everywhere.

  Who in the hell orders chocolate milk in a coffee shop? Someone with kids? Whoever ruined my shirt had to look forward to extended eye contact and a slow beating. Fucker ruined my shirt. Thank goodness the firm had a business casual policy, otherwise that would have been half a grand instead of sixty bucks. Still, I liked that shirt. I really liked it.

  A voice said, “Sorry.”

  “You sure are.”

  I looked at the bumbling idiot.

  Bumbling, hot idiot?

  Her eyes smoldered. Her kissy lips all pouty. I felt my lips pucker. She looked like Uhura from Star Trek with the body of those fierce, hot Klingon sisters. I needed to recover. “Some poor kid is going to cry over spilt milk. Where are they?”

  Her eyes dropped to the ground. She was broken. And pointed to some annoying little punk with some teenager who I couldn't tell was his mother or sister. I pulled out a twenty. “Give him another, and a couple of pastries you've got back there.”

  The kid said, “Yes.”

  The sister/mother said, “We can't.”

  And the waitress said, “Thanks. Let me help you.”

  She wiped me down. Tenderly. She could feel my muscles underneath my wet shirt.

  Got her.

  She bit her lip and lingered longer with each wipe.

  She said, “You want me to stop?”

  No. “I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do.”

  Tully said, “I want you to. This is a family establishment, after all.”

  She froze.

  Tully clicked his teeth. “It's his first day at work. And look at him.” That was Tully. Saving me from myself.