by JR King
Tony Elliot was the commander-in-chief of a family-owned pharmaceutical conglomerate. With an operating income that was far over twenty-five billion dollars, his behemoth company had managed to employ more people than Turner Holdings. His family, just like mine, was almost as rich as Bill Gates. As for Aidan Carrington, he was ranked among the elite lawyers of Boston. He won desperate, unwinnable cases. With Harvard Law School in its bosom, I surmised there were more prissy lawyers in Boston than in any other city in the world. Or maybe not, I hadn’t bothered to find out for sure. I wasn’t inclined to change that fact, statistics are assumed by educated Yankees out of sheer and utter narcissism. I liked that worldwide we were known for pioneering medical advancement, and that we were considered as tough, intelligent, and inventive people. Mark Twain hit the right spot: In Boston they ask, how much does he know? In New York, how much is he worth? In Philadelphia, who were his parents? Anyone who asked me, I advised against trying a case opposite Aidan unless they had extensively researched the topic and prepared arguments well in advance. Like Foucault, he was a high level relevant thinker, and he had the ability to string words together like Derrida. Jurors had publicly acknowledged that his closing statements à la Alan Shore would not only convert you, they also made you cry.
I didn’t know what I wanted to be until I matriculated at Boston College. I remember it well because Valerie came back to Boston that year, brandishing the biggest Asprey engagement ring. Twenty years ago, she’d been my first. Not a girl, she was the woman. Every man in Boston had fruitlessly wished to console her when her husband passed away. Only I got that honor. Why wouldn’t I? I was unnervingly handsome, the ultimate High School heartthrob. However arrogant you may deem me, I knew I was good-looking and well-endowed, and there’s no shame in that.
Call it coincidence, or an epiphany, but when Valerie told me some rich fellow had proposed to her and she’d agreed to be whisked away to London, I made my decision. I wanted to be richer than her new husband. Apparently he had it all: jets, yachts, city penthouses, suburban mansions, private villas in exotic locations, big reputation running old money…and now a trophy wife.
I wasn’t head over heels in love with her, just the normal amount, but it still hurt my ego to find out she was only driven by avarice. Such is the life for a thinking person, I supposed, or perhaps it’s just me. Depending on my mood, I spent a lot of time in my head plotting out the course of my day or my life. The worst part? Valerie didn’t hesitate rubbing the facsimile of a British accent she’d acquired in my face, and she kept telling me I was broke. On that point, majoring in English lit went out the door. With my physique, lit would have gotten me laid plenty during years, but it wouldn’t make me rich fast.
Lastly, I got accepted at the Harvard Business School. As a spoiled brat whose cute baby ass got wiped by nannies, I was your typical prep school graduate, cocky and tremendously over-confident. Dad took away my trust fund to teach me a lesson, so, as a student, I wasn’t allowed to live in luxury. No more Christmas in Aspen and cruising the Black Sea with his newest yacht. When credit cards got declined, I learned to fend for myself.
I dutifully attended semesters, holidays were spent with my grandparents, and summers were spent working, doing anything from baking bread to busting suds. In America, 0.1 percent of the population was blessed with eidetic memory, colloquially called photographic memory, and I was among these lucky bastards. Call it luck of the draw. Saying out loud that I was a member of the American Mensa and could cite Steven Pinker wouldn’t gain me friends or pussy, would it now? Anyway, I proceeded to memorize both a whole lot of crap and a whole lot of genius over the course of four years, fucked and fought my way through college with a rather limited budget, lost my mother and almost my mind in the process. We’ll jump the gun here.
I was still financially cut off and, dad placed the company in the hands of the toughest board of directors. Claiming the CEO position was contingent on working my way up after completing my studies.
So that’s what I did.
A bright spring day during my last semester, the CEO of Turner Holdings came to see me on campus. He was one of the few persons who knew that my father was still alive. Darren Nicholson wasn’t just a ruggedly handsome man, he was a man whom I feared. Compared to the last time I’d seen him, his dark hair had more grey threads sewn through it. He told me the company was currently recruiting PMs and that it was time I got in the game.
“I’d like to retire sooner than later, son. Spend more time with my soon-to-be-born grandchildren.”
My streak of self-abuse had ended, but a variety of other ways I neglected to take care of myself still lingered, recreational drugs being the main one. Looking at my dirt-encrusted brogues, I asked, “Who will be named CEO after you?”
He stopped walking, pulled back a little, and stared at me. “You will,” he finally told me.
“I’m not ready for that level of shit.” I really wasn’t. The memory of what Elena had caused was safely locked up somewhere in my head. Getting serious meant I had to deal with denial, and face my nemesis.
“You’re the kind of son of a bitch who’s slated to lead, you just need to stop thinking with that little dick of yours. Zip up and be the man your father wants you to be. After everything he did for us, he deserves that much. Watching you grow and conquer is all he’ll ever have. Can you do that? One time deal, son.”
“Can do, sir.”
And that’s what I did.
Capable of running the entirety of American states while holding down his CEO position, dad was the God of Business, if ever there was one.
Enters me.
When I started my track as PM at Hell Incorporated, work was all I did. High-end call girls were at my disposition when I needed to shed my frustrations, and for the rest I lived in a small office. It was a room without a view, just four walls pulled up someplace on the 55th floor of The Hancock. At a quick glance, you’d call it a cubicle, but at Turner Holdings cubicle was an unacceptable working space. A dirty word, and carrel wasn’t allowed either, because such saves foil careers. The elegant silver-mesh fabric panels that served as wall material and the lead crystal architectural lights by Swarovski were shiny enough to make you blink bleak reality away. Fucking hypocrites, see? That’s why I wanted to lead those sons of bitches. Another part of me wanted to lead the company because it bore my family name. Locals loved taking a jab at me, foreigners took a dig every so often, so proving my worth became a serious matter. Such is the life of an introvert.
Day in day out, I kept crunching numbers to manage my projects without spending the entirety of the fixed budget, ripping other project managers to shreds with the up or out policy. I was ruthless, and to be totally honest, managing people to reach a result came easy to me. I also kissed ass, a lot. And when HR triggered evaluation forms, I finally tasted the sweetness of payback. I became the youngest this and the fastest that, etc. Once I’d reached the executive level, fooling around with capital was allowed. Don’t forget that there’s no honor in business, there’s only profit. Together with Meredith, I began acquiring drowning companies and unremorsefully stripped them of their assets. I killed jobs, but I resurrected them with vengeance by expanding Turner Holdings. It took me more than ten years to become a CEO.
Back to the restaurant, my lovelies.
It was only after we were seated for at least five minutes that I took a moment to look around, noticing the staggering diversity of young citizens. A hip establishment that was rather a proper ristorante than a trattoria. I stared overtly at the lounge. Beauty is always in the eye of the beholder, and this place wasn’t just beautiful, it had that steampunk vibe I liked. Hostesses in black leather skirts and matching vests were parading in front of us as if they were on a catwalk. Reservationless, the table could have been less than stellar. We scored a front corner no less. I took out my Fendi wallet, laid down my Centurion Card and gave Ms. Double-C with a perfect heinie a there’s plenty more where that came from
stare.
She smiled, flashing even, too-white teeth. “The waitstaff will be right with you, gentlemen.”
Opening bonded leather menu holders, we all sighed at the sight of freshly printed pages inside. Good call. Once the place passed the Bread Test, it was time to add the contact details to our respective repertoires. What’s the Bread Test? Basically, if the bread in a restaurant was house-made and served without foil-packed butter, it was a small win. If there was a large selection of breads, no butter, and service à l’anglaise, then it was a goddamn victory. Unfortunately, we learned that this new-concept restaurant only served hard liquor at the bar or in the fumoir, in order to focus on the qualities of exclusive wine with the classic food.
In a smooth-as-Tennessee-rye-whiskey drawl, Tony said, “I’m so damn glad to be out tonight. Bollinger?”
Aidan was checking out the drink menu. “SOL, boys. Reims connoisseurs here. Oh yeah, listen to this. Taittinger is in the house. Perrier-Jouët, Veuve Clicquot, too. Starts at a deuce, give or take.”
“Those sly dogs! That’s pretty slick,” I grinned moronically. “Ponsardin isn’t hot enough, Jouët will do fine, messieurs.”
From the Grand Cru Classé list, I selected a Château Malartic-Lagravière. Full-bodied Bordeaux with a Pessac-Léognan appellation, its finishing note was a mouthful of liquorice. In retrospect, the kitchen didn’t disappoint. High-end antipasto, prawn was served with a juicy chorizo broth, spiny tail lobster came with creamy smoked butter, merguez topped the aji escabeche, and spaghetti alle vongole showcased red seaweed. Better yet, at the end of the meal, a short, stocky maître d’ insisted on having a digestif on the house in the fumoir.
Aidan was half in the bag. His deliberate gait that bordered on slow made me question his fit appearance. “Well, well, well, would you look at that. Sexy little fuckpets and cigars.” He obsessively stared at a girl, did a Günter imitation, “I want that one to touch my tralala…to ding my dong.”
“Goldilocks?” Tony cast him a look of withering contempt, nipping the idea in the bud. “Don’t even think of going down that road. Too much muffin top. Rather go renew your Playboy subscription.”
“I don’t mind the junk in the trunk, all cats are grey in the dark. Hey, I can go as far as chubby. With the preponderance of fast food joints, we’ve got to adapt.”
The girl in question had a heavy pocket of fat at her tummy, and looked horny enough to hump just about any flagpole. “Rubenesque is a gentler term, boys. Let’s play nice tonight. Weight apart, I’m willing to overlook the facial imperfections of these girls in an attempt to form a triumvirate.”
Tony cocked his head to the side, his smirk deepening. “Hip combo, Alex. Two girls servicing me does have a nice ring to it. ‘Kay, let’s switch from vulgar to waxing philosophical. Poetical even. Stop acting like buffoons and behave gentlemanly. Give me your best pick-up line.”
Aidan went first. “As a poetically inclined man, mine is; I’m enjoying the view of your comely tush.”
Tony followed. “I’m not a flake, but this worked for me; I bet you want to tickle a pickle, baby? The same applies for beef-stroke-me-off.”
Yours truly’s turn. “I’m out. Not tooting my own horn.”
Said both, “Cue for the dramatic gopher!”
For sure I couldn’t back down now, for reasons I need not explain. “I’m tired and drunk, babe, and the damn thing in my pants is so big and heavy. Wanna hold it for me?”
Aidan burst into a gale of laughter. “Real wop, this one.”
Tony took a tone as if adjusting a toddler in the throes of a tantrum. “Hokum. Deserves a knuckle sandwich. That worked?”
“I know right? Barry Manilow’s Mandy chugged along like a moth to a flame. What can I say? She was curious, held my man-meat as I relieved myself. Told me I felt soft and warm. Later, I said the same thing about her snatch.”
I know: disgusting…really disgusting. Look, lest you think this is irredeemable, in my defense, my behavior had to jive with all the fixings. Also, I might have been a little drunk, and it was guys’ night out…to each his own.
By the end of the evening, the hunt remained fruitless, and after receiving a late night phone call, my hunting plans went down the toilet. I had to cut out and retrieve Katherine at some frat party.
It’s obvious that the prospect of leaving in a rush by the staff-only entrance wasn’t appealing to me, but I acquiesced all the same. Ray, my bodyguard, led the way to the kitchen door, and the back entrance opened out onto fenced grounds. The walk back to the limousine was short, and far more discreet than having me waltz smugly out of the restaurant’s entrance.
Katherine was stoned. Questions were stacked up behind a growing lump in my throat. “Are you all right?” I could see my persistent hostile gaze annoyed her.
“Copacetic.”
Urgency deepened my voice. “What did you take? What did Cooper give you?”
“That s-s-sycophantic piece of shit dangled a joint in front of me. And he understands Amharic. Why’s he in my studygroup? Jeopardy! fucker. Who speaks Amharic in town?”
“A fool’s paradise is a wise person’s hell.”
“Sermons be damned, Alex. I won’t be putty is his hands again.”
“Talk is cheap, Kate.”
She giggled. “I’m your Kate. Yours! Sleepover? Sophia can’t see me like this. Pretty please?”
I paused, considered. Katherine was a ray of sunlight that had never shone through the window. “Okay, hon.”
She cocked her head like a puppy that was all at sea. “Really?”
“Really. And if I sleep talk, record it.”
Laughing, she half-cackled back at me. “I will!” She pulled out an armrest and sat against it, her knees folded on the car seat. “I love you, Alex.”
“Love you too, Kate.”
The surveillance app on my iPhone confirmed that Elena was already asleep. Though scarce, the moonlight shining through her bedroom window gave me the barest glimpse of perfection. Lying gloriously bare, sprawled on her back with white socks on her feet, she was restrained. Cloudlike billows of cotton had wrapped themselves around her lithesome calves, their whiteness matching the sheets that hugged the mattress. Her hair was plastered in an S-shape over the milk-white landscape of the pillow. In my opinion, her lissome forms had been sculpted to wear a G-string and little else.
Katherine asked, “What-cha looking at?”
“Oops. Naked pictures that are unsuitable for a gentleman. Am deleting them, Scout’s honor.”
“You’re a Boy Scout?”
We made eye contact, both suppressing smiles.
In the Ebersol suite, as per usual, Katherine took the bed and I the sofa. Gracelessly, I toed my John Varvatos dress derby shoes off and watched them slide across the floor before hitting something. I removed my jacket and oxford shirt only to drop them in an offensive pile right beside my shoes. I considered the effort I’d have to put into taking off my trousers and my Sunspel undershirt, and concluded it was too much to bear. The couch was calling me, so I sprawled across it with a sigh of pleasure.
I saw Katherine come in, wearing nothing but underwear. Clearing the lump in my throat, I tried to keep my voice casual and sensible. “Good night, darling. Sleep tight.”
“Good night, Alex,” she answered back, arranging a microfleece blanket over me.
Alexander Turner
The Man on the Sixtieth Floor
I thought I could wait until 2011, but I was wrong. Stuck in a perpetual merry-go-round, I dragged pretty badly during summer. My work was incessant, draining me for twelve to thirteen hours a day, a mere eleven if I were fortunate. To be frank, at this juncture in my life, I’d grown stale. On my way to becoming a complete social recluse. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d even engaged in another activity besides eat, work out, or sleep. On Meredith’s orders, I took two days off. Since the day I’d read Herman Melville’s The Encantadas, I became infatuated with the Galápagos Islands. For
deep sea diving and unbridled equatorial sun during this forced break, I went there. I owned several motorcycles. No off road and touring, just Ducati crotch rockets and all-American cruisers. Predictably, I spent all summer getting reacquainted with them. Although arms and legs gripping a Fat Bob at high-speed—I’m talking 90 here—was exhilarating, I was dying to grip me some Elena. Therefore, came September, I had to see her.
Tony asked me, “Red or white?”
“Both.”
“That bad, champ?”
“Too much shit going on.” I squeezed lemon juice onto an oyster, tipped and swallowed.
The oyster bar was nestled in Boston’s Theater District, our table laid with fine silver and Aegean crystal ware, a yellow rose centerpiece echoing the chandelier overhead. Once we ordered main courses and had drinks in front of us, John began speaking.
“Like I mentioned before, women wear pants just to piss us off. Make pussy inaccessible.” John Wilkinson had the IQ of someone from Jersey Shore and the sleek goatee to match it, or someone from the reality show that took over the country faster than Star Trek based Cardassians ever could. “I tell you, they’re trying to piss us off because they’re pissed off.” Just another pudgy guy who was loaded, with a face perpetually flushed pink. He was dressed in an ill-fitting black suit with wide lapels that made it all look ugly. Uglier still was his face as he stared at me.
