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A true testament to the Lancaster name.
I think I’m going to vomit.
I’ve realized that I deeply, genuinely despise this place. I hate the ostentatiousness of the building. I hate my job. I feel like a vulture attacking weak and vulnerable businesses when they’re too hurt to protect themselves. We say that we’re doing them a favor. Giving them an out that’ll leave a little money in their pockets and won’t make them bankrupt. But that’s just bullshit to help me sleep at night.
It doesn’t help anymore. Nothing helps.
Without being asked, Deb quietly removes my empty water bottle from the table and replaces it with a fresh cold one.
I’ve learned over the past few weeks that the best way to avoid a hangover in the morning is never to stop drinking. But even I’m not stupid enough to saunter into a meeting of the board loaded on whiskey, so Deb has been plying me with water and coffee since she showed up to my apartment at six this morning.
I don’t deserve her. Just like I don’t deserve anything else good in my life.
Imani and I are set to go out again Friday night. She’s what I deserve. Though what Imani did to deserve me, I’ve yet to discover. Hopefully she’ll be happy with a husband in name, like my mother was.
I don’t notice my old man has finally shown up until people start standing to shake his hand.
“Please, please, sit down,” he says, waving his arms and gesturing for people to resume their seats. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
No, he’s not. It’s all just an act. A carefully curated mask. He reminds me of a judge; people rise when he enters a room and have given him unlimited authority. The whole setup makes me sick.
He makes the regular introductions, going over current stock prices and expected gains and dips in the coming months. Information I used to follow meticulously, waking hours before sunrise to follow the international markets.
Again, I ask, why?
Daniel, my father’s VP, takes over. I’ve known Daniel since I was a child. He, too, was at my parents’ house last week. He’s older than my father by almost a decade and worked with my grandfather before my dad took over. If everything were to go to plan, he’d probably usher me into the big chair before he retires.
“I think we need to recognize Remi, and the exemplary work he’s done with mergers and acquisitions this year. Your department by far exceeded expectations, and had the most growth per capita of all the billable departments.”
He waits for the agreements from the VPs around the table before looking me in the eye.
“You’ve done well, son. Very well. The London deal was exquisitely handled. I think it’s time we started handing you more responsibility. You’ve proved that you can handle it. That you’ve earned it.”
I try to smile in thanks but give up halfway through and let the expression crack and break instead.
“Don’t you think it’s ironic that we reward doing well at work,”—I raise my eyebrows and smirk—“with more work?”“
Several executives chuckle at that, and even more of the assistants. Someone behind me fake coughs “bonus!” which makes people laugh even harder.
I pick up my pen from the table and balance it on its tip, then twist it in a circle with my other hand. It leaves a murky black dot on the documents before me, spreading as the ink bleeds through the paper.
The pen was a gift from Julia, and must be filled with custom ink whenever it runs low. She convinced me it wasn’t superfluous and pretentious to own a custom pen, but economically friendly, because I wouldn’t be wasting plastic by throwing away writing utensils when they outlived their usage.
This pen will never outlive my need for it.
Just like JJ.
Without even trying, their impact on my life reached every nook and cranny.
“Thank you, Daniel, for those kind words,” I say when the silence stretches and snaps until it’s uncomfortable as the others wait for me to acknowledge the compliment laid at my feet. “But what exactly is the point of it all?”
“Excuse me?” my father asks, his voice as cold as ice.
“What’s the point of all this?” I twirl my pen in a circle, pointing out—well—everything. “So we, who are all already disgustingly rich, can add more money to our coffers? I don’t understand the point.”
“Thepoint,” the man who sired me snaps, “is the thousands of people we employ. As you well know! The jobs we offer and the mortgages we pay. The economy is the point, Remington. Setting policy and being leaders in our community and beyond is the point.”
My father looks like he could use a drink. I’m tempted to pull out one of the half dozen dollar shots hidden in my pockets and toss it to him to take the edge off.
