Page 23 of Heartless Boss
Me: Clear my schedule for the week.
And I toss my iPhone on the marble counter, limp to the living room, and lie on the black couch. I stare at the high ceiling fan as it moves in slow motion.
I’m sick of the guilt eating at me.
I’m sick of feeling empty.
I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Life is water and slowly it’s drowning me. I’m holding on to the liquor like it’s my life jacket.
* * *
A few days later ...
I place my right foot on my thigh as I sit on my ma’s couch in her living room as I wait for her to finish cleaning her house.
I grew up in the dumps of Newark, NJ. No surprise there. Everyone knows it. If you Google my name, my life story will pop up.Money,Forbes, andBloomberg Businessweekreporters came beating on my door, demanding an interview on how I became a billionaire in short five years.
One word. Networking.
I joined country clubs just to mingle with a bunch of snobs who had no idea about the daily struggles of a typical American. These fuckers didn’t even know the cost of something as simple as bread or milk.
It made me sick the way they looked down and talked shit about the middle class—like we were fucking peasants.
Just to be vindictive, I fucked their daughters, and when I felt adventurous, I fucked their wives. (Never said I was a saint.)
Back then, I was a ruthless man who didn’t give a fuck about whose toes I stepped on to get to the top. All I cared about was getting my dick wet and building an empire.
Without networking, I wouldn’t have met my best friend, Darien. He saw potential in me and became my first investor even though he wasn’t Bill Gates rich, but he was getting there.
Now, all I care about is keeping my company afloat and my friends and family. God, I love them so much I’d die and kill for them.
Also, I’m starting to care about the brunette I moved in and who parades around my apartment in rainbow colors and has my condo smelling like Duff Goldman’s kitchen. (She’s a different subject for a different day.)
Growing up, Ma busted her ass to keep food on the table and still sometimes that wasn’t enough. There were times the lights were cut off, the heater stopped working, and eviction notices were slapped on the door. She worked so much I helped Alana with her homework and made sure she had a home-cooked meal with the little food that we had.
So sitting on the maroon couch in the spacious living room makes me feel proud.
Proud that I was able to buy this home for her with my first million.
Proud I did something my sperm donor couldn’t do—provide a roof over her head and get us out of the vicious cycle of poverty.
Ma walks into the living room, plucking the family pictures from the metal entertainment center, resting them on the glass table in front of me. As she sprays the entertainment center with furniture polish, the scent of lemon and sunshine assaults my nostrils, and it smells like home. When I’m here, it feels as peaceful as sitting in an open field with trees and listening to the leaves sway back and forth. She humsHere Comes the Sunby the Beatles and her wavy blond hair falls over her creamy pale shoulders. Her white cotton shirt and jeans engulf her small frame.
“Momma, why is Amy on my payroll if she isn’t cleaning?”
“I kicked her to the curb. She was bringing bad spirits into my house.” She shakes her head. “She was side-eyeing Herold.”
Ma is on a witch hunt that spirits are real.
Why does she believe in that bogus shit? Beats me.
Around Halloween, Ma and her best friend acted like Sam and Dean fromSupernatural. She and loose-cannon Karen set boundaries for these so-called ghosts that roam the earth by sprinkling salt and rice around the doors of the house.
The shit show didn’t stop there. Alana and I were forced to stay inside so a ghost wouldn’t possess us.
But wait. There’s more. They lit candles around the house and ‘cleansed’ the house with a sage stick.
