Because which 45-year old man gets into brawls outside his club and then shows up at work to run his billion dollar company looking like riff-raff? Not a good way to impress potential clients.
With a sigh, I run a hand through my dark hair, stand up and stretch, and then wander over to the edge of the outdoor terrace. I lean against the glass railing and clasp my hands over its edge, five floors above the street corner, and look out at the view of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. It’s truly stunning. Pacific Heights has the best view in San Francisco and worth the $30 million dollars I forked out for the 9,700 square foot house.
Originally built in 1912, I’ve had the entire place renovated to modernize it, but also maintain its vintage aspects. With six bedrooms, 8.5 bathrooms, marble and walnut floors and an amazing living room with a retractable ceiling, it sometimes seems a little much for one bachelor. I even have a finished basement that I made into a theater room. Basements are a Midwest thing and unheard of in California because of earthquakes, but the renovations included a seismic retrofit and all five levels are connected by steel to the bedrock. Call me sentimental for my Chicago roots.
Sometimes the house feels too big, too empty. I drop my head between my shoulders and feel a wave of loneliness wash over me. It’s been happening more and more lately. I work like the Devil and have amassed a fortune. That used to fulfill me and give me great pleasure. But lately, I’m beginning to wonder why the hell I still work so hard. My mom died ten years ago and I’m an only child. Tabitha and I never had children, so I have no one to leave my company and money to after I die. Kind of a depressing thought.
Deep down, I guess I know the reason why I work so hard. But, I don’t want to think about that right now. I left that ghost in Chicago.
Tabitha Banks, on the other hand, is something I have to deal with and too soon, unfortunately. Carson Industries’ main philanthropic endeavor is the National Prevention of Child Abuse and we both serve on the Board of Directors for the local organization. The annual charity benefit is coming up shortly so that means Tabitha and I have to work together.
Fuck me, I think. Between the hostile takeover with Douglas and the charity ball, the next couple of weeks are going to be hell.
I wish I had something else to focus on. Something good. Like a new woman. But, I know that won’t help. Not really. Shit, I’ve had nothing but a string of new women for the past three years. It’s great in the beginning and then it always goes south. They get too clingy and I’m far too busy for that. And, I think it’s more about being able to brag to their friends that they’re sleeping with Drew Carson than having any actual feelings for me.
I wasn’t always Drew Carson, billionaire and bachelor extraordinaire.
A long time ago, I was just Andrew Carson. Andy to my mom and friends in Chicago. They liked me for who I was, not for what I had. Because back then, I had shit. My mom and I lived in a rough neighborhood on the South side in a crappy apartment. I’ll never forget when we would flip on the kitchen lights and the roaches would scatter. We had to keep everything in the refrigerator or those fuckers would get in it. Crackers, cookies, chips, cereal. If there was an open box in the cupboard, you can bet they’d find a way inside and feast on what little food we had.
Even though we struggled, believe it or not, I have a lot of fond memories of growing up there. My friends and I rode our bikes everywhere, ate at each other’s houses with our families, crushed on older sisters and got into brawls with our enemies. But, no matter what, we always had each other’s backs. We were family.
I don’t have that anymore. I have everything money can buy, including a legion of servants, drivers, assistants and even a pilot on the payroll that takes care of all my needs, wants and last-minute flights. But, that’s different. It’s their job to help me and do what I want. I’m pretty damn sure if I stopped paying them, they’d stop coming over.
Today is Sunday so the office is closed and I’m spending way too much time thinking dark thoughts. I need a distraction. Something to lift my spirits. I can’t take a trip because I have way too much work to do. Maybe I could splurge on some big purchase. But, I already have enough toys-- artwork, luxury cars, motorcycles, a plane.
A hobby? Most of the men at the club play sports or fish or just drive their yachts around the bay, showing off. Some collect guns while others accumulate expensive whisky or cigars. I can’t help but sigh. I’m not interested in any of that, I think, and wander back over to the couch and flip my laptop back open.
All I’ve ever been interested in is working and making money.
And, now even that has lost some of its appeal.
I pull up the internet, google my own name and fall down a rabbit hole. Sometimes I like to do that and read about all my success. Especially when I’m feeling down. And, other times, I stumble across some pretty unflattering depictions and stories about myself.
One thing leads to another and suddenly I see an ad on the side of my screen for PerfectMatch.com. It’s a dating site and I’m about to hit the “X” and get rid of it when a crazy thought enters my mind.
I could post a fake name and profile and see if anyone bites. See if anyone is genuinely interested in talking to me, Andy, a normal guy from the Midwest. Not Drew Carson, San Francisco royalty. Or, SF shark. Depends on who you asked. One time, I saw someone had even called me the Devil. It made me laugh at the time, but now I don’t think it’s very funny.
I click on the link and an instant later I’m whisked over to the dating site and read the top: Lost? Lonely? We can help you find your soulmate. Your Perfect Match.
I’m not sure about all that, but I am curious if anyone would want to talk to me. I hit “set up profile” and the first thing they want is a picture. I instantly think of the photo of me and James fighting. Bet that would get some interest. I roll my eyes and realize that I can’t possibly post a current picture or some woman would recognize me. It’s inevitable.
I open up a folder of pictures and scroll down until I find what I’m looking for-- an old shot of me when I was 25. I had just got my MBA from the University of Chicago Booth School of Business. I remember my Mom was so proud. Chicago Booth is the second-oldest business school in the United States and its MBA program ranks fourth-best in the country. It was challenging and the program was for risk-takers, people who believe in challenging the status quo and for dreamers.
I fit right in.
I look down at my computer screen and study the picture. It’s 20 years old. I look happy and have that glow of youth that inevitably fades as you age. But, I still have the same dark blue eyes and dark brown hair. Now, the only difference is there’s a touch of silver at my temples and when my beard grows in, it’s sprinkled with gray. And, now I have smile lines around my mouth and eyes.
But, I still work out and eat healthier now than I ever did thanks to Pierre, my personal chef.
Okay, I upload the picture and now it wants me to write something about myself.
Huh. What to say?
After thinking about it for far too long, I post something that I think Andy would write.
Let’s face it. This is probably me having a mid-life crisis and I have no intention of actually meeting anyone on this site. It’s more of an experiment really to see if anyone reaches out and wants to connect. Because if I say who I really am, I’d probably have a thousand messages pour in by tonight.