Dante
That was the closest that I have ever gotten to getting into an actual fistfight on my job.
You'd think that men in suits that costs thousands of dollars and watches that cost over ten would be able to keep their composure, but they're actually a lot more volatile than anyone else.
Vasko is desperate. He has reached out to Apex Financial because he had nowhere else to go.
Everything I said to him about his company is true, and I make a note in my phone to check on the status of this organization two years from now and see if they're still kicking around.
Being successful is out of the question. There's no way that they're getting anywhere unless they get rid of that CEO promptly.
I get back to the hotel room, take off my suit and tie and quickly change into my favorite pair of sweats. This is how I unwind.
I don't wear my suit or even my dress shirts any longer than I absolutely have to. The joggers are soft, and a little bit more of a slim cut than I'd prefer and my T-shirt fits well over my tight muscles.
I've been bench pressing a lot more than usual, using heavier weights each time and it is showing.
My shoulders are getting broader. I’ve put on some weight, the good kind, nothing flabby around the stomach, adding girth to my biceps.
Tonight, I'm going to go to Redemption.
When I flip on the television, my mom calls.
I'm tempted to let it go to voice mail, but I know that she'll just keep calling, so I might as well chat now.
As soon as I answer, she flips onto video chat, a pet peeve of mine. I feel like you should ask for permission before you go from a phone call to video chat, but Mom is never one to follow the rules.
Mom and I have always been close. She had my brother and me late in life when her career was already established. In fact, she has gone through several.
When I answer the call, I find her sitting in front of a twelve-foot oil painting of herself from her younger days as a New York City socialite in the 60s. I guess there are still socialites in the city, but not the way that there used to be back in the day.
That was an occupation for her, going out on the town, being photographed by famous photographers, having her picture show up in Vogue and Cosmopolitan and all of the most exclusive gossip magazines.
And by that, I mean the ones that were glossy and focused entirely on the rich and fabulous, no minor celebrities allowed.
There's an enormous lattice window behind her and I know that she's sitting in her office surrounded by her books and paintings, her favorite room in the house.
The view looks out onto the grounds around her sprawling estate in Cape Cod. Her father was one of the top richest men in the 1940s and '50s making all of his money in oil. But she had a lonely childhood being raised alone with a nanny in this very same Cape Cod home.
"How are you doing, Dante?" she asks, her phone is a little bit further away on her desk and she sits back and I can see her from the waist up.
She just turned sixty, but she could pass for maybe barely fifty. Her hair is cut short against her jawline, the same hairstyle that she has had ever since she was a child. She's wearing a long shirt dress designed by an old friend of hers, Carolina Herrera herself.
"I'm doing well."
"Where has your blasphemous job taken you this time?" she asks, a little bit exasperated.
She's annoyed by the hours that I work and by the work that I do.
The one thing that she does understand is my need to make my own money.
"I'm in Seattle, so not such a horrendous place."
"Yes, I've been there a few times. I wouldn't call that particularly stimulating."
I know that she sounds very dismissive, but I also know her well enough to know that she's actually being kind.
"How are you doing, Mother?" I ask.
"Pretty good. Had a bath this morning, talked to Lincoln."
"How's he?" I ask.
"Still married," she says, slightly annoyed.
"You know, you're going to have to get along with her."
"Yes, I guess so."
"No, for real. Marguerite is a very nice young woman."
"Lincoln could do so much better," she says condescendingly.
"Lincoln and Marguerite have been together for seven years."
"And for seven years I did not approve."
"I know, but it's a testament that they love each other and they want to be with one another."
"Still, a mother can hold out hope."
I shake my head; she's joking again but this feels a lot more severe and cold.
I do feel bad for Marguerite; she's sweet, kind, and completely incapable of surviving in my family.
Mom expects all women to fight tooth and nail. She expects them to fight for what's theirs and not try to make nice and that's exactly why she dislikes Marguerite so much.
Lincoln met her at Yale, they dated, and moved in together almost immediately.
Again, Mom did not approve. She's from an older generation where you didn't do that.
Of course, Mom has been married six or is it seven times now? I lost track at about husband number three.
"She's just not a good fit," Mom announces. "I mean, she actually has plans to keep working as an ER doctor after they have children. I mean, how is that going to be possible?"
"Come on, don't be like that. If you say that, people assume you really think that."
"And I don’t?" she says, moving closer to the camera.
I can see the outline of her flawless makeup and smell the flowery perfume, her signature scent.
“You, of all people, should know how important it is to have your own money and your own career. I mean, you did that back in the 70s when you didn't have to and inherited millions."
"Oh, come on," she waves her hands, "I was in the arts."
"Okay. So what does that mean?" I ask.
"Well, it just means that I could paint, I could write, I could read, but when I had you children, I was also there all the time."
"And Marguerite is going to be there. Besides, Lincoln is going to be a very hands-on father."
"Oh, please. Hands on fathers? What is that anyway?" She shakes her head. "That's what nannies are for."
I exhale slowly. My mom is exhausting. She's full of contradictions and often says what she doesn't mean despite knowing better.
She was raised by a nanny, her best friend in the world, and there was a famous custody battle when her mom got back involved with her and forced her go to boarding school rather than continue living in this Cape Cod house, being taken care of by her favorite person in the world, Miss Emily.
At that time, Mom saw her mother only occasionally, maybe four or five times a year, because she spent most of her time partying and marrying men in New York City.
But she was still technically her mother and when she came home one Christmas and my mom wanted to spend the day with Miss Emily rather than her, because it was a holiday, she went into a jealous rage and vowed to separate them forever and she did.
She sent Miss Emily away. My mom was only nine years old and she never saw her again.
I want to bring this up, the contradictions, the lies of it all, and I have on many other occasions, but I'm too tired and not interested in another in-depth discussion of our family's dysfunction.