Draft for 408: Opulence

This week's exercise focuses on dreams and the imaginary--and their plausibility in the real world. Basically, it's about dreams grounded in reality: like Harry Potter. A boy believe he's normal, but he's actually a wizard. Or a little girl learns she can talk to her hamster, but no one else can. Fun stuff, isn't it?

"Opulence"

It was the drones that sent me over the edge with their talk of liberal smack; how to save the country one abortion at a time, let the gays marry, legalize pot, and fuck your mother. And every day, they would sit behind their dark cherry wood desks, puffing on a pipe or a fine, hand-crafted cigar while I sat opposite them in a less comfortable, pleather-covered office chair, clutching onto a briefcase. I often left sweat marks on the briefcase, but it didn’t matter because I didn’t keep anything in there except my resume. All for show.

So I slipped one of the bastards my business card: Gleason, Joseph. Stanford University 2001, UCLA Law 2005. They always asked me if it took me four years at law school. It didn’t. I took a year off. Wasn’t that the smart thing to do? Most gave me the wink and the nod, but others just coughed. It killed me. I wanted to know exactly what they were thinking, at that precise moment, at that precise interview. Every one I felt went swimmingly, but they always ended with an arm reaching across the table for a handshake and a rehearsed speech:

“This looks good, Mr. Gleason. However, I’m afraid we won’t be able to offer you a position at our firm this quarter.”

Then I would find out some Yale yuppie got the job instead. Pricks.

~~
I always drove the same route home, Santa Monica Blvd all the way, then north on Saltair. I shot up seven floors on a shaky elevator and when the doors opened, I always covered my face with a handkerchief. Someone was always cooking some piece of shit like dog or whatever. I opened the door to the condo and was met with the odor of burned sage. My fiancée appeared in her Haight-Ashbury throwbacks. I kissed her on the lips, which were always caked with that cheap, cherry-flavored, Chapstick.

“How was work today, lovely?” she asked, dancing around to the sounds of Cream echoing from the iPod deck. I plunked down onto the couch that we always covered with thin cotton sheets. Unless we had company, they remained covered. I wanted a white leather sectional, but she wanted something environmentally friendly. So we settled on synthetic.

“I filed papers. Like I always do,” I replied, leaning back into the couch. I started to undo the tight Windsor knot on my tie when she came over to me and straddled me, clenching her thighs tightly to support her weight. She untied the Windsor the rest of the way.

“When are they gonna make you a partner?” she asked, whining the last few syllables.

“When you start eating foie gras. Now wouldja get off me, Deb?”

She rolled left onto the couch, pulling the sheets off and turning it disarray. I sighed vehemently.

“You’re no fun anymore, Joe,” she said. She clicked her fingernails against one another. I couldn’t stand the sound, the irritating clicks banged against my ear drum. Click. Click. Then she started talking and rambling. About her girlfriends at the yoga place. The douche bags at work. The CD she bought on 3rd Street. Ramble. Ramble, she went on.

“God damn it, Deb. Don’t call me Joe! It’s Joseph. I’m a lawyer.”
~~
We ate dinner in relative silence and I pushed around the edamame on my plate. I loved Deb for trying, but the grilled soy steak was nothing compared to a porterhouse. It was a noble effort on her part, too, when she poured chianti into wine glasses for the both of us. I rubbed her thigh tenderly under the table.

“Sorry for earlier,” I said, cooing at her. When I spoke, tears dribbled from her eyes and fell onto her plate. “Aw Deb, don’t cry. The edamame tastes good. Doesn’t need any more salt.”

Her eyes narrowed and her forehead wrinkled into an unruly pattern. She forked the edamame beans and then took a bite of warm potato salad. She added extra green onions. They were her favorite.

After making love to her in her favorite position, her on top and giving her ass a few playful pinches, we lay side by side together heaving and panting. I was lucky. She didn’t like to snuggle too much after. Minutes passed. I was thinking about work. I pushed paper. I put paper in steel cabinets. I brewed the best damn cup of Maxwell House. Then a snake bit me.

“Deb!” I said, turning around to face her. She was beginning to drift away from me, but the quick thrust of her name from my lips peeled her eyes open. I took both of her hands into mine and kissed the finger tips. “I’ve figured out how to be fun again.”

~~
Deb wore the only business attire she’d ever owned. She looked beautiful, not that she wasn’t, but in that conservative way I liked. The plan was simple. At 10 a.m., I stepped out of the office for a cup of coffee. She came in with her best high school drama skills, acted as a fake partner at the firm. She planted the bomb in the ladies’ bathroom. We met by the coffee machine and she gave me the thumbs up. I smirked happily and took her hand in mine. We walked out of the office, briskly but discretely. I felt dandy with that cup of coffee in my hand, my steaming alibi.

We were well out of harm’s way when I heard the crash and bang, then the flames flew up into the sky, puffing like a devilish marshmallow. Deb and I grinned and her lips curled into an evil snarl.

“This feels good, Joe. We sure gave Bonnie and Clyde a run for their money. And now I’m starving. I feel like a steak.”

“Steak!” I cried out. “It’s 10 in the morning, hon.”

She held my hands and did a playful jig. We weren’t far from Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. I’d been there on lunch appointments, but there was never an occasion to go with Deb. If we ever ate out, it was vegan.

The maître d’ warned us that there was no steak service at lunch. I took him aside, like he was my best friend. I slipped him a fifty and told him to bring us a porterhouse and a bottle of chianti.

“Sir,” he said curtly. “Would you like to eat steak or just look at it?”

I sighed. “Damn it, man.” I gave him thirty more and he kept his stupid poker face.

“Porterhouse rare and chianti. Foie gras on the house,” he murmured and stepped away casually for the kitchen.

The porterhouse arrived and we divided it between the two of us. It was deep red and the juice that poured from the meat was still red. It was a glorious sight to watch her slice open the meat with such relish. As we chewed, the succulent rare flesh wriggled in our mouths.