Father died in the long Fall of 2011 from rectal adenocarcinoma. Which is to say that the pain in my ass had died from just that. The coincidence had me crying with laughter.
I couldn't help myself at his funeral, happily sloshed and feeling giddy, from bursting out with laughs at the mention of what a "great man" Leopold Artemis Brokenshire Jr., Esq. was; what a fantastic life he had lead.
I laughed in all their faces.
Had they spent just a day in my shoes, under the constant abuse- both verbal and physical- they would have been celebrating along next to me. This was the same abuse that chased my Mom to a quiet closet on the third floor, in one of the innumerable guest rooms where no one ever stayed, with a pair of bottles. The first was an '02 Paloma Merlot. The other was a recently filled orange-plastic, prescription bottle: 7.5 mg Vicodins. I found her days later, after the police had been there to question Father and me about her disappearance, her face swollen in cobalt and violet star bursts. Her tongue and lips were still wine-stained. That was five years ago. I had just turned seventeen half as many days before. The coroner said it was a clear-cut suicide. Though, "why the esteemed actress-turned-billionaire's-wife would want to kill herself" was an absolute mystery to masses. I left for college two months later. There was no interest left there for me. Once, I had wanted to follow in Father's footsteps, take the reins of Brokenshire LLC. over from him, as he had from his father, the famous oil tycoon of the same name. I've studied History, Business, Art, Engineering, Music, Physics (both Theoretical and otherwise), Psychology, Bio, Chem., English. You name it, I've had some sorrowfully old, disgruntled professor show me the rudiments.
These are the same professors who long ago lost their passion for molding young minds and now skate through life, babbling nonsense, living comfortable lives with their tenured minds.
So, I found myself one final away from attaining my third degree in whatever, when my father died.
I never went back.
Now, I'm not a fool; I've had my schooling (as just mentioned), but I've never quite found my niche. In all honesty, the only classes I had ever enjoyed were those on the subject of Philosophy. Historically speaking, the stories we [humans] make up in our mind to get us through the day-to-day struggle of existence astonished me. Greek and Roman gods, Daoists, Shiites, Hindus, even the God(s)-damned Pastafarians had their own story. I never knew what to make of it. I'd like to say I'm an Agnostic, if only because I'm hoping that this isn't it. That this sad, lonely life of mine isn't the only series of experiences I'll encounter before there's no "me" left.
My name is Leopold Artemis Brokenshire the third. If I had friends, I'd ask that they call me Leo. Or Art. Or Arty. Or Labs McGee. I'm twenty three years old, and life confuses me.
And I know that there are those of you scoffing at the existential diarrhea that has enveloped my every thought.
"Oh, he's out 'to find himself'. He could hire a thousand thousand professionals for that. Unhappy with all that money? Snobby little shit."
And so on.
I've got two words for those of you out there who think that somehow emotional suffering only applies to the poor: Fuck Off.
It's true, as sole heir, I inherited the lot of it. All told, that's $19,875,982,417.82-- give or take a million or so. Nearly twenty billion dollars. What's a man to do?
I had a bonfire. Beyond the lagoon-style wave pool, with pink granite waterfall, past the award-winning rose bushes my Mom had been so fond of, I lit a pyre for Father. The stern, always-smirking portrait he had commissioned of himself, the twelve-piece, cream colored Italian leather sofa sectionals, the red oak China cabinet that had passed down two generations already. Pictures, trinkets, jewelry, clothing. Anything I found, that even faintly reminded me of Father in my whirling purge of the homefront, went into the pile. At the pile's heart rested the '56 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith. I fed the end of an Egyptian-silk bedsheet into the gas tank. I didn't care. When the pile reached a monstrous size, after I had sent the myriad of maids and cooks and butlers and gardeners all back to their quarters, I doused the edges with a tank of gas. I sang and frolicked. Jumped and shouted. Then I lit the mess and scoured the emerald green lawn with a blaze that could be seen for miles. The grass would never grow back.
The next day, I collected my passport and packed a knapsack full of clothes, a toothbrush, four pairs of socks, a picture of Mom, a carton of Kamel reds, and an empty, leather-bound journal. My first stop was the lawyers. He spoke in grossly patronizing tones, as though sounding out the words slowly would somehow convey their definition to me. I signed some papers transferring all of the money into a single account in my name with a worldwide bank. Banking ideas like "interest" never made sense to me. Where is that money coming from?
From there, I gave the lawyer strict instructions to wait by his phone. I was planning a trip around the world. I would need access to some funds, of course, but I assured him I was planning to travel on the cheap. I remember the quizzical smirk he had adopted there in his office. As I stood to leave, he rose as well.
"Mister Brokenshire," he smirked as we shook hands. There was a grating tone to the word 'mister'. As I turned to leave, I flipped him the bird.
"You'll be hearing from me soon, asshole." I slammed the door behind me.
The previous night, after the glorious bonfire of my Father's former possessions, I had an epiphany. As previously stated, I had never found 'my niche'. I had never discovered a skill or talent and thought to myself "This is what I need to do for the rest of my life". I know other people have and more power to them. I had met plenty of students at University who were digging themselves into lifelong holes by getting loans for their schooling. I saw what it was like to live well below what could be deemed as a comfortable means. But I was utterly jealous of these peers of mine. They may not have had the funding, but they had vision for their life, something I lacked. Funding, however, was not something I ever needed worry about again.
I set out to discover those trapped by the banking systems. To locate the masses trapped behind counters and in cubicles. Free them from their confines built from the paper-capatilist system we all found ourselves dealing with. These artists, musicians, writers, engineers, inventors, and all in between. This would be my niche. I'd work with financial advisors and get them started. With my money and their talents, we all could have find the love for life that we had been missing. Everyone deserves years of plenty, and I'm going to provide it.
One at a time.
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