The History of an Evil CEO

Chapter I American life I think... Part 1

So here I am, aboard this beautiful ship, arriving in America. My knowledge of the United States is limited to its "great" involvement in the First and Second World Wars—oh, and that bizarre phone call from a man named John F. Kennedy. He thought he was calling a "red phone" and somehow ended up talking to me. Maybe if I'd said something cleverer, I wouldn't have risked missiles falling on the world. Ha!  

Most of my time on the ship was spent playing my guitar, wandering through shared cabin areas, and eating whatever meat they served in the trough-like dining hall. My favorite moments were spent on the deck, staring at the endless ocean, pondering how the Titanic had sunk here just 43 years ago.  

The letter I carried contained an address—my father's brother's house. Funny, I didn't even know my father had a brother. The letter had already been a lifeline, helping me understand a little more about my father's past and giving me some direction in this new country.  

After two long days at sea, we finally disembarked at New York Harbor. The sight of the city stunned me—towering buildings like the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building dominated the skyline. Even the recently completed Pan Am Building (now the MetLife Building) seemed to gleam with modernity.  

The city's energy was overwhelming. It was noisy, chaotic, and alive with people rushing in every direction. Unsure of where to start, I found a small café and tried to call home. No answer. After a cheap dinner, I decided to catch a bus to Alabama to avoid spending the night on the streets.    

I made it to the bus stop just in time to catch the last ride to Decatur. The ticket cost me $180—nearly all the money I had left. Thankfully, exchange houses had converted my funds earlier. The trip drained my savings, and I began to fear what I'd do if my father's brother wasn't at the address listed on the letter. The journey was long, and I barely slept, nerves gnawing at me the entire way.  

Finally, the bus pulled into Decatur. I walked to the address, heart pounding. When I rang the bell, an older man answered with a gruff tone:  

"I already told you, I'm not interested in that church thing."  

I nervously replied, "My name is Elliot. You're my father's brother, Eleanor Alienor."  

His expression changed instantly. "Wait—you're his son? My God, you've grown. Where's your mother?"  

I explained that she hadn't come because she was unwell. He sighed heavily. "What a pity. If I could, I'd call her, but my phone's busted again. Come on in and eat something."  

His house was robust but chaotic, reflecting a life lived without much concern for tidiness. He introduced me to his wife and covered for my lie about my mother's illness. Dinner was a strange affair. My cousins were unruly, constantly fighting and competing. Their black cat, a lazy creature with an unsettling stare, lounged wherever it pleased—including my plate at one point. Dinner consisted of mashed potatoes and other plain fare.  

My uncle asked about life after my father's deat uh. I explained how things had deteriorated, especially with my mother's struggles. In return, he told me about my father, describing him as a brave man nicknamed "The Purple Cat." Apparently, he had spied on enemies for a great leader who sacrificed everything for a noble cause.  

After dinner, they showed me to a small bed. I prayed that the cat wouldn't claim it before I could. Living with my cousins was a unique challenge. Richard, the eldest, barely spoke to anyone except his girlfriend and his students. Evelyn, though friendlier, had a competitive streak that often clashed with my quieter nature. Pollyanna, the youngest, was lost in her world of dolls and dresses, though she was often teased by her siblings. I found work at a local McDonald's and continued tinkering with toys in my free time. My uncle helped me enroll in school, where I began to rebuild my life. Breakfasts of eggs and ham became routine, and I slowly adjusted to the rhythm of American life.

Looking back, these first days in the U.S. were overwhelming but pivotal. I had no idea what the future held, but I felt a spark of hope amidst the chaos. The weight of my father's legacy, the strangeness of a new country, and the uncertainty of fitting in gnawed at me. But I was determined to make it work.

Every morning, I walked to school with the sun rising behind me, casting long shadows on the pavement. The streets were loud, filled with life, dreams, and stories like mine. I knew this was just the beginning of a new chapter. The path ahead was unclear, but for the first time in a long while, I felt like I belonged somewhere.

America was no longer just a destination—it was becoming home.