Man of the Year (Drake Story)

I'm bad.

No, not the cool Michael Jackson bad, and not the slap-on-the-wrist, getting suspended at school bad. I mean, I'm bad to the point that I don't even want to be living in my own skin. Why?

Well, would you want to be alive after burning down your twenty-two million dollar mansion over a cigarette? Exactly.

The cigarette, mind you, was something rare. I don't smoke. I was raised well enough to know that my life was too precious to puff my lungs away. But today, earlier this afternoon, I found out what made those millions of people smoke as much as they did every day—four letter words. Life, pain, love, cars, fame, cash...the works.

I woke up this morning at six o' clock. Usually, my wake-up time is thirty minutes later, since my maids are always lenient and like me to get enough sleep, but this morning things were different. Marilyn came into my room with a t-shirt and jeans on instead of her usual khakis and polo shirt; she held a store-bought bottle of orange juice and two waffles on a plate. The waffles were delicious; don't get me wrong, but there were two of them. Two is not nearly enough to satisfy me. Of course, I was upset.

Once I'd finished my breakfast, I went downstairs to find the other maid, Lena, Marilyn, and one of the cleaners, Lily. They were gathered in the kitchen, standing on one side of the island with mugs of hot chocolate in their hands. The mugs were mine.

I didn't like people using my mugs.

"Excuse me?" I called. All three heads looked up at me briefly, and then went back to their morning small-talk. I gasped, and they didn't respond to that, so I banged my hand on the island about five times to get their attention. They were listening now, not even bothering to drink the hot chocolate.

"We're sorry, Mister Graham. What's up?" Brown-haired Lena asked.

"What's up? Is that how we speak to each other, Miss Alexander?"

"That's not how we spoke to you when we worked for you, but since we don't, it doesn't really matter." Marilyn said matter-of-factly. Then she took her bag off of the nearby chair and walked toward the door, telling Lily and Lena that she'd meet them outside at her car. Lily, being the nicest and most obedient one of the three, looked at Lena for the next move. Neither of them wanted to be rude. Typical help.

"Sir, Miss Amanda called and explained to us that you wouldn't need our services anymore. She paid us what you owed for this week, and told us to be on our ways before she got here next week Saturday. I'm sorry, but she was very clear in telling us that she wanted us out." Lena told me with a hanging head and fidgeting hands. I sighed and it came out sounding disappointed and sad and angry. Tired, too—mostly tired. I picked up Lena and Lily's already-packed suitcases by the vase that Marilyn bought me for my birthday (that was back when she actually enjoyed her job) and carried them outside to Marilyn's car.

"I'm not saying goodbye because you'll only be gone until next Saturday. When Amanda comes, I'll talk to her. She won't stay for long. Expect a call from me that weekend," I told Lily. She hugged me, got into the car, and then they drove off, their Volkswagen humming until they turned the corner.

And then there was me.

Amanda was an old friend from college who wanted to be more than that. We'd tried being more a few times, but I was mature enough to know it wouldn't work when she wasn't. Since I finally broke it off with her, she'd been making these random reappearances into my life, but this time she was bolder than usual. Did she have something important to tell me? She wanted to move in? Why would she want to do that? She couldn't be pregnant, I was sure of that.

Before I could think that maybe, just maybe there could be a possibility that there was a child or child-to-be of mine out there, an alarm went off inside the house, and I remembered the pack of cigarettes I decided to smoke after Marilyn brought me my breakfast.

Well, the rest is history.

The cigarette was lit, it fell onto a plant, the plant set on fire and so did everything else. That's exactly what I told the firemen who made pathetic jokes about me when my back was turned.

"Looks like we can't save anything," Fireman Richardson announced as he walked out of the house with his hands in his pockets. "Everything's burned to shreds. Maybe if you had called us earlier, we could save a few things."

"Yeah, well I was too busy being shocked that everything I worked hard for was gone." I snapped. "And anyway, I wouldn't want you to save anything but the house.

"And that sure can't be saved. But there is one thing that you have for keeps." A young fireman named Lewis said, handing me an envelope. I eyed him before ripping open the envelope untidily and carelessly. What could it be? A bill? More stress? I didn't need it.

But it was a letter.

Dear Aubrey Boy,

How has life been, kiddo? That mansion treating you good? What about your company? I hope all's well. I know that you don't have to leave your home for any reason, since it's quite comfortable, but I've got a mansion of my own, as you already know. These days I've been feeling a bit more generous and I suddenly got the idea the other day to open up half of my home as a hotel of sorts. But before I do that, I want to invite people who I know and trust to stay in my house for a limited period of time, just to get the experience of having people stay at my house. If it goes well, I will open up the hotel. If not, the idea is cancelled and that's that. The choice is yours, Aubrey, for I have other people who are thrilled to come and stay. Your disinterest will not affect the success of the experiment. I hope to see you on the twenty-second of September.

Your uncle,

Drake

The twenty-second of September was two days from now.

It felt strange and surreal and overwhelming, so much so that I couldn't help but smile, almost laugh as I read the letter over again. Lewis came over and read it with me, and although it was rude and a bit nosey, I couldn't get upset. This was like a heaven-sent gift. It's as if my Uncle knew my house would burn down, or at least knew that I'd be feeling random stress this morning and would need a cigarette.

Either way, his house was bigger than mine, and in a nicer, more remote neighborhood. Perfect—for now at least. At least until someone fucked it up for me.

But no one would, not even me. I was counting on that.

ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ.  ɴᴏ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇᴅ, ᴅɪsᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴇᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴛʀᴀɴsᴍɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀɴʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴs, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ, ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏᴘʏɪɴɢ, ᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴛʜᴏᴅs ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ/ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇʀ, ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀsᴇ ᴏғ ʙʀɪᴇғ ǫᴜᴏᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴇᴍʙᴏᴅɪᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄᴀʟ ʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡs ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɴᴏɴᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇʀᴄɪᴀʟ ᴜsᴇs ᴘᴇʀᴍɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴄᴏᴘʏʀɪɢʜᴛ ʟᴀᴡ. ғᴏʀ ғᴜʀᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴғᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇss: ᴀɪsʜᴀᴍᴜғғɪɴ28@ɢᴍᴀɪʟ.ᴄᴏᴍ. ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ʀᴇғʀᴀɪɴ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴠɪᴀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇss ɪғ ɴᴏᴛ ғᴏʀ ɪɴǫᴜɪʀɪᴇs ᴘᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴘʏʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟs. ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ.