Estranged

Lance is a lucrative, swaggering businessman constantly on the move, a type of snobby and pretentious that wears dress shoes to a pool party. He’s unfailingly hooks up with pretty young things with supermodel figures, hair from shampoo commercials, and freshly bleached smiles. He’s always flown solo, so he, brick by brick, assembled his empire from the ground up, the solidarity he very much loved to bathe in. He is the kind of millionaire that made miracles you occasionally hear about, a self-made man, carrying around an inspiring story. However, for him, he lost his humble character, establishing a pompous rhythm in which he steps. He withdrew from his family, insulted his loser-older siblings and cussed out his mother before slamming the front door of the home never to be seen again, except on TV. He never had a relationship with his father, a mere stranger to him. He doesn’t bother with romantic intimacy, ruled by nightly lust, let alone having and nurturing children and being a father himself. His mansion is lonely during the burning sun hours, yet as dusk falls until midnight black, his patio is brimming with people rubbing all over each other, alcoholic drinks, powdered lines on the glass table, flashing lights, and pounding music that vibrates any window in the vicinity. To top it off, according to him, his most prized piece is a supposed fake mounted lion’s head over the mantle, as it’s a real eye catcher and a conversation starter, luring in party animals.

Every morning, he awakens from his king-sized bed hemmed with silk sheets for that perfect fit, hungover. He rectifies himself up by showering, shaving, sliding on a cashmere suit, transforming from hot mess to hot boss. Then he scamps on his way, weaving a course with his lavishly sparkling convertible to the tallest building in the city—and it’s all his. He tucks into the elevator of the lobby and intends on going to the next story up. A woman with a box of office supplies barely slips by, with her face hidden between a slanted keyboard and lose papers poking out of the white economy box. “Press 7 for me, if you wouldn’t mind, please,” she nicely requested. Before he steps out, he smears his hand on all of the buttons and chuckles like a boy. He strolls through a maze of small cubicles and enters his beautifully shiny glass office, everything precisely in its place. He stands center and yanks the golden handles of his crystal-clear doors. As he glides the two together, he sees a familiar stranger turn the corner, delivering his mind to memory, but quickly he shrugs it off. “It can’t be,” he tells himself, staring back at his reflection. Then, he drops into his desk chair, trying to forget who he thought he must have seen.

A couple hours later, he goes to a meeting on a different floor. He shakes the hand of all the men in attendance, greeting them and thanking them for their time. He prepares for a presentation regarding a business expansion, and in his peripheral vision, he sees him pass by again. Lance hurriedly springs from the gathering and yells out to the man he glanced at—he’s gone without a trace. Lance wipes his suit off and straightens out the wrinkles, and he returns as usual, keeping the idea of that man in the back of his head as he resumes his slide show, altering tones and pointing at graphs and charts. 

He reverts to his office, sent over the edge for something as silly as expecting a pile of paperwork laid neatly on his desk by the time he came back from the meeting—and no papers! In a huffy, he pops his head out of the door and shouts, “Where’s Stella the Intern?! I told her I needed those numbers at my desk by 2pm,” he checks his expensive watch, “and it’s 2:03!” A gorgeous young woman in a pencil skirt and a tightly tucked button-up trots with stacks in her arms. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s right here. I apologize for the delay. The printer was giving fits.” She approaches him, handing him the papers he demanded. He surveys her up and down, and declares, “At my desk.” She gently presses the papers to his desk. He mutters under his breath, “Interns are useless.” He flips through the pile, searching for what he needed to which he could not find. “These are all wrong! All wrong! Can you do anything right?” He flings the stack and sheets fly everywhere. Everything settles onto the floor. “Pick this up! And while you’re down there, tie my shoe.” She proceeds to restore the pile and laces up his right leather black tie. “I don’t pay you to provide subpar quality of work, now do I, missy?!” She answers in a whisper as she exits, “I’m an unpaid intern. I don’t make a damn penny from you, cheapskate.” 

45 minutes go by, he announces, “I’m outta’ office for a little while, so don’t need me! I’m going out to lunch. No one join me.” A man in the background cries, “Hey, can you pick me up a burger? I’m gonna’ be busy all night with this for ya.” Lance rolls his eyes and replies snarky, “That’s not my problem!” He leaves the towering building and takes a walk. He follows the sidewalk, dodging people, shoving others out of his way. He reaches a less congested area as a little boy calls out, “Mommy, look a quarter! I’m gonna’ get it. I can add it to my piggy bank!” Lance overhears this and as he troops by, he picks up the coin. The kid’s face lit up, knowing the nice older man was going to give it to him. However, he made a point, right in front of the child as their paths crossed, to gloatingly slide it into his pocket with the biggest smirk he could plaster on his face. The mother yelped, “Jerk!” as her son began to tear up. Proud of himself, he makes it to a fancy restaurant and is seated shortly after. He peruses the crème-shaded options in a black menu sleeve with a silver trim. The visibly exhausted waitress with a white apron around her thin waist moved fast to take his and the rest of the dining room’s orders. As she refills his wine glass and asks him how the meal was, she balances a tempting lemon meringue pie on her tray. He notices her struggling and decides to have some fun. He stretches his leg out, tripping her. She thus face plants square into the pie. He sniggers so loudly, it echoes throughout the restaurant. He lays cash on the glossy table and dashes out of there, with a string of titters behind him.

On his way back to the office, he once again perceives a familiar stranger in the distance, the same man he is convinced is shadowing him. He runs to him, watching him sprint farther and farther from his vision, into a crowd walking the streets. To try and catch up, he thrusts his way through hundreds of people. He brushes against a teenager with the newest released smartphone in his hands crisp from the store. Lance elbows the phone from his grasp, smashing the screen into a web of cracks as it hits the concrete. “Hey man, you broke it! I’ve saved up for this for months, and now it’s ruined!” he screams, disappointed and furious. Lance squawks back, yards beyond him, “Tough luck, kid!”

Out of breath, he stops for a moment with the palms of his hands fixed on his knees, bent forward. “It’s hopeless. I’ll never find ‘em with all these unfortunate souls.” He turns his head, listening in on a small group of homeless people ready to pray for the food they are about to eat. He goes over to them. A lady in the group says, “God,” and Lance interjects, “Speaking.” They look up and ignore the conceited man who believes he is godly. They continue their prayer and end with, “Amen.” Then, Lance adds, “Ahh man! Look at me!” as he does the obnoxious finger guns gesture. The lady politely recommends, “May God bless you with a revelation.” He blows a raspberry in cynicism.

He arrives back to the building and finishes his day in his office, keeping an eye out on the man that is following him. As the sun sets, he returns to his empty mansion. To unwind, he throws off his tie and undresses as he lights a cigarette between his lips. He enters his darkened bedroom with his shirt off and his pants unbuckled, manifesting familiarity in himself. He flips on the chandelier, illuminating the space as he stands before a full-body tri-fold mirror, reflecting upon his day. His mind gravitates towards the inhumane things he engaged in, reminding of how he used to be the brunt of ridicule, too, when he was an ambitious lad. He soon turned his arrogant sneer into a deathly frown, seeming as though he just saw a ghost. He realizes that familiar stranger he kept seeing was haunting him from the grave. He intently peers at himself at every angle in the mirror, focusing in on every roll on his stomach and every fold on his face, and observes closely, “Oh God, I’ve turned into my father.”