She's started calling me knob for some reason, and I don't mind it really. It reminds me of Mav, and it's almost another mental comfort.
Nattie really is on something today, because she keeps pacing and muttering, sitting for a minute or two, then right back to it. Her agitation feeds mine, and I tear off my glove, and spin my wedding ring around, as I always do when I need to center myself.
Her eyes light up when she sees me, and I pause. Is she going to try and take it? For her drugs? I immediately get defensive, and fist my hand closed around it, locking it on my finger.
"Ooohhh, the knob is a married man." She plops on her crate and excitedly looks into my eyes. "How come you haven't told me about your wife?"
I debate back and forth on whether to bring her into this, because in all honesty, I don't want Paris linked to the mess I call a mother. It clicks in my head that through me, she is linked. She will always be my mother now, and that means she will, hopefully, (by words and distance) be known to my wife.
"You never asked. We haven't talked shit about anything really, have we?"
She cackles, and shakes her head. "Alright, knob. Let me ask you two things. One: what's a Brit knob doing in Boston? And where is your wife?"
I get a tiny thrill of excitement that we FINALLY are going to start a personal conversation, but a fear of what I'm going to learn. "One, I was born and raised in Boston, Nattie. This was my home for too many years to count. Two, my wife is still in the UK."
"Why?"
"Why not? My turn. Are you married?"
She laughs, her entire body shaking, "Married? Are you fucking serious, Michael? Who's gonna marry a crack addict who pulls tricks?"
I chuckle, because Nattie is one of the funniest truthful people I know. "I guess that's true. What about any other family? You got that?"
Her agitation starts and she puffs on the damn poison, and once again, I wait. Wait to watch this woman, my mother, kill herself slowly.
Once she's stable again, she looks me dead in the eye, and answers honestly. "I come from a judgemental rich family, Michael. I left as soon as I could, running away, and my mistakes started."
I wonder if I was a mistake. Was I the tip of the iceberg that sent her over the edge? "We all make mistakes, Nattie. All of us. It’s what we do after that is important."
I try and remember where I heard that before, but it's a blank. I know it was long ago, and I get it now, more than I ever have before.
"Yeah, well I deserve the life I live. My mistakes..." She drifts off, and at the same time, the alarm on my watch beeps. Nattie shakes out of wherever her mind went, and grins.
"Off with you to your real life, Michael?"
Standing and brushing the dirt off my ass, I grin back. "Something like that, Nattie. I'm off to my temporary life. I will tell you more about that another time, okay?"
She nods, grips my hand and pulls me close, staring into my eyes.
"You're eyes are something. Like I've seen them in another life, but not sad like this. It's why I talk to you."
My eyes? Does she remember me?
"Like I said, Nattie. Another day, another conversation, okay? I'll bring more of that clam chowder you like so much, okay?"
She waves me off, dragging her crate back to "her spot" under the bridge. Back to her world, as I head back to mine.
I make it back to the apartment, and my door is wide open, and it's almost normal. In and out, the people just show up, whether I'm here or not. Sighing, I walk in and once again, a new intruder.
"You and your sister are going to fucking kill me with this intrusion shit, ya know that?"
Chuck laughs from his spot at my table, pointing to the extra large DD coffee cup. "I've brought coffee. Hitch your ass down in the seat."
I look around, remembering the laptop I bought that he's still not aware of. Sighing in relief that I put it up, I straddle my chair and take a deep drink. "So what brings your ass into my apartment unannounced?"
He pulls up a huge fucking accordion folder stuffed to the brim. "The estate, what else? If you won't come to me to deal with it, I'm coming to you."
The estate. I fucking hate everything about the damn thing. Every. Fucking. Thing. It could all go to shit, and I wouldn't care.
"What about it?"
"Well, I've reconciled everything in here. With all the corrections in billings, and replacing your money in good stocks, that 4% annual profit has jumped to 28%."
I hear the words, process them, and quickly discard it. I've learned that, without a doubt, I hate this whole estate. "And? What does that mean?"
He laughs, "It means you're richer than rich, J. Filthy fucking rich. Now it's time to act like it."
I get up from the table, and pace as I let it all out. "Act rich? I'm not acting fucking anything, Chuck. I'm Joel. Orphan who grew up with nothing and survived. Fell in love with a bit, and was happy. Got rich? And my life spiraled to hell. I. Don't. Care. About. Rich."
He tries to cut in, and I wave him off and continue.
"I want nothing to do with money. I want me, the guy who loves working, loves the gym, jeans and ratty t shirts. I want my quiet normal life, money be damned. I want my wife, my family in the UK, my boys, and happiness. That's it."
Chuck calmly sips his coffee, and waits until I finish, shaking his head at times, laughing at others. "Are you done yet? If so, sit your ass down and listen to my ideas, ok?"
Still annoyed at the "act rich" comment, I plop down in the chair and wave him on as I gulp my coffee.
"Act responsibly rich, is what I fucking meant, meat head. Leave the money, estate, and all that shit to me. It's what you hired me for, and it's what I will do. But, there is money. Tons of fucking money that you can do good with. Open a soup kitchen for addicts and the homeless like Nattie. Fix up St. Michaels home for boys, which seriously needs help, scholarships for kids like you.
“Fuck, Joel, think of the hells you've endured in life, and try to fix them for others. Start an orphan mentor program. Do something. But do nothing at the same time. Hire the people to manage it, let me manage them, and live whatever fucking life you want, but DO SOMETHING!"
He plops a folder down on the table, grabs his coffee and walks to the door. Stopping before he leaves, he turns.
"Joel. You are an amazing guy, but so fucking inside your own head, you don't see what's in front of you. You gotta fix that."
He shuts the door behind him, and I stare at the folder, thinking of the last folder he gave me. He's right, though. I talk myself out of everything even before I think it out. I open the folder and read his ideas and outlines and I feel excitement. I see plans in my head, and I've got purpose now. A slight one, but purpose.
---TBC---
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