You Can't Take it with You, by Hannah Faber

“You can’t take it with you.” What a stupid cliché! Maybe once you’re dead, you can’t spend money on Hermés handbags or the latest Versace dress anymore, but while my heart’s still beating, I sure as hell would rather spend 80-hour weeks in the office than be begging for change on the streets of NYC. Besides, I like my job; I mean not now, but I’ve only got two more promotions to go until I’m finally the boss, the CEO of Worthers & Lockart.

 I’m really just waiting for Mr. Griswald, the current CEO, to have a heart attack or to finally give in to his nagging wife and move to Peru or something. He’s been the big shot at the office, screaming orders at me, for the past fourteen years and seven months I’ve spent as a slave for Worthers & Lockart. He thinks I’m useless, constantly treating me like the moldy Chinese food some idiot left in the break room fridge over a month ago, and honestly, I’m completely sick of it. Him, I mean, not the Chinese food, although the smell of that stuff always makes me gag. Griswald makes me miserable, but I put up with this crap because one day, I’ll have the power. Finally. And I’ll be the one giving orders.

God knows I deserve it. I work at least 75 hours a week, and I do more work than Griswald and Pike, his number two, put together. For the past seven years, I’ve pulled in more clients than any other employee. I excel at every aspect of my job, and without me, Worthers & Lockart would be a mess. I started at this company fresh out of college; it was the first place I applied to after graduating from Duke University at the top of my class.  I started at the very bottom in this company, and I have worked my butt off to get to where I am today. I just can’t wait until Griswald and Pike are out of the picture, and I’m finally number one. That will make all of this—the stress, the all-nighters at the office, the politics, everything—worth it.

In the meantime, at least I’ve got enough cash to pay for my luxury condo and Equinox gym membership while keeping up with the latest trends from all the top designers: Prada, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and whoever else is the latest and greatest in the fashion world. In my profession, it’s essential to be seen, so I also have to be sure to make reservations at the fanciest restaurants, especially Masa, GILT, and Daniel, and show up at the hottest parties of the year to meet potential clients and to persuade them to let me handle their business. And I’m pretty good at it, because my life motto matches that of my clients: only the best of the best. Appearances are important; don’t let any of that crap about not judging a book by its cover fool you. If I want to get anywhere in life, I’ve got to look good. In fact, I better look the damn best, and I do. People don’t believe me when I tell them I’m thirty-five. You know why? Because I actually take care of myself, unlike most people in this country. I’m in the gym with my personal trainer once a day for at least an hour, if not longer, and the results are worth it.

Most of my time goes into working at the office, exercising at my gym, or shopping on Fifth Avenue if I have the time, but at least once a month, I make the time to have clients or co-workers over for a dinner party at my luxury condo on 78^th Street. My guests are always impressed when I give them a tour through my beautifully decorated home with a brilliant view of the city. Have you ever heard of Leah Divine? She’s the best interior designer in New York, and she updates my condo every year. She costs me a pretty penny, but the jealous looks I get from people when I open the door to my condo definitely make it worth it. Of course, I’m barely ever there. I might as well live at the office for all the time I spend there, but I’ve got to have a place to entertain and impress clients, and 301 East 78^th Street is the perfect spot.

My best friend, Kathy, is always bugging me about taking a vacation or taking a break for the holidays or something, but I’ve got work to do, and it’s not like I have family to celebrate holidays with, anyway. I mean, I have a family, but they don’t care about me. My father made that quite obvious when he kicked me out of the house my senior year of high school when my refusal to clean up the plate he threw at me in a drunken stupor was the “last straw.” My father told the extended family some story about me throwing a punch at him or something, so even my aunts and cousins won’t talk to me anymore. Why they believed him or backed him up, I'll never know. I never did anything wrong to them, but they never seemed to like me. Well, a couple of my cousins made a comment one time about me being arrogant, but they were just jealous of me. They always were, even when we were kids. If they knew where I was now, they’d be begging to be a part of my life. I’ll bet my cousins are probably still stuck at their minimum-wage jobs back in Zanesville, Indiana. I swear; they have no ambition at all. How they can be content with staying in that tiny town and going nowhere in their lives is beyond me. They’re just like my father was. No wonder they believed him.

Even my own mother hasn’t tried to track me down. It’s not like I’m hiding. All she’d have to do is Google my name, and she’d be able to find me. I’ve been in the papers more times than I could count, and I’m very well known in the advertising world. But I haven’t heard one thing from her since I left the house my senior year. I shouldn’t have to reach out to her. She needs to contact me first. It’s her job. She’s the mother, not me. She never acted like it, though; I practically raised myself. At least I know who the Parent of the Year awards aren’t going to. I’m glad they’re out of my life. I’m better without all of them, anyway. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” and all that crap. Thanks, Kelly Clarkston, for another dumb cliché.

Anyway, is that good enough for you? I’ve told you the whole damn story, so can you sign off for me? I’m getting kind of tired of sitting here telling you my life story. It’s not like you care anyway, and I’ve got work to do. If that judge hadn’t required me to get a psych eval, there’s no way I would have ever set foot in this place. I mean, after hearing that, you’ve got to understand why I hit that lady. I didn’t actually mean for her to get hurt. She must have brittle bones or something because there’s no way that slap and little push I gave her made her fall and break her wrist. Besides that, she really was just asking for it. I mean, standing on the street corner, searching for a handout, begging me for twenty bucks and then telling me, “You can't take it with you.” Ridiculous! She should have been spending time looking for a job to get off the streets instead of trying to get some of my hard-earned cash to go get wasted to try to forget her problems. I’ve got problems too, you know.