Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  “Gentlemen,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I’m leaving.”

  “What?” John frowns, while the other members sit forward, all voicing their confusion.

  “Where are you going?” David Sanders, one of the snakes, asks. “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “I’m going on a trip that I may not come back from.”

  This statement is greeted by more confusion, so I hold my hand up to silence them. “I need time away for my own mental health and clarity. I’m going to be turning over everything to John to be dealt with in my absence. I don’t wish to be bothered by anything. My phone will be off, and I’ll be out of town.”

  “Jesus, Carter, for how long?” Richard Garber demands, the fear of what it means obviously scaring him a bit because his dark eyes look wild.

  “Five months. Maybe longer,” I reply, my voice not as strong as I hoped it would be.

  Another murmur of confusion echoes through the room.

  “Carter George doesn’t leave his job behind to chase mental clarity,” Bob Jones screeches, his eyes bulging, his overlapping stomach banging against the table as he sits forward quickly in his seat. “You take down men that do!” He pounds his pudgy fist on the table. “Don’t you recall tearing apart Irving Davie’s company after his wife passed away? You stripped the man of everything in only a matter of hours. You’re a predator who strikes when prey is the weakest! You’re not the prey. You’ve never been the prey!”

  “Don’t forget Cameron Unkel’s company, Haspert Holdings. Unkel came looking for help, and Carter stole the company right from under his nose!” Brian Mathis adds, looking at the men in the room. Brian glances at me, shaking his head. “If I remember correctly, you screwed his wife and his sister right after you signed the papers.”

  Yeah, I’m a fucking snake. Probably the biggest one in the room. Those aren't even my worst atrocities in the business world. Karma finally caught up with my treacherous ass.

  “Carter, what’s going on?” John asks, his brows knit.

  I shake my head and look down at my hands which are clutching the chair in front of me. I don’t want to tell any of them. They’ll probably overthrow me if they know what’s really going on.

  “I just need a break. That’s all. I realized it’s time to take one before the opportunity passes me by. My lawyers have drawn everything up. They’re waiting outside.” I can’t stay around and answer questions or argue with them. I sweep from the room as it erupts in more questions. I haven’t made it a few steps down the hall before John catches up to me.

  “Carter, what the hell is going on?” he demands once more, stopping me. “There’s no damn way you’re walking away from this because you need a break. I want to know what happened.”

  “I’m my father’s son,” I reply, deadpan. “In every conceivable aspect.”

  “Your father wouldn't walk away from his empire, son,” John’s tone softens as he looks at me. “Only death could pull him away.”

  “Like I said, I’m my father’s son.”

  “Carter, are you sick?” John’s voice becomes hushed, his hand on my shoulder.

  The backs of my eyes burn, my throat tightening. What the hell is this? Am I struggling to not fucking cry? Jesus. I haven’t cried since I was five and fell off my bike. Father had come barreling out of the house my mother had loved so much, screaming at me to get up and not be weak. I remember the spit flying from his mouth, his hand striking me hard across the face. I’d fallen across my bike, breaking my arm in the process.

  Tears were for the weak. And no son of his was weak. If I wanted to cry, he’d give me a reason to.

  “No.” I swallow hard, my voice wavering. “I just need a break, John. Please. Help me.”

  “Absolutely, Carter.” John’s eyes sweep over me again, the worry evident in every breath he takes. “What can I do?”

  “Just keep my company safe. And take care of Linda. I always liked her,” I say, speaking of his wife of forty years.

  “Of course,” John murmurs as I back away.

  I can’t bear to stand around and talk any longer. I need to get out of there. Wasting no more of my precious time, I walk out, not even bothering to return to my office.

  “Derek?” I croak into my phone when he answers.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Are we ready yet?”

  “Sure are. We can pick the RV up in an hour. I have all the stuff you asked for.”

  “Good. Come get me. I need to get the hell out of here.” I drag my fingers through my hair.

  “I’m already outside, boss.”

  I hit the End button on my phone and step outside. Derek is waiting for me just as he said, the passenger door already open. I step up to it and turn back to stare at the monstrous granite and stone building behind me.

  It’s probably the last time I’ll ever look at it.

  Day 2

  I don’t know why I thought 6:00 AM was a good time to hit the road, but that’s what I told Derek, so that’s what I’m doing up at this ungodly hour. I’ve packed all of my casual clothing, which I’ll admit isn’t much, into two suitcases. Just goes to show how much of my life I’ve wasted in business suits. Anyway…

  Today is the beginning of the end. Jesus Christ, how fucking morbid.

  Today is the beginning of the end of me being a dick. There. That’s better.

  Here are the targeted goals for this trip:

  Learn to be less of a dick and more open to new things. Meaning being less open to my usual hard-assedness, if that’s even a word. Fuck it, it’s my word, and if I live through this by some miracle, I’m going to trademark it for this journal’s future publication.

  Learn to appreciate the melting pot of this great nation with its diversity.

  Learn to appreciate the wonder of small moments and the beauty within.

  OK, that’s enough platitudes for me at this hour.

  Derek is here, and so is the beginning of the “Less Hard-Assedness” Tour.

  3

  Carter

  “Wow, Derek. It’s roomy. Nice. I like it.” I step from the interior and lean against the wall in the alley behind my apartment building to size-up the exterior of my new home on wheels. Having just finished the grand tour of the inside, I have to admit I’m pleased. It’s luxurious.

  “Well, you said recreational vehicle, but when I explained to the salesmen what we were doing, he showed me the tour buses. This is a Variomobil Signature 1200 tour bus. It’s a medium wheelbase, so I can still drive it with my CDL- A license. And I already have my passenger endorsement from when I had to pick up clients from the airport. So, we’re good to go. And check this out.” We walk to the back, where he pulls a garage remote out of his pocket and clicks it. The back door lowers like something out of the future, and inside is my black Mercedes SL roadster, snug-as-a-bug.

  “Derek, you are THE MAN.” I high-five him for caring enough to bring my baby along.

  “Thank you, sir. We need to hit the road now so we can miss morning traffic with this beast.” He closes the back door, and the excitement builds up in me like I’m eight years old again going on my first plane ride.

  “All right, but first.” I pull a small bottle of Korbel out of my pocket and swing once, swing twice, swing three times and smash it against the back bumper, making sure I don’t scratch it.

  “What are we naming her, sir?”

  “Why does it always have to be a woman? I think you called it before. I hereby christen you, the Beastmaster.”

  “I like it, sir.”

  “And stop calling me, sir. Call me Carter.”

  “Well, c'mon, Carter. We ain’t got all day.”

  “Actually, we do. That’s the beauty of it. We have all the time left in my world.” He rolls his eyes at my melodramatics before opening the door.

  We swing out of the alley quickly and roll through the nearly vacant streets of Fifth Avenue for a few blocks, passing the early morning joggers in Central Park. �
�Goodbye work-a-fucking-holics,” I holler out to no one in particular before I slump down in the soft leather of the passenger seat and fall asleep.

  I wake up near Allentown, PA with a horrendous headache and a grumbling stomach.

  “Can we pull over? I need to eat and take some meds.”

  Derek pushes a button on the navigator screen and says, “Find pancakes.” After a few seconds of searching, ten options appear, and he picks an International House of Pancakes close by. Once I make my way to the back bedroom and sort through my unpacked luggage for my toiletry bag, I find the dreaded bottle I need and walk back to the front. My God, pancakes sound divine.

  Shelby, our waitress, seats us in a booth then pours two of the smallest cups of coffee I think I’ve ever seen. The only saving grace is she leaves us both our own carafes.

  “So, what’s the itinerary for this trip? Do we have a final destination? Anything in particular you want to see or do?” Derek asks, pouring three creamers into his small mug and sipping it without spilling any. He reminds me of a giant drinking from a tiny teacup. I bite back the snicker before answering him.

  “There’s no itinerary. We drive without purpose or meaning. I don’t want to do much planning on this trip. I just want to see what I see and experience whatever happens.”

  “OK. So we’re hippies on a very luxurious caravan. I’m down with that.”

  “We’re Lewis and Clark, exploring this great nation to find its hidden treasures.” Derek spits out his coffee, splattering the table, amused at my historical comparison of our little adventure.

  “I’m pretty sure neither Lewis nor Clark were Nigerian immigrants, but these are modern times. I’m happy my wanderlust soul is being catered too.”

  “It’s not backpacking through Europe, but it’s close enough,” I remark, sipping my black coffee. Good God, it needs creamer. It tastes like tar. I add in two creamers, taste it, and add in two more. It isn’t Starbucks, but it’s caffeine, and it’ll have to do.

  A backpacking trip through Europe is now part of my will for Derek after I’m gone with a small stipend to boot. He’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. He’s my confidant. I mean, c’mon, the man has seen and heard me getting a blow-job in the backseat for Knick’s tickets. He’s witnessed me wheel and deal through some pretty ruthless situations. He’s observed me slicing and dicing men’s lives, leaving them and their families destitute. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s employed by the devil incarnate.

  Our food arrives, and I swear, they’re the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten.

  Once we both have full bellies, we leave, piling into our home on wheels. Derek has a thing for loud rock music, and not the stuff blasting out of the local rock station. I mean full-on underground music with screaming guitars and band members who look like they’re straight out of a nightmare with their elaborate makeup and stage presence. Cranking up something that screams at me makes me cringe. Derek assures me it’ll get better. Trying to be more openminded, I listen to the songs of his favorite band as they squeal throughout the Beastmaster.

  After three songs, I’m hooked. I air drum while Derek hollers at the top of his lungs. To passersby, we probably look like we’re part of some rock band on the way to our next destination. Or like we’re drug-crazed yuppies who’ve been snorting too much coke.

  For the first time in my life though, I feel free. There’s no looming deadline—unless we’re talking my death—there’s no work that needs to be done, no meetings to get to, no kiss-asses trying to get on my good side, and no media in my face asking for a story. Nothing. Just the prospect of life.

  So, I grin like a fucking maniac as I air drum to my new favorite band.

  Day 3

  I may have overdone it with the air drums. I ended up with a headache that required me to go to my room and lay down. I didn’t wake up until just now. It’s one in the damn morning. That has to be the longest nap I’ve ever taken in my life. Hell, I’ve never slept that long at night before, let alone from a nap.

  I don’t even know where the hell we are. I know we’re not moving and some kind of lights filter in through my blinds. Maybe street lights? Derek is snoring in one of the bunks down the hall.

  So far, I’ve had fun on this trip. I know. It’s been a fucking day, and I slept through three-quarters of it. But I’ve never done that before.

  I’ve also never wandered around in the middle of the night like some sort of runaway, but the idea is vastly becoming appealing to me as I sit here and lament my life in The Life and Times of the Ruthless Prick Carter George.

  Fuck it. Y.O.L.O. Don’t judge me for that word usage. I promise I’ll never use it again.

  4

  Carter

  I stumble out of the Beastmaster, taking care not to wake sleeping beauty who’s snoring so loudly I contemplate putting him out of my misery. Derek has driven us to a grocery store parking lot and parked us in the back near the dumpster for Christ’s sake.

  I could’ve driven my baby out of the back garage, but decide I want to walk. I snap a photo of the store, so I’ll remember the name, and make my way out to the front sidewalk. The street is well-lit, and there are still cars and people out. A stiff drink is definitely needed.

  Walking down the road, I set my sights on a place that has multiple neon lights on the sign. It’s too far away to read, but it’s either a liquor store or a strip club, and I won’t turn either down right now.

  About halfway down the block, a young man sits on a bus bench playing some type of contraption that looks like a keyboard but sounds like a guitar. His hands are sliding left and right, making the instrument weep like a baby. It’s fucking beautiful. He turns and looks in my direction, probably making sure I’m not going to rob him, and then starts bellowing out a song I’ve never heard before.

  The rich baritone of his voice reminds me of the country music singer, Trace Adkins. Not that I run in those circles, but I heard him play once at a bar in the city while he was holed up waiting out a hurricane. It was an impromptu concert at a blues club my buddy owned. He sang three or four songs without any music, and I sat mesmerized at the way he could touch a crowd with song. The broad I had sitting on my lap was wiping tears from her eyes as he sang about making it to Arlington. Yeah, just fucking beautiful.

  I walk around in front of him as I get closer and listen to him for the remainder of the song. His jeans are tattered at the legs, and his socks are mismatched. One of his Chucks has a hole in it by the big toe. Long hair hangs partly in and partly out of a ponytail near the nape of his neck, but his eyes are clear, his hands are steady, and his voice is strong. As he releases the last note and lets it hang in the air for emphasis, he nods to me with thanks for staying.

  “Hey, uh, you do this every day out here?”

  He nods his head at me.

  “For money? I think they call it busking.”

  “No, sir. I just play for people to hear music. I don’t play for money. There’s no tip jar, and I don’t own a hat. I don’t have no money on me neither.” His hands raise from the board and hold still in the air. He looks around nervously, like I’m either about to bust him for doing something illegal or rob him.

  “I’m not a cop, man, and I’m not going to rob you. You’re cool. I’ve just never heard anything more beautiful. What is that thing?” I gesture to the guitar box balanced on his lap.

  “It’s a steel guitar. I made her myself.” His face beams with pride, but I roll my eyes. Another inanimate object assigned a female gender, but I’ll give him this one because it certainly cries like a woman. I bet if he played it faster, it’d bitch and whine like one too.

  “Are you some kind of music student from around here? And, by the way, where the hell are we?”

  “You don’t know where you’re at? Are you all right, mister?” He looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, right now anyway. I rode in on a bus but slept most of the trip. So, no, I don’t know where I’m at. Clue m
e in.”

  “You’re in West by God Virginia. Just outside of Clarksburg. Where you heading?”

  “Right now, I’m heading to those neon signs,” I say, pointing the short distance down the street. “Then I’m going to find some food. You’re welcome to join me as a tour guide. I promise, I don’t bite, I won’t ask for sexual favors, and I’m not a murderer.”

  He gives me a side-eyed look for a long moment, thinking about my offer, before he lifts the instrument off his lap and stands. “Yeah, I could stretch my legs for a while, but what are you going to the computer store for at this hour? It’s closed and won’t open until 9:00 AM.”

  “Fuck. That’s a computer store? Never mind. I thought it was a liquor store.”

  “The only place that sells alcohol around here is the Walmart. It’s just a few blocks away if you want to walk. It’s open twenty-four hours.”

  “Well, then, lead the way, maestro. By the way, I’m Carter George.” I hold out my hand to shake his.

  “Luke Boyd. It’s nice to meet you.”

  He places his instrument under the bench on the sparse grass and dirt and starts to walk away.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing? You can’t leave that there. Somebody will steal it.”

  He shrugs. “Nah, everyone knows it’s mine. It’s fine. They won’t take it, and if they do, I’ll just build another one.”

  “So, you aren’t emotionally attached to your woman? Jesus, I think if I could make something like that, that sounds like angels singin’, it’d never leave my sight.”