The CEO of Disney sat in his office thinking. He leaned back and touched his fingers together, putting them under his nose pensively, but then he frowned and hit the intercom button.
“Get in here Margaret,” he said.
The door opened and his assistant walked in. His office was as big as a gym so he had to wait for her to walk the full length of it to his desk, her heels clicking on the immaculate floor.
“My fingers smell like shit, Margaret,” he said.
“Do you want sanitizer, sir?” she asked.
“No duh,” he said. He held his hands out and she walked over, squirted the sanitizer onto her own palms and rubbed it into his, massaging it into each digit.
“Okay that’s enough,” he said. “Stop touching me.”
“Certainly, sir,” she responded.
“Now fuck off,” he said.
He loved saying that, ‘Fuck off.’ He said it to his wife and kids all the time.
But then as he watched Margaret leave he got an idea.
“Wait,” he shouted and she stopped and turned around.
He thought for a moment. “Do a handstand,” he said.
“You want me to do a handstand?” she asked.
“Yeah do a handstand,” he responded.
She appeared to think about it. “Okay,” she said. She bent down and started to undo her heels.
“No, with your heels on ding dong,” he said.
She looked down and then back at him. “Okay,” she said with a shrug. She took a deep breath, put her hands up and then lunged into a handstand. But when she did, her pencil skirt ripped.
“Hah!” he yelled. “You ripped your skirt you idiot.”
But Margaret didn’t respond because she was concentrating, holding the handstand with quite a graceful ease.
“I said you ripped your skirt,” he said louder.
“What’s that?” she responded, still doing the handstand, shifting her weight from hand to hand.
“I said you ripped your fucking skirt,” he said.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.
“Yeah get down,” he said.
“Okay,” she said and she came down slowly, elegantly, putting her feet softly by her hands. When she stood up her face was red and she was smiling.
“What did you say, sir?” she asked, fixing her blouse.
“I said your skirt is ripped,” he said.
She looked down. “Oh that’s fine,” she responded. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“No, fuck off,” he said but it didn’t feel as good to say it that time.
When the door closed behind Margaret, the CEO of Disney put his hands behind his head, leaned back and went, ahhhhh. It didn’t feel right so he sat up and tried again. Ahhh, he said but again it didn’t work. “Fuck!” he yelled. “God dammit.”
He wanted to be as relaxed as someone is who leans back and makes that noise, but it wasn’t working. He was too annoyed with Margaret, that he couldn’t break her.
See Margaret was on this NDA contract with a safe word policy. She was the daughter of an old friend of his and when he hired her he had gotten drunk with his lawyers at Top Golf and brought up the contract idea.
“So it’s like this,” he had said. “I get to treat her however I want. Like I can say whatever offensive shit I feel like and I can make her do whatever I say and, like, she has to do it. But it’s no big deal because if she gets uncomfortable she can just say the safe word and then boom, she’s out, and we’ll throw her like 200k or whatever.”
“Hell yeah that would be pimp,” his lawyer said, giving him a high five. “I’ll draw it up first thing tomorrow.”
“Nice,” he responded.
“Bro she won’t last a month,” his lawyer said.
“Try a week,” he responded and he had blasted a shank that squibbled 50 yards to the left.
When Margaret started after signing the NDA it had been fun being able to call her a boner and to make her do pushups, but then he got annoyed when, after weeks and then months, she refused to be affected by his requests and his name calling. In fact, it seemed like the more he called her a douchebag or made her do the dougie, the more steely and confident she became. And it was even more annoying that she was really good at the dougie.
Alone in his office, the CEO of Disney frowned and scratched himself. He answered some emails and then got on a call with China and then he checked the stocks which were as baller as ever from the job cuts and then he watched the Will Smith slap video on his phone because he forgot how crazy and funny it was. But then he found that he was bored and it pissed him off. And his ass itched. He scratched it and scratched it but it kept itching worse. What was the point of being so rich if he was still able to be bored and have an itchy ass.
He smashed the intercom button and yelled, “Margaret get in here.”
She walked in and then stood there with her hands behind her back, looking at him.
“Don’t just look at me you goon!” he yelled.
“What would you rather I do?” she asked calmly. “Also, I brought you a snack.”
“Fuck the snack!” he yelled. “Wait, what is the snack?”
She brought a bowl from behind her back. “It’s mini pb ritz crackers,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “Leave the crackers and I’ll see to them later.”
She put the bowl on the table. “Anything else, sir?” she asked.
“Yeah there is something else,” he said. “I need you to set up my blowjob appointment for later this afternoon.”
“Of course, sir,” she said. She pulled out her phone.
“I want the same place Clooney goes,” he said.
“Certainly, sir,” she responded. “And how would you like your blowjob?”
He sat back and stroked his chin. “Hmmm,” he said. “Let’s do underwater again.”
“But sir,” she responded. “You remember last time, there were…issues.”
“Damnit Margaret, I want solutions. Just get me someone who can hold their breath.”
“Certainly, sir,” Margaret said. She stood there typing on her phone. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll get an old man… who can hold his breath.”
“What?” he responded.
“What?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Did you just say you would get an old man who can hold his breath?”
“Yeah,” she responded.
“I don’t want an old man to give me a blowjob underwater you fucking idiot.”
“Oh gosh of course, I was thinking of something else,” she said, smirking at him.
“Did you just fucking smirk at me?” he asked.
“No sir,” she said but then she smirked again.
“You just did it again!” he yelled.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” she asked.
“No you dumbass. You fucking—” but then he stopped. “Margaret,” he said, “I think I love you.”
“Sir, please, let’s not do this again.”
“Fuck,” he yelled and slapped his desk. “Fuck it.”
“Anything else, sir?” she asked.
“Stop asking me that!” he shouted. “God dammit Margaret no one has ever loved me. Do you realize that? Do you realize how lonely it is to be me? Just because of my money, everyone hates me. On the internet they want to slit my throat. They don’t think I see it but I see it. Of course I see it! And it hurts! I’m a person. I hurt like all you poor people. And on top of that my fuckin ass itches. It itches all the time Margaret. Do you understand that? The kind of difficulties I have to deal with?”
“It’ll be okay, sir,” she said.
“No it won’t!” he said. “Not unless you do something for me Margaret. I need you to look at my ass.”
“You want me to look at your ass?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Look at my ass.”
“You don’t want a doctor for that?” she asked.
“No I want you to look at it,” he said.
She hesitated and he thought maybe she would say the word. But then she shrugged, smiled serenely and said, “okay,” which took him by surprise.
“Yeah… yeah good,” he said. He got up from the desk with a loud grunt and walked to the other side. He was only 43 but he felt twice that. “God fuck,” he said. “It fuckin itches so bad.”
He pulled his pants down and bent over and held on to the desk. “Okay look at it,” he said.
“Yeah it’s definitely red,” she said.
“Does it smell bad?” he asked.
“Yeah really bad,” she said.
“Fuck,” he said. “Can you touch it?” he asked.
“Touch what?”
“My asshole,” he said.
“You want me to touch your asshole?”
“Yeah touch the red part.”
“Why?”
“Just do it! Touch the red part,” he said.
“I have nails,” she responded.
“We all do dumbass now touch it.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “That feels good, yeah scratch it. Oh wait ow fuck what the fuck! Stop stop stop,” he screamed. “Oh my god.”
She pulled her finger away.
“My fuckin ass, is it bleeding?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s definitely bleeding,” she said. She stepped away and squirted some hand sanitizer in her palm and rubbed her hands together holding them far away from her face.
“Are you crying?” she asked.
“No I’m not fucking crying, why did you dig your nails in like that?”
“I didn’t, you told me to keep going.”
“No I fucking didn’t,” he said. “God it fucking hurts.”
“Do you want some tissues?”
“I’m not crying you goon.”
“Aww little baby is crying,” she said.
“Stop saying that, I’m not a child,” he said.
“That’s right you’re not a child you’re a little baby,” she responded. “Does your little bum hurt?”
“Fucking stop it I’m your boss.”
“Aww of course you are,” she said. “You’re a cute little baby boss.”
“I’m a person, okay, and you’re being mean. I didn’t ask for this wealth. I didn’t ask to be born. It’s like you poor people don’t even know that you’re the lucky ones. You’re the ones with communities. With your nice little apartments and your nice little relationships. I have none of that. All I have are boats and solicited sex. And the thing is I fucking hate boats. The whole world knows how rotten wealth is. It’s always been that way. You think I have treasures waiting in heaven? Fucking of course not,” he said. He broke down sobbing.
“You are so pathetic,” she said.
“You’re right I am,” he said and started crying even harder.
She went over to the table and picked up the bowl of crackers. She started eating them and watched as the CEO slowly got up and went to his desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out the NDA and, with tears streaming down his face, he put it into the shredder under his desk.
“I’ll give you whatever you want,” he said. “If you ever leave me, Margaret, I’ll kill myself.”
Margaret smiled. She popped another cracker in her mouth, turned around, and walked out.
Tom Ianelli is a fiction writer and street bookseller in Brooklyn. He has written for Hobart, the Panacea Review, Quartersnacks and Animal Blood magazine. He runs PeterBooksPress and asks the questions for the Lit Chat instagram series at @peterbooksnyc.