Jeff stares at his floor-length mirror, bare except for compression bike shorts he wears every morning for his workout. With a slight knock on the door, Staci, his bald head buffer, comes in. She wears a chain mail bikini, fit for a renaissance fantasy, just how Jeff likes it. Staci takes out a small bit of wax and puts it on a terry cloth. She starts vigorously buffing Jeff’s head in the morning light.
“I don’t know why people are so mad at me all the time,” Jeff said, still staring at himself. “I’m giving the people what they want.”
“I know, honey,” Staci whispers into his ear. She is almost done with the left side of his dome.
Next to the mirror, Jeff rests his hand on a side table that doubles as a charging station for his various organs replaced with robotics.
“It’s so hard…” He trails off, staring deeply into his own dark eyes.
Piles of money are in vases around the house. Housekeepers steer clear of these vases, nervous to clean the gathering dust on top of the money. Last week Jeff arrested a long-time housekeeper for supposedly taking a $20 bill.
Jeff mouthed, “It’s mine. Not yours.” As they were carted off in a police car.
“Why do people hate billionaires so much?” Jeff sighed.
“I don’t know, honey,” Staci replied, adjusting the metal around her breast. She was almost finished. Staci had a doctorate but was getting paid more than ever before. By this time next spring, she’ll have paid off her student loans.
Jeff is all charged up now. A little beep from his watch lets him know that his liver and his lungs are now ready for the day. He does one final glance at himself again in the mirror and noticed Staci missed a spot. He points at the slightly dull square inch of the upper forehead. Staci rushes over and buffs the remaining patch of skin. Jeff looks like two billion bucks, at least.
Jeff sits down at his kitchen table for breakfast. While his chef makes a nutritionally appropriate meal measured out to the milligram, the chef immediately sweats at Jeff’s sudden presence. Jeff always makes the chef re-measure things in front of him and doesn’t want to mess up. Not like last time.
“The numbers are everything,” Jeff absentmindedly said, scrolling through his social media.
“Certainly,” the chef replies, uncertain. A single droplet of sweat sizzles on the stove top as he measures out the egg whites.
Jeff finds another “net worth” piece written about him. He starts giggling, “Forbes thinks I’m worth only 140 billion?” Hehehe, he can’t stop himself. Hehehe.
“And Zuckerburg is only worth 73 billion?” He can’t contain his laughter now.
He starts scrolling again. He scans passed all of the news about the virus. He was so bored of the virus. “People die every day, right? And besides, business has never been better, right?”
He was talking to no one in particular now. His chef makes no remarks, just starts slightly hyperventilating.
His watch beeps. It’s from one of his many assistants. He never wants to see their faces in person.
“Hi Mr. Bezos, here are the collections of organizations that need your help right now.
Jeff interrupts, “What about companies I can buy?”
“Well Mr. Bezos, many of them have gone under.”
Jeff rolls his eyes.
He glances at his money accumulation-o-meter on his wall. A few more million in the past few minutes. Neat.
After his egg-white omelette, he walks over to his modified elliptical.
Before beginning his work out, he turns back to the chef.
“Too salty,” Jeff yells. The chef huddles behind the counter, sobbing.
His trainer stands nervously behind the glass outside. Last week Bezos told him he’s not allowed inside anymore, for no particular reason. The trainer gives a slow thumbs up to Mr. Bezos and stands sheepishly with his tight T-shirt on. The wind made him shiver. Bezos presses a button to close the blinds directly in his face. Power move, Bezos thought, I am so powerful. He starts pumping his legs back-and-forth.
In between pumps he gets on a dating app. He’s on the free version of Tinder, of course, why would he need to pay for something? He and his girlfriend Lauren are in an open relationship, he assumes. He begins to rapid-fire messaging women.
“Am I the virus because I can’t contain myself when I am around you.” He sends a message to a young woman on the Internet. He chortles at his own genius.
“Ew.” she replies.
“I am rich.” He responds, hurt.
“Ew” she says again. He turns off the app, sends her a computer virus through her Amazon Prime account, and throws his phone against the wall.
Sweat starts glistening on his buffed and shiny head from his workout.
“Work hard, have fun, make history,” he says to himself, pumping his legs faster and faster.
“Work hard, have fun, make history.”
Sarah E. Miller is a freelance writer, dabbler, collaborator, and an occasionally funny lady. She spends her days writing and painting up a storm, dreaming up big ideas, and putting those dreams into action. Twitter: @shedoesitanyway