I want to be a player

I want to be a player. I want to have my finger on the trigger and my eye on the prize. I want to move and shake and hang out with people who also like to move and shake. But I won’t just “hang out” with these people, because people like that don’t “hang out.” They strategize. They integrate, both vertically and horizontally. They have sessions that are both intense and productive. They have staring contests with parking meters and always win.

I want a blackberry. A huge one. One that can guide satellites and pre-order my power quiche for my power lunch at my favourite power restaurant where I will meet other power people that smell great. And when my immense blackberry sees smaller, weaker blackberries at meetings, it will leap from its holster and devour them whole. And when their owners try to complain, I’ll pretend that they don’t exist and leave the room. I’ll have my secretary send them an e-mail of apology, but they won’t be able to read it, because my blackberry has eaten theirs.

I want to get out there. Sometimes I’ll make contacts, sometimes I’ll network, and other times I’ll just schmooze. I want to have business cards that smell like oak and musk. I want to practice my cocktail greetings in front my mirror at home in my underwear. I want to fire off the guns to the boss from across the room and for him to shoot right back, every time.

I want a luxury car. And I want that luxury car to be luxurious in every respect. It will have an on-board computer that will balance my tires and my cheque book. It will also tell me if my fly is open. I want to sink into the driver’s seat and for the fine imported leather to make a deep farting sound. Also, whether I’m in the car or not, I want my farts to smell terrific.

I do not want to interact with reality on any level. If I am absolutely forced to engage with reality, I want my exposure to it to be filtered through the thick glass of a very expensive restaurant. I want to have a vague idea of what people are talking about when they talk about “regular people,” but not to the point that I’m perfectly sure based on first-hand experience.

I want a company credit card. I not only want it to be a platinum card, but I want it to be made out of pure platinum. I want to get very upset when someone says that they don’t take credit cards, even if it’s my grandmother and I’ve owed her money for weeks, especially if it’s my grandmother and I’ve owed her money for weeks. I also want it to make a sound like a sword being drawn every time I take it out of my wallet.

Most of all, though, I want a beautiful girlfriend whom I do not love but looks great in a black dress. She’ll have a voice full of money. She’ll be great at tennis and small talk and drinking expensive martinis. I’ll suspect she has a small drinking problem, but she’ll hide it well so it won’t matter. I’ll also suspect she’s cheating on me with my squash partner, but that will be okay because I’ll have a crush on her sister. Maybe I’ll make a move at their mother’s birthday party.