Man of the Year (Drake Story)

Chapter Én

An all-black, slick Cadillac SUV came to the Marriott the next morning waiting to drive off with me and my luggage inside. I checked out of the hotel as soon as I saw the car pull up from my window, and had a hotel employee load my bags into the car. The suitcases I had were filled with my most prized belongings out of all that wasn’t destroyed—the firefighters made the situation seem worse than it was, and there was a lot that wasn’t burned to ash after all. Still, I left some things behind, materialistic little belongings that I now realized I didn’t need.

After I finished checking out, and everything I owned was in the truck, I got into the backseat and nodded to the driver.

“You know where I’m headed, don’t you?” I asked the old, wrinkled man in a suit and hat.

“Of course I do.” He smiled. I grinned weakly in return, and then sat back as he drove off.

The drive to Uncle Drake’s hotel was quite long, maybe forty-five minutes to an hour, but it felt like days. While sitting in the back of that Cadillac with my Rubik’s cube in hand, all I could do was think. That’s probably why it felt like days, because my mind decided—all on its own—to review a huge chunk of shit that happened in the past few years of my life. Most of it involved Amanda, my mother’s refusal to get out of the bed and find a husband when she so longed one, and the heavy loneliness that weighed on my heart. But out of all the things I had to complain about, this was probably the biggest.

I worked hard for the mansion. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t just work: I died and borne myself over and over again for that house. When I was sixteen, I started taking acting lessons as a result of the encouragement my parents gave me from Shakespeare plays in middle school. The first set of lessons taught me well, and then after upgrading to more expensive and more professional lessons, I was soon asked to be in a major movie. The movie was based on a children’s book—a good start for me, my parents said. They didn’t realize, though, that I would soon become a multi-millionaire from that movie.

Long story short, the movie made millions, and the public enjoyed it so much that merchandise was made after the characters, including myself. When I got to be a little older, twenty or twenty-one years old, I bought the copyright from the owners and all rights to the money were mine. Shortly after, I bought a mansion due to the sales of the DVD of the movie, the merchandise sales, and the theater sales of the movie’s sequel.

My father helped me start up a few other businesses and make links with other things, and I repaid him well before he died. But as we stopped in front of a tall-standing home that looked like a Greek god compared to mine, I realized that this was no repayment to my father at all. Pop hated Uncle Drake, and going to live with him would be like a slap in the face.

“Thank you,” I said to the chauffeur as he handed me my bags. He nodded, and when I expected him to back out of the drive way, he actually locked the car and walked with me to the tall gates. All around us were well-kept hedges, some flowering and some not. The chauffeur rang a little bell at the side of the gate.

“Who goes there?” A voice asked from the intercom.

“It’s William, Master, with your nephew.” He replied. Slowly, the huge gates slid open with a deafening sound of ancientness. William walked through the now open space, his dress shoes clicking on the asphalt beneath our feet. I tentatively followed, gawking at the shrubs all around us. In the distance a fountain could be heard, and I only saw it when we were finally close to the door. Water spilled from the mouth of a posing female statue standing tall in the air. The woman was fully naked and her face was pinched with pain.

“Who’s she supposed to be?” I asked William, pointing to her.

“No one important, just someone to get a lusty grin out of Master Drake.” He winked and smiled. I shook my head—I’d almost forgotten how shallow and rated-R Drake was.