Millionaire Man Part Eight

Millionaire Man
Part 8
My dream of my mother was so much more real the night after my new job started. She was sitting on the couch of my old musty apartment humming. The humming echoed through my brain as I quietly kept watching her. As I walked to her, I could see her leaning over thumbing through an old photo album. She looked up for a moment as if reliving a picture in her head, and then back to the album.
“Mom,” I said. My mother continued to hum, and chuckle at each picture she saw. I sat down next to her, as a poof of dust swirled from my cushion impact. My mother leaned over to me and pointed at a picture. I could smell the cookies off her breath as she told her background story of the picture.
“I can’t help looking at this picture and laughing. You had no Idea that I had been watching you. Oh my lord, look at you in your superman underwear reaching for the game board. Oh I miss this, I miss you.”
I smiled and my mother. I didn’t ask questions, nor did I try to take anything away from the moment we were having. Instead, I sat close to my mother as she continued to spill childhood secrets to me with every picture.
As my mother closed the photo album, I looked down and stared at my mother’s shaking hands. I looked at her smile of serenity once more before seeing the pain that only hid beneath the shadows. I was losing her again. Her face turned pail and her hands were shaking harder than ever before. I reached for her hand, but he hand turned to dust with my touch. I screamed at the sight of the missing limb, only to desperately lunge for my mother. Sadly, my weight only turned her image into thousands of little particles hovering over the couch and heading toward the sunlight.
“Wake up baby, and let go of me, damn it,” She echoed as I sat on my once occupied couch. I stared again at the empty space and feelings that lingered. I screamed at the top of my lungs, and felt the tear run down. I won’t let go of my mother if she forces me to. I screamed one more time hearing only the ringing of my ears. All of a sudden a cold hand touched my cheek. Droplets of water fell from the roof of the apartment in my dream.
A voice kept saying “God I’m so sorry,” over and over, and I didn’t recognize the voice. It reminded me of my mother, but it was raspy once again. It was Amanda’s Voice once again. I woke once, with tears pouring from my eyes and Amanda holding my hand and crying. I reached up and wiped her misery from her eyes. She was lost in my own filth of distain of what I would call my pain.
I got up to leave, but Amanda wouldn’t let go of my hand.
“Let go,” I said calmly. Amanda stayed fixated on my and, pulling my arm closer and tightening her grip. I repeated myself again, only to be ignored again.
“Amanda,” I said, “It’s going to be ok.” Amanda looked at me with her eyes full of pain and irritation. She indignantly looked at me, and for a moment, she stopped crying. I stared at her in residual distance and uncertainty. Her eyes glazed with affection, and hand warmed with sincerity. Amanda leaned in with a tear still falling in her eye, and pursed her lips. I leaned back, avoided her lips. Amanda continued to move forward with little let up. So I took the palm of my hand, leaving her lips to taste the sweat of my hand. Amanda opened her eyes, leaving her in shock and my reaction to her. Her reaction was as if I had hit her with an unsavory reality.
“You act like you know me , but you don’t,” I grunted, “Whatever you’re thinking about me, or felt about me changing, you’re wrong. So stop crying and get a grip.”
I got up and walked out of the room, while Amanda sat still stoned from frustration and embarrassment.

I knew I was an asshole, and people like me don’t change, no matter how nice you are to them. We believe we matter more than anyone else and that is that. I feel sorry for a lot of people, especially the ones that try. Nonetheless, as much as I would like to hold on to hope that Amanda would accept me, even with the flaws, I can only pray I die before I figure it out.

The next morning, I got up to the smell of bacon and waffles cooking. It was the best thing to wake up to in the morning. The smell of searing bacon woke up me up. Last night I had managed to make it back to my room, and back to bed. As I walked down the hallway to the kitchen, I could see Amanda in front of the stove. She looked at me in a friendly, waitress-like tone.
“Hey Punk!” she smiled, “Hungry?”

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders, “Sure.” I watched Amanda as she flipped the bacon. There was pain in her eyes, that much was clear. But it was overshadowed by the implicit determination to avoid the pain I had spun last night. As the sound of a waffle landed on my plate, I couldn’t help but stare in Amanda’s eyes. She was going out of her way to be nice, and I was taking advantage of it.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I finally said, “I mean I rejected you last night and this morning you’re cooking me breakfast as if nothing happened last night.”
“Well nothing DID happen,” Amanda replied, “So eat your waffle, it’s getting cold.”
“No,” I taunted, “First tell me why you haven’t said anything about last night, then I will eat.”
“Last night was a mistake, and I am already tired of bringing it up.” Amanda shrugged, “Look, the only thing Jesse and I came here to do was to make sure you don’t off yourself, that’s it. Everything else doesn’t matter. So if I have to hand feed you your waffle, I will. Just eat your food and shut the hell up.”
I could see why Amanda was dying for me to try her cooking. Her food was delicious, even without the pot cooked in it. She knew the right amount of spices and just the right sugar to put on the waffle. Some people make waffles so good that you can eat them without getting a stomachache before you’re done.

Weeks became only a couple months working for Sam. He was honest respectful, a little flirty, but extremely professional. I couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning to get to work and make the big bucks. My salary had tripled within only weeks, accommodating almost all my needs. Money became an agitating reminder that my mother wasn’t around. She would have been so proud seeing it flow like a river in a small forest. She would have hugged me so tight that I would have to push her away just to breathe. All in all, she would have wanted me to be happy, and that exactly what money was doing for me. Still, I refused to leave my broken down apartment, no matter how much money I made. I couldn’t lose any memory of my mother. Instead, when the apartment complex decided to turn there building into renovated condos, I couldn’t help but throw my name into the ticket to own my new condo.
Sam had already given me so much, and will very little responsibility in return. But that all changed one late, Friday afternoon, when Sam had reached yet another proposition…