Mr. and Mrs. Fessel lived in a mansion on a private island in Biscayne Bay, just a tad west of Miami Beach. They had twenty employees (six lived in) that cooked,cleaned, chauffeured, tended to the yacht and gardening, provided round the clock security and did whatever grunt work needed doing. The entire staff adored and respected Mr. Fessel. They loathed his wife.
Mrs. Fessel was an only child born to enormous wealth and spoiled from the moment she took her first breath. The hired help did everything for her; she never had to tie a shoelace, pick up and put away a toy or say she was “sorry” if she misbehaved. She grew into a woman of the most obnoxious proportions and became a nasty alcoholic to boot. She was tiny, no more than five feet tall, but Mother Nature compensated her with a huge, squealing, siren-like voice and a loud, high pitched cackle for a laugh which when resonated made all present want to slit their throats or better yet, slit hers.
She was thirty years old and looked forty-five; wine bloat will do that to a girl. She slept until noon and avoided the sun causing her complexion to remind one of sour milk; pale and curdled. Every frock she owned was from the haute couture collections in Paris and she spent thousands on this or that plastic surgeon conturing her body to compliment the latest fashion trend. If cleavage was in she flew to New York for an augmentation, if buttocks were needed to look fresh and current she whipped down to Brazil for a fill and a lift. As far as the help was concerned she lacked inner beauty and would never look good. In their eyes she’d always be a vicious little sot with a shitload of money, nothing more, ever.
Once a year she hosted an extravaganza for a charity she chaired. The mansion grounds were set up with tents, tables, bandstands and multiple bars. The finest cuisine, liquor, wine and champagne was served and the invited guests were strictly Alist, well, they were A-list according to the high society rags, not to the household staff. They dreaded working this function because the majority of the guests were carbon copies of Mrs. Fessel; self-absorbed, rude, disingenuous, selfish, artificially attractive, greedy and vindictive.
Mrs. Fessel used this event to network and garner invitations to upcoming social soirees. She bonded with these phonies by promising a big fat check to their charities and providing an assortment of drugs favored by the monied. Bowls of Valium, Oxycodone and high grade cocaine were set up on a butcher’s block in the kitchen and available to all those who meandered in. For some of these society broads it was the only time they’d dare to set foot into a kitchen and some had tongues that turned so blue from melting Valium on them they could have competed with the Shar Pei’s at the Westminster Dog Show. All of these doyennes rubbed their gums with cocaine, it gave them the courage to get out on the dance floor and make fools of themselves. They would have preferred to snort the stimulant, but alas, that would collapse the infrastructure of their rhinoplasties and cheek enhancements.
Mr. Fessel always sat on a chair by the sea wall far from the hub bub sipping a scotch wishing he could be with his mistress, a mid-op transgender named Gaby. His employees all knew of the relationship and though they didn’t understand it they didn’t judge because he seemed so happy when he was with her. Gaby spent quite a bit of time at the mansion when Mrs. Fessel was overseas shopping or on one of her nip and tuck expeditions. She was a tall pretty brunette, soft spoken, chic, always immaculately turned out and she was more feminine than most natural born women. She treated Mr. Fessel like a king and it was always, “May I, please and thank you,” when she dealt with the household staff. They all loved her and how they wished she was the lady of the house.
Sometimes those on the lowest rung of the social ladder have their wish granted, it certainly was true the morning after the charity gala in 2006 . Mrs. Fessel’s behavior was more horrendous than usual that evening. She was twisted on vodka, wine, cocaine and Oxycodone that she devoured like they were penny candies. She demanded that the bartender stop what he was doing and fetch her libation immediately, even though it meant one of her guests had to step to the rear. She criticized Mr. Fessel in front of her guests,
“Fix your bowtie, asshole! It’s crooked!”
By the end of the evening as she air kissed her guests “good night” piss ran down her bowed legs. You had to to give the little bitch props for remaining upright.
“Fix your bowtie, asshole! It’s crooked!”
By the end of the evening as she air kissed her guests “good night” piss ran down her bowed legs. You had to to give the little bitch props for remaining upright.
There was an apres gala routine that Mrs. Fessel’s personal maid followed. She turned down the bed, then drew a hot bath scented with expensive oils for her employer, then she hurried downstairs to prepare a silver mirrored tray with lines of cocaine, a handful of Oxycodone and an ice bucket with a bottle of white wine. Mrs. Fessel insisted she return in a half hour to see if anything needed to be replenished. Return she did and found Mrs. Fessel completely submerged in the bath water. She screamed; security and the live in staff came running. An ambulance was called and the emergency workers got her breathing before they rushed her to the hospital. When Mr. Fessel’s butler ran to his bedroom and roused him from a sound sleep to inform him of what happened he moaned,
“Oh, shit! I was just in the middle of a great dream.”
“Oh, shit! I was just in the middle of a great dream.”
The staff gathered in the kitchen and whispered about karma. There wasn’t a single “god help her” uttered and why would there be, she tormented her help spreading her reign of terror every shift they worked until they were mentally whipped and physically exhausted. These poor souls were trapped, they had kids to feed and rent to pay and many of them sent money home to family in the third world countries they left for a better life.
Mr. Fessel took his time dressing. His chauffeur drove him to the hospital. The doctor put his hand on Mr. Fessel’s shoulder and laid it out for him, “She was under too long. Brain activity has ceased. Take all the time you need to gather family so they can say their “goodbyes” then you can sign the papers to disconnect the life support and make final arrangements. Please, don’t feel rushed, take all the time you need.”
Mr. Fessel took a deep breath then smiled before he looked the doctor in the eye,
“Give me the pen.”
Mr. Fessel took a deep breath then smiled before he looked the doctor in the eye,
“Give me the pen.”
Coreen Falco
© 2016 Coreen Falco
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