Anthony Pita

What do you want in life?

No, really. Let your imagination be as selfish and superficial as it wants, just this one time. You’re not that kind of person, I know, and you won’t be after this little exercise. But, just for the shortest of moments, forget about everyone else, and just focus on you.

Okay. Is it enough zeroes on your bank statements to make it feel like a video game score? A supermodel weekend fling? A watch and shoes that make people do a double-take when you pass them on Queen Street? A sports car painted velvet-purple, just because you can? Two supermodel weekend flings?

“Mr. Waerea. Mr. Waerea, can I please grab just a second from you?”

Sorry. My deepest apologies. The world is a distracting place. We’ll finish the exercise soon.

I spin around in my office chair, putting on that same small smile I do whenever someone says hello. Isn’t it funny how mechanical every social interaction is these days? It’s become less of a dance, and more of a formula. You open with X, I’ll respond with Y, and depending on what you want, I’ll see if I can make the equation work. It’s what I love, making things work. There’s always a way.

“Richie,” I draw out the last part of his name. It sounds friendlier that way. “What’s happening? What can I do for you?”

He’s an intriguing mix, this man. The plain white business shirt, the uncrackable foundation of any self-respecting investment banker’s wardrobe. It nods that he’s boring enough to start a conversation with a stranger about Fletcher Building’s quarterly earnings. On the other hand, quite literally, his lack of a wedding ring and a suspicious bruise that his collar doesn’t quite hide whispers what he really likes to do with his time. For someone reaching forty, you’d think that he’d have his work and social life congruent by now.

“Just wondering if you’ve finished those final edits for your biography. Your receptionist won’t let anyone within two meters of you until it's done, apparently.”

“Then how’d you get in?”

I like to write in peace. Unfortunately, ‘in peace’ only really lasts for half an hour in investment banking. But it’s fine. Every dialogue gets me closer to that next cheque.

Have you heard of the Virginia University millionaire experiment? It’s fascinating. They put five local actors and a luxury plane salesman in a room, and a volunteer had to guess who was the millionaire by asking money-related questions. Most trials, the millionaire’s excitement got her eliminated first. The wealthier you get, the more you get high off that bank statement ticking towards heaven. You also tend to get high off other things, but you’ll have to buy my book for the more age restricted stories. Discount available at Whitcoulls, hopefully.

“I convinced her I’m always welcome,” he shrugs.

My phone rings. Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough by Michael Jackson. Very good tune.

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll just take this,” I wave dismissively to Richie and pick it up.

Words come through the speaker, and my face starts to pale. Breaths start to stab and scrape the inside of my ribs.

“Are… are you alright?” Richie takes a hesitant step towards me.

The phone slips out of my fingers, cracking against the desk edge on the way down.

I hate the letter ‘S’. Of the 164,777 words with 'S,' I only grapple with one. To condemn an entire letter because of its use 0.0006% of the time sounds statistically absurd, but that one case changed 100% of my life. I used to have two parents, but now I have one, and the 'S' in 'parents' isn't going anywhere.

My finger hovers over the full stop key I just pressed, the dim glow of the keyboard and screen the only source of light at this time. I couldn’t tell you when the last person left the office building. I couldn’t care less. When the janitor told me he was wrapping up, all I heard were a mixture of vacant syllables and empty pauses in the background. When the lights switched off, I welcomed the darkness as a writing partner.

'S' follows me. I can't get through a day without being reminded that while my friends went out to dinner with their parents, I ate with my parent. As I write this biography, there is a blue line under the word 'parent' telling me to check my grammar; even Grammarly assumes that I should have parents, but car crashes don’t listen to edit suggestions. I won't claim that my situation is as unique as one in 164,777, but it is still an exception to the rule — an outlier. Losing my Dad feels like I’ve lost everything.

My eyes shift from side to side, glazing up behind glassy walls of watery pain. I blink, a tear dropping and sliding cautiously down my cheek. Sounds try to escape from my mouth, but I lock them in, biting my lip. The darkness cries on the back of my neck.

From the outside, from your point of view, you might think my life is hypnotic. It’s messy, but it’s precise. Every deal I make, every stock rise or fall I predict, every million that creeps into my bank account before I’m even out of my early twenties. From my point of view, it’s missing something fundamental. My whole life has been built around numbers, but all I want is that one missing letter back.

Saving the document, I shut down my laptop screen. The thud is soft, but it echoes throughout the rows of empty chairs and desks.

If I were to describe Mum’s house in one word, it would be innocuous. If I had four, they would be probably-needs-some-work. It’s one of those places that just seem to blend in with the street. The pale beiges and whites, the dry grass that bends against your ankles as you walk through it, the dust on the windows obvious even from the footpath; everything tells you that nothing terrible, but nothing special either, happens here.

My knuckles tap against the thin door in the same way I always do. One time slow, three times fast. I rest my thumbs in my pockets, and chew on my bottom lip. The seconds creep, until I let out a deep breath and try the handle myself. It swings open, inviting me in.

“Mum?” I call out.

Nothing.

No.

Not again.

My steps quicken, my eyes flick across every room I pass.

Around the corner, in the lounge, the TV mumbles. I peek around, and my shoulders relax. There she is, leaning back in my grandmother’s old chair. Eyes open. The plastic tubes crawling under her sleeves remind me what she’s been through, but the doctor promised me she’d get through it. Even just being here, you can feel she’ll be alright.

I’m not sure if I told you what I’m wearing. It’s not a flash suit, like usual. It’s a pair of fitness shorts, and a white shirt from the Warehouse.

“I was wondering if I could stay here for a while,” I ask, leaning down to hug her. “I’ve told everyone that I’m taking a quick break from investment banking. Hopefully they’ve interpreted ‘quick’ as ‘maybe forever’. I just want to spend time with you.”

No words come out of her mouth, but she speaks with a quiet, soft smile.

I collapse onto the couch next to her, letting my mind sink into the chatter of the news and the silence of us. I find the edges of my lips starting to creep up too.

So, I’ve got a bit of free time now. Let’s finish that exercise. What do you want in life?

If you think about it a lot, you might get to visualising every materialistic success possible. You could see yourself as the next Bill Gates, Elon Musk, or even like me.

But, it’s not a thinking exercise. It’s a feeling one. We’re all so desperate to claw eachother down if it means we get another dollar. All the money and diamonds can’t buy what’s true.

We’re fueled by a surface level greed, and it took me to lose an entire ‘S’ to realise we need to be fueled by love instead.