The Will to Aggravate

It’s not every morning that I wake up angry.

It’s not because my aunt died - I hated her. She was the bane of everyone’s existence, making us miserable from the moment she woke up till the moment she went to sleep. The woman was obnoxious, selfish and rude, not to mention a proud racist and homophobe. No, I was angry because she had apparently put me in her will, and I was to report to her attorney’s office promptly at 9 a.m. to hear him read it.

Her attorney was in Seattle.

I had to fly there at my own expense.

Hence, my anger.

Not even the coffee, as good as it was, helped my mood as I made my way to the law offices of Berkshire, Hewitt, and Graham. Why the hell did she put me in her will? Probably to point and laugh at me. I often thought that I, the only child of her only sister, was the one that disappointed her the most for not doing what she did - basically whoring herself to rich men like the courtesans of old and amassing a fortune when they died and left her untold inheritances. Sorry, Aunt Amelia, I can’t help that I have morals and standards.

The very nice but slightly frightening receptionist directed me to the end of a long hallway, where a dour lady silently led me inside a stuffy, book-filled office. How pretentious, I thought as I sat down in a chair that looked as though just looking at it would make it collapse.

The old man sitting at the desk in front of me glared at me over some legal-looking documents. “I might as well get this over with,” he said dryly. “Your aunt didn’t think very highly of you, but I think you knew that. Let me read this to you.

“To my niece Samantha, who has given me a wealth of disappointment in her short life due to her incredibly poor life choices, I give you a challenge. I will give you the sum of $20,000, but on one condition: you cannot use it for yourself. You must give it to someone else. This way, you can say I was a nice person for once, and I still give you the nothing you deserve.”

I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “I’m not surprised.”

“Excuse me?”

“She was a bitch. A mean, hateful, rotten bitch. This just validates what everyone thought of her.”

The old man put down the papers and handed me a document and pen. “This tells you all the details on what you need to do. Basically, just provide me the proof that you’ve given the money away. It can be a person, a charity, whatever. As long as you don’t keep any of it.”

I signed my name to two copies, then took one and left the office. I wasn’t angry anymore, just confused. Where the hell was I supposed to spend that money? I had no idea where to start. There was no directive as to where I had to give the money, just that I had to hand the money over to someone else. It was so stupidly simple, yet I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

I went back to the hotel to cool off for a while before packing. I hadn’t planned on staying long, and my plane was leaving early in the afternoon, but I was in no mood to do anything but lay down and try to clear my head.

As I got into the elevator, a clearly distracted man got in as well. He was pulling a suitcase, wearing a backpack and trying to talk on the phone at the same time, and he looked as fed up as I felt. He was arguing with someone in German while trying to hit the button for his floor.

“Excuse me,” he said to me in surprisingly good English, “Would you hit 5, please?”

I did, not caring that I was three floors above him. He nodded as he kept arguing with whoever was on the other end, but he then took off the backpack, unzipped it and started taking things out of it. It was mostly toiletries - hair gel, an electric razor, shampoo and conditioner - but then came the bag of candies and the small container of cookies. He must’ve been looking for something that he probably forgot to pack.

He glanced up at the floor number and quickly repacked his bag as he muttered what I suspected were a few choice curse words. He zipped the bag and slung it over his shoulder as the door opened with a cheery ding, and he was still arguing as he dragged his suitcase behind him.

As the doors closed, I felt a bit sorry for him - maybe it was his spouse on the other end, or perhaps a really stupid co-worker. I breathed a sigh of relief, but as I looked down, I saw it - a black book, bullet journal size, lying near my feet. The guy must’ve been in such a hurry that he didn’t realize he didn’t grab it. I picked it up but didn’t dare open it. Whatever it was, he needed it.

When the doors opened on my floor, I immediately pushed 5 again, but I should’ve expected not to find him in the hallway when I got to the fifth floor. I was not about to knock on every damn door, either, so I went back to my room to relax and then pack.

When I was ready to go, I grabbed that little black book with the intention of taking it to the concierge and trying to explain what happened. As I stood at the desk to return my room key, my mystery guy rushed up in a panic. “Excuse me, has anyone turned in a black journal? I must’ve lost it in the elevator. It’s very important to me.”

I nudged him with the book. “I was about to turn it in. I couldn’t find you.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, you don’t know how much that means to me. I have to be away from my kids so much that I started writing a kind of travel journal for them. It’s mostly me telling them how I’m feeling or things that I might forget to tell them. I really miss them when I’m traveling.”

I felt awful. All the crap I’d been going through was nothing compared to this guy being shuttled back and forth, missing his kids and hating Skype with a passion. But then I got an idea.

“Let me ask you a question, if you don’t mind. If you were given $20,000 but had to give it all away, what would you do?”

The man looked a bit shocked. “Um, I would probably donate it to an arts venue. I’m singing in an opera tonight, so I’d donate it to the opera house. It helps keep the doors open and everyone paid. But you could choose any of the arts you wanted. It’s important to keep it alive.”

I explained my situation to him, and after talking to him a bit more, I found the answer to my dilemma. Aunt Amelia, who hated opera so much that she once called Pavarotti a hack, became a posthumous donor to the Seattle Opera.

Rot in pieces, you old hag.