by Luke Strickler
It ills me to inform you all that I, D. Edward Roost, will not be in the office today, as the ghosts of my past, present and future have locked me in a sort of thematic time warp. From what I can gather, they expect me to see an error of my ways, give up my vast fortune, and befriend a sickly urchin boy. I’m letting you all know ahead of time that I will be doing none of this, and that you will be without your CEO until I break their ghostly spirits.
Now I’m not one to be a braggart, but we run a damn tight ship here at Roasted Roost’s Goose, and no one should have to apologize for smart business. For years we’ve been this country’s top deliverers of high quality roasted geese, supplying the cultural elite with upscale dining options on even the most December of nights. Some would call that the American spirit, but these ghosts would have you believe some socialist smear about blocking the middle class from experiencing the pleasure of fine bird meat at home.
You all know that I’m as big a fan of poor people as any rich man, which is why I will be standing my ground against these poltergeists at least throughout the workweek. Our company may cater to the 1%, but that’s just the home delivered roasted goose market. No entry level Joe Schmo is beating down our door for an onsite feast, and I didn’t get into the roasted goose business for charity.
Though teaching these ghosts our airtight business model will be difficult, for they seem entirely focused on the timeline of my life, which is already well known to anyone who reads Forbes’ 30 Under 30. The ghost of my past seems to think that my private schooling, well connected internships, and parental support throughout my early 20’s somehow paints me as a cold hearted Scrooge, when The Economist clearly called it “A predictably successful rise to power”. I will not be made to stand trial for Capitalism, especially not if it’s a ghost trial.
And of my present, I sourly take offense at the accusations of this ghost. Sure, when I overlook Central Park from the Roost Goose Penthouse while tasting experimental new artisan cheeses, I do it alone, but that’s the price you pay when you dedicate yourself to revolutionizing the roasted goose industry. I pay fair wages, there’s a tree in Israeli named after me, and every April I organize a community egg hunt where one lucky kid takes home a golden goose egg worth two hundred and fifty dollars. Does that sound like a greedy misanthrope to you? If not, please explain that to this ghost, as I bore of his condescending chain rattle.
As for my future… still looking really good. Honestly, the ghost leveled with me at one point and said though he doesn’t personally support it, decades of wealth inequality and a lack of estate tax reform make it impossible for me not to succeed. He gave a big speech about me dying alone, but only because I choke on a goose bone while eating a four-course victory meal in my bathtub, watching one of the Steven Spielberg movies he makes just for the super rich people.
All in all, this experience has ironically given me a newfound enthusiasm towards my work, which I look forward to bringing to all you once I escape this liberal limbo. Until then, if you must reach me you may do so by angrily shouting your message at my pre-bought grave plot, and the ghosts will be sure to rely it back to me.
Luke Strickler is a writer in NYC, and a person everywhere else.