Typical Day
James Texeria "Tex" Richman doesn't set alarms. He doesn't have a timer or a wake-up service. There's no grandfather clock announcing the hour in the hallway nor a digital doohickey on his bedside table, reading his thoughts and learning his weaknesses.
No, Tex Richman is up with the rooster's crow. And this morning, it's crowing at 5:45AM.
Tex's wife Annette is up with the rooster's crow too. This greeting has been her morning torture since she married her rich (even more so, now) and handsome (much, much less-so) husband. Tex says it helps him keep in touch with a simpler time.
Annette knows that's a bunch of bologna. Tex grew up at his daddy's mansion in Connecticut. But hey, Tex owns the three-story penthouse on top of one of the tallest buildings in Houston, so if he wants a living alarm waking him up every morning, then that's how he's getting up.
After a morning of lounging in his den with a newspaper and a coffee, he kisses Annette and drives off at 8:45AM. At precisely 9:00AM, Tex's gold-plated private elevator door opens and he strolls into his opulent, unorthodox office.
Stacy, his personal secretary, greets him with the smile and laugh that got her the job. She happens to have a master's degree in communications too, but Tex couldn't care less about things like that.
Tex's morning consists of ongoing rounds of taking phone calls with political and business leaders, checking stock prices, watching college football recaps, and using the facilities. This cycle continues for a few hours.
At 10:15AM, he has to make an executive decision: should he answer nature's call or answer an actual call from Russia's Minister of Foreign Affairs? Sticking his Bluetooth into his ear, Tex decides he doesn't have to make that decision and walks towards his 200-square-foot pristine marble bathroom.
That's why Tex makes the big bucks.
Across town, in her own more reasonably-sized office, Annette is hard at work at the phones too. As executive director of a multinational service organization, there are plenty of bridges she has to build and funds she has to make sure flow in. She's currently smooth-talking an Australian media mogul into upping his donation by twenty percent.
Annette can only get him to commit to fifteen percent more, which is decent but not quite what she was hoping for. It's the kind of near-miss that sticks with her—both her and Tex are obsessive about the success of their companies.
At 12:30PM, Tex calls Annette right before lunch, as he has done every workday for the last thirty years. Most days are the usual "Hey, you still alive? Great, see you tonight." Click. Today though, Annette seems a little down.
Tex, knowing who she was talking to today, cracks a dingo-baby joke, exhibiting his worldliness with the worst Aussie accent this side of Meryl Streep. Most people would probably hang up and immediately call a divorce lawyer, but Annette just laughs, immediately feeling better.
2:00PM rolls around and Tex travels to his most important meeting of the day: nine quick holes at a private golf course half an hour outside of the city.
Sure, Tex knows how cliché it is for a rich and powerful oil tycoon to spend the afternoon playing a round of golf, but some of the most important deals he's ever made were made while standing on the putting green. And with a United States Senator as a part of the group, that's as likely to happen here as anywhere else.
Also, Tex really likes golf and really doesn't care what other people think.
Bill, the senator, has been a welcome addition to Tex's golf group. Tex didn't like him at first, though. He smelled funny and always asked stupid questions like "Why's your hat so big?" and "What's the point in waking up by rooster when you could just have your phone make the same exact noise?"
As soon as Tex needed someone lobbying for tax reductions in oil sales, though, Bill became Tex's best friend. Plus he's almost as bad at golf as Tex is. He's in the sand trap. Again.
At 5:45PM, Tex pulls his Porsche into his own personal twelve-car garage in the underground lot below his building. He sees Annette's reliable Jaguar in its usual spot. It's funny, out of all of these cars they have, she only ever uses that one.
Walking into the airy living room, Tex spies his wife lounging, feet up, on the couch. He glides over and pulls out a dozen roses. Annette looks at them and says, "Funny, I almost got you the same thing." She takes them and gives her husband a peck on the nose. They then spend the next half hour doing what they do every night: figuring out what they're eating for dinner.
The clock on the mantle reads 6:30PM. Some people in America are arriving at their second jobs. Others are sitting down with their families for a home-cooked meal, asking the hows and the whats of the past day. On the thirty-seventh floor of a penthouse in downtown Houston, Tex and Annette Richman come to a decision. "Fine, we'll go out," says Tex, as a boyish smile crosses his lips. "But by helicopter this time."
He makes a quick call to Earl, his pilot, then gleefully dashes out to the helipad on top of the building. As Earl opens the door, he asks where they're going this evening. Tex turns to his wife and nods, signaling that it's her decision.
"East," she says as she climbs aboard. "We'll figure out the rest on the way."