Immunity

IMMUNITY

Entitlement of Wealthy Political Notables

––––––––

A Memoir

by

Donna LeClair

Immunity

Entitlement of Wealthy Political Notables

© 2018 by Donna LeClair

All of the main character names in this book except that of the author’s have been changed to honor and respect privacy as this book was not written to harm but draw awareness. Thank you for your kindness and understanding. I appreciate it and you.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed via the Internet or via any other means or by any electronic or mechanical means, including scanning, uploading information storage, and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Publication date: Monday, January 22, 2018

First Edition

Edited by Sèan Dwyer

Cover Design by Jewell Design @ fiverr

Other books by Donna LeClair: One Little Black Book and Waking Reality

This book was printed in the United States of America.

CHAPTERS

ONE

11 - 32

ASSISTANT LIVING

TWO

33 - 58

PRIVILEGED POCKETS

THREE

59 - 94

SCARLETT AND RHETT

FOUR

95 - 108

DOMINATING PEONS

FIVE

109 - 146

CRYSTALLINE IN CLARITY

SIX

147 - 174

LITTLE NAUTI

SEVEN

175 - 192

LOOKING GLASS

EIGHT

193 - 235

AND THEN, THERE WAS NONE

AFTERWORD BY THE AUTHOR

236

To those seeking

equality

truth

and

justice

globally,

I honor you.

This book is for you.

––––––––

Immunity. im·mu·ni·ty. iˈmyo͞onədē.

Noun

1. protection or exemption from an obligation or penalty.

2. entitlement of wealthy political notables.

3. escape from life, words, choices or actions.

4. exemption from an old love.

5. denial one’s life has on another,

the consequences thereof.

6. declaration protecting honorably truth.

ASSISTANT LIVING

In a thread of quirky affairs, my path wandered not the illusion yearned, but schooling dominatrix time crowned damnably; beginning with Pauline Gram and the wealthy political notables mushrooming in an alternate universe unbeknownst to mere commoners. I witnessed fiends ablaze in ghostly untouchables living in realms howling with philanderers and rattling with serpents, while herds immortalize them in tabloids and idolize them by tracking that which they believe gospel.

This is their reality, my reality and a declaration of honorably truth.

Pauline's silicon-filled Double-D breasts float among rose petals in an infinity edge, six-feet copper bathtub filled with goat’s milk. Her right hand secures a fifth of Grey Goose vodka while the thumb on her left hand plugs her left nostril as her forefingers use a rolled hundred-dollar bill to snort a line of cocaine tub side. From the doorway, I watch Pauline’s personal maid slither on moisturizing gloves to scrub Pauline’s flawless body with Clarisonic Cleanser and La Mer Body Refiner. Pauline doesn't bathe; but rather, one bathes Pauline. Personal maids don't float in bathtubs filled with goat’s milk and rose petals. They don't float at all - the clouds are beyond realism.

Upon hearing my footsteps, Pauline turns and motions for my presence tub side. As she extends her hand, she verbalizes in a silken voice, Good Afternoon. I am Pauline Gram. Welcome to my household.

Pauline’s daily regimen includes a waking hour most stomachs gurgle after digesting teas and crumpets hours earlier and noon is beckoning its second feeding. Thirsty late-night franchises monopolized by theatrical washing machines steal her midnight hours until 2 am when sleep masks and a sleeping aid branded eszopiclone tuck her into toss-and-turns. 

I respond, breaking a blush, Good Afternoon, Mrs. Gram. I stretch over the tub and shake her hand. After a moment of hesitation, I continue, Thank you for the welcome. It is a pleasure being here.

Pauline's sapphire eyes narrow as she instructs, Donna, call me Pauline, please. Now grab paper and a pen and take notes. My head scrambled as I comb through my purse.

It was my first week in a small beach community in California and my first day of employment after answering an advertisement I found in the newspaper: FULL-TIME ASSISTANT NEEDED. INTERVIEW AND SCREENING REQUIRED. TASKS MAY VARY. CONTACT BRIAN. However, the ad excluded: wife of an American media mogul, philanthropist, and heir on Forbes list of the 400 wealthiest people in the world. The advertisement did not articulate leaving sanity and morals curbside but bundling blindfolds and earplugs. You need them. Lots of them.

It was my first time to meet Pauline Gram. Brian, the Gram’s estate manager, interviewed me beforehand, valuing the fact I was a scrupulous, middle-aged woman, grounded in Midwestern roots. He believed me to be too naïve to differentiate cocaine from baby powder, but unwavering in allegiance to entrusted family secrets. After negotiating an annual wage of $60,000, Brian screened me while I chronicled information for the Gram’s dossier. Amongst other benefits, they promised a welcomed luxury life’s circumstances caused me to lose many years prior - health care.

Brian then introduced me to Sid, the Gram's Head of Security. He was a tall, muscular middle-aged African-American gentleman with a slinky gait. After background nibbles, Sid stipulates, The Grams make and live by their own rules, and we abide by them. No questions asked. No discriminating assumptions invited. With the austerity of a four-star General, he continues, You fuck with them or share anything you witness, you will pay the consequences. Do you understand what I am saying?

I back away, hunch my shoulders, and with a look of terror, answer stuttering, Are you threatening me?

At first, he says nothing. Stares ahead. Weighs his words.

As my skeptical eyes scrutinize, he clarifies, It is my job to make sure you understand, Ms. LeClair. Their world is, well, different from your familiarities, so to them, discretion is everything. It protects a world unbeknownst to outsiders. If you do not understand, your services are no longer needed. Now, do you understand what I am saying?

I answer yes, nodding, with an intoxicating combination of suspense and enthrallment; wondering how their monarchy fluctuates apathetically to the ordinariness professed by a conventional lens.

This conversation is here and now and nowhere else. Since we have come to a clear understanding, let us seal your employment.

He then scanned my fingerprints and eyes, took three-dimensional photos of my face, and recorded the tone of my voice for their biometric security system. Within seconds, the technology transformed me into a key, and I cross over into the ghostly land of the untouchables. Ablaze with fiends, rattling like serpents.

Back in Pauline’s room, I sink inside a beaded sage peacock chair and with head down, start scribbling. 

Uh... we need milk. Pasteurized goat’s milk that is, Pauline slurs, tossing the hundred at me. Four more hundreds are laying on the dresser. Goat’s milk is $4.30 a gallon. You will need to buy 100 to fill the next tub. Keep the change.

Startled, I ask, walking over to the dresser and tucking the hundreds into my notebook, Do you always bath in goat milk?

Why not? I am, after all, Pauline Gram. I don’t just bathe in it; I drink it. Pauline scans my face and body before continuing, It looks like you should as well.

Not too many people can afford the luxury of goat’s milk, especially for bathing.

Feeling disrespected, Pauline shoots back, Ms. LeClair, in case you don’t know, goat’s milk helps support healthy digestion, lowers risk of diabetes, supports weight and fat loss, and reduces high blood pressure.

Pauline drinks a fifth of vodka daily, snorts multiple lines of cocaine and her motherly nature resembles that of Maria Theresa, the Empress who transformed the Holy Roman Empire but criticized her children for being weak and frivolous. However, one could not deny one distinct attribute: despite her weaknesses and frankness in delivery, she had an eidetic memory with total recall and an intellect worthy of Mensa.

Scanning my body yet again, Pauline asks, I may call you Donna, may I not?  I nod approval as she continues, As I said, it will soften that skin. We could all use a little help. Goat’s milk contains compounds with moisturizing actions that benefit skin; so, don’t judge it until you try.

Impressed by her knowledge of the subject, I ask, stuttering, May I please use some of your goat milk?

Of course, Donna; but, not in front of David. He considers it stealing.

Woe! Stealing! I am sorry, I thought...

I know what you thought, Donna, and I can see why you would think it was okay. The problem is people can easily take advantage of our kindness, and as many people as this household employ, it would be like feeding an army! Pauline says, snickering.

Pauline, we are talking about a drop of milk.

Yep, that’s how it starts. A drop of this, a nibble of that. Pretty soon, it is a gallon of this, a loaf of that. Before you know it, Sid is checking purses and bags because what is ours, has become theirs!

Pauline sits up in the tub and giving me a look, elevates her right brow, signifying clarification and closure. Her masterful Machiavellianism personality redirects the subject, Honey, you need to do something about those tits. I mean you should get a boob job or something.

As I shift my breasts in my bra, I fire back, Pauline, you asked me to take notes, so maybe we should start.

I struggle to judge Pauline as I now feel she is me. Everybody has their story, and no one has the right to shy away from blemishes scarred to another yet ask acceptance of their own. I figure the mirror of my image does not appear so flawless that my ego, ignorance or inhibitions can cast stones on the river of insecurities behind the mask another bears.

I also know the road is too long and narrow to travel alone, so I sit back, bite my lower lip and listen for Pauline's response.

I want to plan a party, Donna, says Pauline.

My ears perk as soft images reminisce simpler times in Ohio: old-fashioned, down-home parties with friends gathered around a fire pit, singing and partaking giggles storied once upon a youth.  I break a smile, thinking a party shall be a fine introduction to my new life because surely there is some hint of normality in California. Surely.

Now out of the tub, Pauline wraps a fresh towel around her long thick blond tresses’ and ask me to towel her body while she parches her vagina with a blow dryer.

Why do you dry your vagina with a blow dryer? I inquire.

You have never had a vaginal infection, or you would know; it kills bacteria.

Oh, I see, and you are right, I never have.

You must not have a lot of sex, she snickers.

I ignore the insult and spend five minutes buffing Pauline’s feet before applying Keralyt Gel 6% to her heels; after all, head-to-toe grooming is a prerequisite in the immaculate world of the untouchables. Pauline reminds me of the Barbie doll Mattel perfected, and I played with as a child.  Flawless and chiseled, her face looks like plastic molded on an assembly line, and her porcelain veneers could light up an entire city. Her waist is teeny, pulled tight by plastic surgery. Although her legs and buttocks show no sign of cellulite, I giggle to myself while drying her lower back where fat cells gather and expand.

Facing the mirror, I glide my hands up and down my back: comparing, wondering, distressing. Although my figure is fluffy with middle-age sagging and my thighs dimple with clusters, my fuller face is wrinkle-free. My auburn hair falls in long loose waves to just below my shoulders; yet, after surveying Pauline's superficial loveliness, my shoulders drop and round.

Okay, the party. Let us make a list, Pauline says, throwing me an address book. I flip through the pages, recognizing renowned names I assume subsisted in tabloid magazines. I shake my head, wondering what I got myself into and who was the lady veiled behind the curtain, gulping the last swig of Grey Goose.

Donna, our grounds hold about 500 people so only invite the people checked in my address book. Oh, and make sure Leo Powell and his dog Benjamin are on the list. It is important.

Dog!

Yes, Donna, dog, Pauline scorns, flipping her hair into a bun high atop her head.

In the middle of discussing the party arrangements and dictating the details, Pauline waxes her pubic hairs. I wax myself because after I gave birth to my youngest child, Luke, the Doctor put extra stitches down there to tighten things up. I went for a waxing, pointing the stitches out to the esthetician who was talking so much, she forgot and ripped out the stitches! Never jumped off a table so fast in my life.

Yikes! I screech, cupping my vagina.

Some things a lady never forgets, Pauline jokes as she hikes her leg up to the bathroom sink.

She is so inebriated her legs slip beneath her, and she flies across the floor as the vanity mirror catches the wax. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is my first day of work. Danger Will Robinson, Danger!

I help Pauline off the floor and wrap a robe around her as she continues talking without missing a beat, Our estate supervises four chefs and ten butlers. They can cook and serve. Sid takes care of security. Kindly have him schedule fifteen guards for the evening.

Fifteen guards! I repeat, dumbfounded.

Donna, since you have already met Sid, please meet with him later so he can explain our security, Pauline suggests.

As I log the meeting into my appointment book, I glance over and find Pauline stumbling to bed. I tuck her under the sanctuary of covers as she slurs, I seem to have lost my address book. Oh boy, after all of that work; now we need to start over. Donna, please buy another one. I shake my head, baffled, holding up the book as Pauline breathes her first snore.

It is early evening, and the moon is shadowing illusions with lengthy silhouettes of moments past. Between sniffles of cocaine, guzzles of vodka, lapses in consciousness and recurring babbles, I exhausted one whole day catering to the beckoning of Pauline Gram while surrendering my perfect foreseeable sanity.

As Pauline slumbers from intoxication to sobriety, I whisk her hair out of her eyes. She reminds me of an invisible child masking wounds; sorrow fills my heart that she, appearing to have everything, has nothing at all. Pauline was immune from everything but the reflection in the mirror and the shadows chosen between good and evil.

Before faxing over the party invitation for printing, I bathe five-year-old Luke who is pleading for attention. Luke is a fine young gentleman. Devilishly handsome: deep brown eyes with thick curly brown locks; he is also the ‘special’ privileged Prince. Whenever Pauline got pregnant after delivering four daughters and doctors announced the sex as female, David ordered an abortion because he longed for a male to carry on the family name. Finally, Pauline was carrying a male, but complexities arose when the doctor announced she was carrying twins. David forced Pauline to abort one of the twins illegally in Europe because he made himself clear, he wanted a son. Only one.

Luke knew he was the chosen one; likewise, Pauline knew the rewards gifted after his birth. Neiman Marcus closed their store the evening after delivery so Pauline, garbed in her hospital gown with intravenous tubes dragging from their pole and out of her veins, could shop. She spent more money that night than Neiman Marcus made all week. Both Pauline and Luke were well skilled in manipulating the privilege bestowed upon him in the womb and she, in the birthing.

Here’s the reality about the chosen ones born with a silver spoon: parents pay handsomely for their children to be normal without any recollection of what that means because they, themselves, never savored the simple mechanisms obligatory for survival. They were and are never taught mundane tasks such as making beds, picking up after themselves, doing laundry, cleaning their rooms