Mr. Gold’s Megalomania

The warehouse administrator, Mr. Gold constantly proved himself an amoral subhuman. He had gained the physically and mentally infirm residents’ trust by tacitly claiming to have earned a degree that made him a medical doctor. In fact some community college had merely awarded him a certificate that qualified his sawed-off shyster ass to work as a garden-variety pharmacist. He might not have even done that—I don’t remember and anyway I knew him to be a pathological liar.

Whenever I ventured into Mr. Gold’s office to discuss any well-founded problems with the shabby treatment I endured at the hands of the warehouse staff, he would feign interest and converse with me like I was a mentally competent adult (which I am though I use the term “adult” loosely). But when he dealt with me in front of staff members, other residents, or the owners of the warehouse, he treated me as if I was a retarded child. Mr. Gold had no problem patronizing patients and employees in order that he appear a benevolent authority figure to his bosses and any other visitors. Surprisingly nobody—staff, residents, or owners—saw through his act; if they did, they didn’t have the balls to call him on it.

When my parents traveled from another state to visit me, Mr. Gold, a white man, freely used the word “nigger” to describe some of the staff and residents. Apparently he’s one of those imbeciles who believe that all white people are racist behind closed doors. He would often viciously chew out a staff member in front of their co-workers and the residents in their charge. Sometimes he would summon a non-English speaking staff member into his office and relentlessly chastise them while the PA, which he had “accidentally” forgotten to turn off, broadcast the episode to the entire first floor. I once heard him remark to a guy wearing a conservative suit and a yarmulke—one of the owners—that you had to “keep after those people all the time”.

Toward the end of my sentence in the warehouse I decided to conduct an experiment. I posed the same question to Mr. Gold on three different occasions. He clearly didn’t remember from one occasion to the next, which is understandable for a busy warehouse administrator dealing with dozens of residents. But he gave three completely different answers and delivered each with the assurance that he “[knew] what [he was] talking about”. One of the last times I met with him in his office, I confronted him about the myriad lies he’d told since I’d involuntarily become a resident. He cemented his waste-of-life status when he chuckled and arrogantly advised me that he considered himself blameless because the staff, the other residents, and I seemed to believe his self-serving deceptions.

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