“You had some night, eh?” says Marty, who’s sitting at the rooftop breakfast table with his legs kicked up onto one of the chairs. The white tablecloth is caught around his legs, bunching around his $5,000 suit pants.

His shoes don’t have a single scuff on them. It’s likely he’s never even worn them before, since he’s been known to simply throw out shoes with the least bit of dirt on them.

“I don’t even want to talk about it,” I say, sitting down at the table. I take off my sunglasses, fold them, and place them next to the glass pitcher of screwdrivers that are already taking the edge off of Marty’s morning.

“Well, that’s what you pay me for,” says Marty, chuckling, without even looking up from his phone. “I really like this last part, where they talk about the cost of the wheelchair you ran over.”

“The paparazzi were hounding me,” I say, trying to stay calm. “And there was a car coming right after me. I avoided an accident, which, of course, doesn’t get mentioned at all in the article.”

“Once they decide how to brand you, it tends to stick,” says Marty, finally looking up at me. “Damn, you look terrible, man.”

“Well how do you think I should feel after last night?” I say.

A waiter appears, and we stop talking while he silently pours me a screwdriver from the pitcher.

“Would you like to order anything to eat, sir?” he says, subserviently. His shirt is perfectly starched, and his gaze is politely not meeting mine, which annoys me like nothing else.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just a coffee.”

“Just a coffee? Come on. All right, we’ll have two full English breakfasts… and don’t go light on the sausages, OK?” says Marty.

“I really don’t want anything.”

“It’ll do you good,” says Marty.

“I’m sorry, sir,” says the waiter. “But that’s, um, not on the menu.”

“Well put it on the menu then,” says Marty, slipping the guy a hundred dollar bill.

“Very well, sir,” says the waiter, disappearing from our table, looking worried as hell. He’s probably wondering what the hell a full English breakfast is and how he can get the ingredients for it. Hell, I’d like to know what a full English breakfast is myself.

Marty’s technically my employee, working for me as my publicity manager, but we’re more friends than anything else. He’s the one who taught me the importance of fine wine, expensive cars, nice clothes. He taught me how to spend my money. He’s been rich since he was born—very, very rich—and he basically took me on as a “client” for something to do, just for kicks, really.

Me, I grew up middle class and was up to my ears in student debt while I was working on my algorithm. I was technically working for Ophelia Tech, but I was my only employee, and I was working in diners, nursing lukewarm coffee for hours.

“Don’t worry so much about all this,” is Marty’s advice.

“Huh?” I say.

“The old lady, the wheelchair. You already forgot?”

“No,” I say. “I was just thinking about something.”

“Thinking’s no good for you,” says Marty. “Don’t think so much. Just try to enjoy everything. For instance, I know these guys have never served a full English breakfast in this fancy place, but I can guarantee you that for the money we’re paying, it’s going to be the best one you’ve ever had.”

“I’ve never had one,” I say.

Marty chuckles and sips his drink, and his gaze falls back onto his phone.

“Hot piece of ass, huh?” he says, showing me his phone.

It’s a model that I happen to already be personally acquainted with, if you want to put it that way. It was a one time thing, as all my relationships are. I like it that way. It’s easy. No mess. No complications. Just an exchange.

I nod my head stiffly.

“Damn,” says Marty. “You already slept with her, didn’t you?”

I shrug. I don’t like to kiss and tell.

“I can see it in your eyes,” he says, winking at me.

Marty’s hair is slicked back and his shirt is unbuttoned, showing a tuft of his chest hair. Even though he’s dressed to the nines, he can’t help coming off a bit sleazy, in a way. It’s weird, since he was practically born in restaurants like this, or at least raised in them.

There’s hardly anyone else in here, since not many people can afford this kind of place.

A team of waiters arrive and deliver the plates. It turns out a full English breakfast is just some sausages, beans, toast, an egg, tomato slices, and something I can’t identify. I laugh when I see such a “common” breakfast delivered on the ornate plates of the restaurant.

“So what am I going to do about this whole media disaster?” I say.

“Just embrace it,” says Marty, digging into his breakfast. “Who cares what people think? All press is good press, right? The Douchebag Billionaire—it has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

I laugh.

I never have cared what people think of me, anyway. I’ll send the old lady a check for triple the amount of her wheelchair and be done with it. Screw the reporters and everyone else.

We finish our breakfast and have another couple cups of coffee and a few laughs together. I pay the bill, and we head out. Marty’s off to the beach for the day, to hang out with the slew of models who hover around him whenever he lets them.

“Come on,” he says. “It’ll be fun. Did I show you the picture of the last time? That one with the red hair?”

“I’ll pass,” I say.

I can get women when I want them. I don’t need Marty’s help.

“Later, then,” he says.

I get into my Porsche, shift into first, and zoom on out of the parking garage. The Maserati is in the shop, but that’s fine with me. It’s good to get back into the Porsche. It’s a real classic, and it drives like nothing else. Why the hell have I been driving the Maserati for the last week?

San Francisco is all around me, separated from me just by my tinted windows, my windshield. The engine purrs as I downshift, slowing down as I approach a stoplight.

I easily classify the people here into groups: the wanna-be hackers, the “made” techies, the “real” San Francisco residents, who resent the techies, the service class… Everyone is divided by their jobs, by their ambitions.

Me? I’ve got it all, right?

I’m separate from the rest of them. Money does that to you.