Dexter Horton IV was a self-made man, and he never let you forget it. The sun at the center of his solar system, around whom the satellites revolved. Starting a business from the bottom up, five wives and two estranged sons later, he was the CEO of Fortune 500 company. While many CEOs had limousines, Dexter drove to work in his Bugatti Veyron. Truth be told, there never was a Dexter Horton I, II, or III. He tacked IV onto the end of his name because it sounded more impressive.
Dexter demanded perfection from his underlings. The turnover rate was high. The one person he was close to was Eileen, his secretary of 27 years. She was his first employee.
At least, everyone, included herself, always thought she was the one person he cared about. That's before she was injured in a traffic accident. He never visited her in the convalescent home. After rehab, she showed up for work, only to find out that he replaced her without notification.
He bought his two sons, by different wives, into Harvard Business School. He didn't consult them. They balked. They had no interest in following in his footsteps. He cut them out of the will and broke off further communication. For them it hardly made any appreciable difference in their lives, since he was more like a sperm donor than a father.
Dexter was riding high until one day, at a board meeting, he suffered a stroke. It wasn't a massive stroke, but he was hospitalized, and underwent physical therapy. At first he had to use a walker around the convalescent home.
He ran the company from his hospital bed. Summoned his entourage, holding court in the convalescent center, barking orders, berating subordinates. He was in his element.
But one day the retinue never appeared. The king was vexed. Turns out the board quietly relieved him of the chairmanship and pensioned him off, citing a termination clause for incapacity. Dexter was in high dudgeon and threatened a lawsuit, but it was all perfectly legal.
With the courtiers gone, Dexter was alone all day, every day. He phoned his wives and sons, not having spoken to them for years. One son paid a visit. This was the last chance to be reconciled. For the first few minutes they had a formally pleasant exchange, but Dexter began to complain about how negligent his son was. Never sent him a birthday card or Christmas card. As the conversation degenerated, Dexter called his son a "loser" for refusing to go to Harvard Business School. After the chewing out, his son never came back. That was the first time and last time a family member went to see him. Now Dexter was more alone than ever. For the first time, after his son stormed out of the room, Dexter cried.
When a chaplain tried to talk to him, Dexter cursed him out. Organized religion was a crutch for the weak. He didn't need God. He didn't need anyone! He was a self-made man!
Dexter had a roommate whose bed was by the window. Dexter seethed about the fact that his roommate had a view while Dexter was one bed over, away from the view. He hoped his roommate would die soon. The sooner the better. That was the one thing he was tempted to pray about. Had he been a praying man, that's what he'd prayer for–his roommate's swift demise, so that Dexter could have the bed by the window.
One night his roommate began groaning in pain. Dexter struggled to get out of bed on his own, staggered over to his roommate's bed, and yanked the remote out of reach so that his roommate couldn't use the panic button.
But he stumbled and fell as he pivoted to go back to his own bed. Due to the injury, Dexter was confined to a wheelchair.
Next morning, after his dead roommate was taken away, they moved Dexter to the bed by the window. But when he finally had a chance to look out the window, it was facing a concrete wall. That was the view.
He tried to order the nurses around, making lewd comments about their appearance and groping them when they came within reach. As a result, they stopped responding when he needed someone to walk him to the bathroom. He wet himself and soiled himself while they ignored him. He felt like a missing person. After a while, people stop looking for you. They adjust to the absence. You're gone, but life goes on.
One night he was seized by wracking chest pain. He pumped the panic button, but no one came. He died clutching the panic button. When they discovered him in the morning, it was curled in the grip of his rigid fist.
