By Julián Martinez
Good morning, I am reaching out today to make clear some topics that came up during our interview last week regarding my prior employment. I was formerly employed by a public figure known across the globe for their ubiquitous impact and influence across culture, media and beyond. What you may not know is that this public figure is, and has been, a company and not one individual.
I was responsible for the management of paid actors who portrayed this figure in public and sometimes private spaces, while the operation was overseen by a think tank that included investors, political advisors, financiers, and myself since November of 2023. Prior to that, this public figure (who I am not legally allowed to name) was a living individual by whom I was originally employed in 2018.
My legal obligation to maintain the anonymity of this person has been in effect since my signing of a non-disclosure agreement, although this may have been nullified on October 23rd, 2023, when this individual set the paper copy of said agreement on fire in my living room, shortly before what was later referred to as “the personal-professional merger.” Thus, because of the uncertain status of this agreement, I am unsure of what can and cannot be shared without direct retaliation.
I feel it is only right to inform you, looking ahead to my in-person interview with you tomorrow afternoon for the Director of Development role, to address the gap in my resume which you remarked upon in conversation. To clarify, I am sharing some of the more sensitive, “gossip-y” (for lack of a better word) details to give context to the skills and capabilities I would bring to your team.
Though my time with Drake— fuck! Fuck. Sorry! Didn’t mean to write Drake. I could backspace and delete that, but you know fucking what? It feels good to type that. It’s like, oh, who’s that one pop star? I know his name. Tip of my tongue. Oh, fuck me! Drake! Lil’ ole Canadian rapper and entrepreneur, now a nominal figurehead for what is projected to be one of the most powerful groups of leaders in the world. I mean, you name ‘em. You think of a fucked-up rich person, and they’ve got their meat hooks in Drake’s carcass and I’ve shaken those hooks like hands.
The shit I’ve seen! You don’t know the half of it. You don’t know at all! I’ve never even said this shit out loud in the privacy of my bathroom or over text or even thought about it. God forgive me for all the suffering I’ve helped put innocent people through. God forgive me for what I had to do to Aubrey.
I don’t think the rich and famous, if they believe their own lies as much as he did, have any real friends, but we got to trusting one another. When he broke into my house, I thought he was my then-girlfriend Gina, but I reached for the other side of the bed and there she was, asleep. So I hopped out of bed and turned the light on and I saw a big dark blob in front of me ‘cause I’d forgot to put my glasses on. I said, “What the fuck are you doing?” and he said my name, all soft like I was the in-the-flesh angel my mother named me after, the way he was so good at making his words gentle and pleading in love songs, and I just broke down crying ‘cause I hadn’t heard that voice in months.
Once I threw my glasses on, I saw he looked like shit, which was surreal. Gone was the manicure and face care. He’d lost a lot of weight but his face was bloated. He was wearing all the same designer clothes as before but he smelled like alleyway. He was crying but when I went in for a hug his face hardened and he punched me in the stomach. Speaking of hardened, you don’t want to know the people I’ve seen with James Harden. Anyway, he hit me and I went down and Gina screamed and called the police. That’s when Aubrey really lost it.
He thrashed everything onto the floor— tables, dressers, cabinets— then he sounded like he was crying for real and asked where I kept the work documents I’d told him about, licensing agreements and actors’ contracts. I wanted to tell him no, but I just walked into my office, found the key to the drawer and held the folder out to him. It wasn’t fear. It felt like opening the door to a restaurant for your friend as the two of you walk in. I mean, I was going to name my firstborn child after this guy for changing my life. Gina never agreed with that, but Gina and I never had a kid, so it doesn’t matter.
I knew he’d been keeping money from me and the team, that he’d been hiding all sorts of secrets, leveraging dirt on us to other industry players, playing mind games to keep control until he disappeared when the merger was first discussed by the Board. Aubrey was a liability to OVO and the Drake brand, so we kept our careers alive even if he couldn’t do the same for himself. He was an unstable megalomaniac who I knew I’d never see again, so I gave him the papers. I watched him burn them in front of me then drop the ball of fire onto my couch. “We’re free, baby, we’re free,” he said as the red-and-blue lights painted his face.
The cops took him away and the firefighters put out the flames but no one came back to ask us any questions. The patrol car was involved in an accident on the freeway. After the merger, which would’ve finalized whether the B&E by Aubrey had happened or not, my new manager called me to the conference room and informed me that my position as Assistant Coordinator would be phased out as the operation moved forward. I didn’t ask any questions— I was so zonked from pills in those days.
Drugs were how me and Aubrey got close. It’s like I was doubling my dosage to make up for his absence. Jesus, this feels good to write out. To just not stop, to say it all— and that’s not even all of it! I could write books about this shit, but they’d kill me first. I thought they were trying to for a while, what with all the Jehovah’s Witnesses that came by my front door around that time. They’d leave pamphlets in my mailbox about repenting from the Devil twice a week. Business insider magazines, pharmaceutical freebies, pink slips for the car note, notices about soon-ending medical insurance, and Devil letters.
I couldn’t repent from the Devil. I was the Devil my entire twenties. One time I answered the door and— I mean, I was too fucked up— told the missionary at the door or whatever they call themselves that I would shoot them before they shot me, and I did. Well, I thought I shot them but I’d just thrown up a rocket of tequila and tomato juice onto their shirt. They never rang again but they kept leaving their pamphlets— I wonder what codes of silence they’re bound to.
Anyways, I’ll delete this shit in a second. Just feels good to let it out over a couple drinks. Not good, really. Dumb that I haven’t put it into words before. What I should say in this email is don’t fuck with me, Mr. New Probably Boss, because I will have a goon chop your child’s fucking lips off your face with the push of one button if you so much as cut me in line for the Keurig tomorrow. And if I don’t get your stupid little job I swear to God I will sever yo
Sent from my iPhone
Julián Martinez (he/him) is the son of Mexican and Cuban immigrants and is from Waukegan, IL. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Hooligan Mag, Little Engines, The Sonora Review and elsewhere. His chapbook, ThisPlace Is Covered Head to Toe In Shit, is out in August 2024 with Ghost City Press. Find him online @martinezfjulian or martinezfjulian.com, or IRL in Chicago.