Rattle: When Even Wealth Misses the Itch

By JP Paul

TOO BIG to question? TOO POWERFUL to confront?

Max Proctar sits in his lounger, oblivious to shadows whispering barbs to derail the masochist in wobbled flight. His wife and siblings skipped town long ago. Beloved children can’t bare to watch him implode. New neighbors demand his immediate elimination, legal or otherwise. Nothing evokes compromise from the man with the coveted lynchpin holdings at the core of this once sleepy Florida town. Even corporate skullduggery rarely elicits a flinch from someone whose days are ranked by genuine smile count and friendly voices. The ostracized patriarch admits his best intentions might kill. Not until beloved family members embark on similar paths to self destruction is Max spurred to react. Despite family follies that suggest the contrary, strained principles must somehow prevail.

Rattle introduces a refreshing voice that reads poetic, rawly emotive and frequently restless. A rambunctious tale with ominous tangents shrouding each existential challenge, Rattle is a comedy-drama that, for many of us, strikes very close to home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JP Paul
• Release date: Nov 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370813308

JP Paul

J.P. Paul is a writer of British, North and South American descent. Living in diverse cultures helped mold uniquely nuanced perspectives and enriched his visual-verbal dialog. Prior to creating his first works of fiction, Paul worked as a features reporter for international news publications in South America & the Caribbean. After an unfulfilling foray into corporate life, he returned to writing. JP contributes regularly to information services dedicated to visual & literary arts as well as contemporary education, progressive think tanks and alternative imaging groups. When not working, JP is most likely to surface near a beach or mountaintop with his family. If there’s a friendly neighborhood pub nearby that welcomes canines and offers comfortable loungers with three dimensional views, all the better!Other fictional works and feature essays by JP Paul include Empty the Nest, Only Indigo, Crack/ed, Empty the Nest, Plight of the Campesino, Saving the Lakes, Finding Huntington’s Cure and Take the Dance.

Book preview

1

One Alley Divided

Throughout Zara Proctar’s childhood, population in Cane Alley fluctuated between fifty and five hundred based on seasonal harvests, failed contraception and the successful escape ratio of anxious youths .

Four years later, with a college degree for the wall, Zara’s birthplace no longer chipped methodically at her self-worth. A welcome plaque in the central square claimed this once bucolic Florida village as the new home for three thousand of humanity’s brightest innovators and growing. According to the bar lore of local sleuths, genius gnomes could be spotted pondering the planet’s larger equations beneath manicured shrubbery, once the raucous sanctuary reserved for farmer spawn and unabashed carnal pursuit.

On this morning, colorful songbirds were back to assume pride of place on the leafiest top limbs, chirping approval in unison after last night’s breezes forced upon them the indignation of slumming for breakfast scraps among the ground provisions of lesser species. On the path below, Zara was off her regular jogging pace. Instead of taking her usual route featuring state-of-the-art outdoor exercise stations, she chose the short cut across the corporate greenbelt for the final leg of her

morning

trek

.

Zara dashed along the freshly paved contemplation trails framing the intimidating think tank. Recognizable faces of early-arrivals and never-lefts were already in their work pods buried in binary. Denying gravity, she assumed the pedestrian’s instinctive rain flinch to attempt to pass undetected along the shadowed west wall of Quad One, Global Cybernetics Corporation’s showcase of architectural repute.

No such luck. Nestled in a corporate cube on the flip side of glass waved the young man offering reprieve from years of self-imposed social abstinence. The applause from Jason Brannigan and his colleagues was boisterous, albeit inappropriate, at such an early hour. A nod would have sufficed.

Zara and her partner chose to compromise on the provisional risk-reward construct of base-clearing dates. Novel songs of love and jewels were to be left on hold, especially while the Proctar family’s decaying barns and perpetual debauchery tarnished most sight lines to the pristine 21st-century quad. Fucking was allowed. Already nine figures into the red with another major phase yet to break ground, GCC corporate officers were not impressed with the local sloth, Max Proctar, their heel-dragging neighbor otherwise known to Zara

as

Dad

.

Surroundings no longer mattered to Zara, be they concrete, farmlands or her boyfriend’s love-stained bed. She wasn’t concerned that fossils farmed by future generations from this once fertile area would be dominated by digital debris. Brother Dack was the tree hugger. Zara returned to Cane Alley to bury herself in visual art. Tech-neutral in a rural enclave now smothered by bits and bytes, of singular urgency was self-revelation from her nexus of canvas, brush and paint. Even with the surface noise wafting through the village, it was impossible not to be stoked by a promising future, despite her father’s sullied presence.

Zara lightened her pace upon return to the family fortress, homestead for four generations of Proctars and regrettably counting. From the entrance to the winding drive, Zara spotted Max sipping his morning brew on the covered porch. Clothed in his signature jeans with the worn crotch of fading resistance, reality quashed Max’s lifestyle once perceived as infinite. Contrarily, Zara felt alive inside, potent. Outside she eschewed the tension of skeletons whispering barbs to derail her father during his wobbled flight. Today’s schedule left little time to babysit the masochist. Perhaps some subtle therapy or a kick in the ass might suffice. Zara turned up the path to her temporary abode.

Max Proctar awoke at 6:00 am each morning with a headache and a hard-on, grim reminders of what did and didn’t happen the night before. While brewing his first pot of Cataña custom roast, he’d sing to himself in a forced rural drawl, Well, I wake up in the morning and I say to myself, I say self, what are you thinking? He’d head to the porch to sit motionless for hours during his daily implosion, eyes riveted at the tail end of a procession of nondescript fleet cars entering the parking complex precisely on cue at five minutes before eight. With nary a recognizable face with whom to converse, he forced himself to watch new neighbors, filing they were like drones to the hive that now engulfed once-flowered gardens. He stared with a stone in hand, motioning to strike. Max rarely succumbed to impulse, though after the corporate invasion it seemed so easy to condemn those who conformed for those like himself who

dared

not

.

A travesty, he’d mutter, How can self-respecting persons delay their work day until eight? What humans allow themselves to be herded like cattle? Isn’t this the century when workers thrive on independence and middle managers with antiquated cattle prods fade into irrelevance?

Arriving a few moments too early to avoid her father’s latest rant, Zara interjected, "Jason and his work group have been in Quad One crunching code since 5:00 am. And you? Still allergic to responsible

behavior

,

Dad

?"

"What woke you so early, my dearest only daughter, and with the shade

no

less

?"

"My legs needed a good stretch. I miss the college gym now that I’m back, for lack of a better

expression

,

home

."

Why don’t you have lover-boy sign you up for a membership to their corporate fitness center? Push a button, instant health. Dial up a six pack or tighten your rack. I’m sure they’ve invented a few machines to simulate moribund functions like running or bun tightening, all progress tracked of course by their latest fashion-forward, wearable technology. Great! One notch better today.

"My life is not a zero sum game. I don’t want to gain a gym only to lose a

family

home

."

You believe I could be that spiteful toward flesh and blood?

Four years in college honed my observation skills.

On the Max rubric, this morning seemed comparatively sedate. Speed-talking before Zara could flee, he recalled watching a piece of plastic bag float aimlessly in the air along the road until it became lodged among the highest limbs of the Proctar’s prized willow. There it fluttered in the wind like a stranger, void of natural beauty or purpose high among the most elusive surroundings.

From the upper balcony, Max would watch the bag squirm, failing to free itself for the better part of two years. Neighbors left, others arrived. Two parents and a friend passed away in less time than it took this bag to finally yield in flaccid acceptance as it fell unnoticed to the street gutter below, only to succumb to further humiliation from tractor burn and

spewed

ash

.

Last evening, Max was carted away once again by the local security company after dressing up as a bear with an inkjet-printed Park Ranger badge crazy-glued to stamped metal. Standing on a grassy knoll at the corner of his property, Max warmed up the Microsoft visitors from Seattle with a serenade of Duwamish rain chants. Why any native tribe from the Pacific Northwest would bother to coax more rain was anyone’s guess, but this was Max Proctar logic. He admired their ability to bring down the wet stuff in buckets, seemingly on call, any day of the year. He followed the ice-breaking tunes by shouting random numbers in a vain attempt to solicit response of any kind from the traveling sales representatives as they returned to their vehicles after a bargaining session with GCC buyers.

"9. 187. 65. 14. 3,400. Square root. 87. Tilde. 46, 118, 7.321… When I came back to trick them with a duplicate 14, that should have fucked them up good. After no reaction beyond a smirk and nod… okay, I

insulted

them

."

Need I ask?

questioned

Zara

.

"I just told them to try to graph my new suggestions for the town on their slap-happy apps like those smarmy little rat bastards from GCC they call clients. In hindsight, I’m not

sure

why

."

Zara’s patience was already frayed as the morning narrative proceeded along its familiar path. Before you blow another circuit with your nonsense, do you mind if I ask who bailed you out and brought you home last night?

The same lemmings who took me over to the precinct.

"How deep was the hit

this

time

?"

"Nothing but a hand slap. It seems the cretins recanted their accusations after I reminded them of a quaint little document entitled the First Amendment complete with an introduction to fundamental property rights. A warning. Laugh worthy. Push on. Nothing more to

see

here

."

I’d be careful if I were you, Dad. One day you’ll pick the wrong target and get slugged by an erratic programmer on an Adderall withdrawal after a seventy-two-hour coding blitz.

Not likely. GCC needs me happy.

That’s not what I hear. Vultures hover. Have you ever struggled to pick a sliver of glass out of your foot, then toss it aside in rage only to step on it again seconds later?

"Sorry, I

lost

you

."

"You know what I’m saying. GCC has had enough. They’re not afraid to remove you from your property by any means possible. They match your persistence and dwarf your resources. And you can put down that rock you’re holding

anytime

now

."

—

Industrial hum broke the morning’s silence, soon amplified by an executive helicopter landing on the GCC roof pad. To the few like Zara who still bothered to listen, Max often reminisced that all he could hear at the break of dawn in nostalgic Cane Alley were double-barreled tinnitus and the wild screech of fucking pheasants. Once a sanctuary, a buffer, his oasis now conceded to the incongruous clatter of suburb and silicon.

Liquidating the estate would have been the logical choice, an economic windfall for every landowner in the tiny village that few imagined before the technophiles and angel investors of Global Cybernetics Corporation approached with lucrative land buyouts too handsome to resist. For most in Cane Alley, laboring twelve hours per day to extract barely sustainable yields from depleted soils paled to the fantasy of instant wealth and Caribbean villas. Max, like his father, rarely made the obvious choices even when they spanked him flush on his sun-battered cheeks.

Villagers assumed that Max declined to sell the substantial family holdings in memory of his late father, Hank Proctar, the holdover from nostalgic days when hard work and a passing reference to divine worship seemed all that mattered in these parts. Zara and brother Dack ignored uninformed misinterpretations. Despite their absence, they knew their father no longer worked the expansive sugarcane acreage. He rarely seemed to be doing much of anything and never attended the local church long before his parents passed away. Max was no Henry, yet stay he did. He was an artist, not a farmer. He still refused to leave.

Max called the life-altering sale wrong. Everyone else called it right. He’d shout that saving Cane Alley was possible. They claimed it wasn’t worth the fight. After the insults and despite the shouts, GCC engulfed what once belonged to generations of family and cherished friends, leaving the Proctar holdings surrounded by plaster, plexi and polycarbonates.

First to sprout as veiled recompense were the essential sunshine state lifestyle amenities: golf and tennis, Olympic-sized swimming pool and a cookie-cutter strip mall in a coral-salmon blend topped by a fake turret and garish moldings that sucked all intimacy from the once affable core. Max’s property was next in line for the bulldozer, with or without his approval, if recent rumors were to be proven correct.

It was easy to lament the decision to hold fort after everyone else chose to cash out and flee. Max was forever reminded of squandered opportunities while his children and siblings forwarded tantalizing tales of their bustling lives beyond Cane Alley, many hastily texted during taxi rides while scurrying like rats along the bases of towering glass in the biggest and best of elsewhere.

Zara and Dack raved throughout their out-of-state academic experiences. Max never admitted that bygone years of pub crawling just steps from NYU’s art faculty were his life’s pinnacle to date. He smelled his stubbornness every time he entered the local pharmacy and caught the scent of a Gucci sampler, the racy one, his beloved wife’s fragrance of choice. Or so it was before Lillian Proctar ran aground, exhausted by Max’s insolence. Lillian saddled up with Rupert Hawkings, the real estate magnate from nearby Palm Beach who wedged himself into the GCC vs. Cane Alley negotiations grappling for a lucrative stream of life-altering commissions. Rupert preferred the aromas of vetiver and forest floor, as did Lillian to Max’s dismay. Proctar males were raised to be men’s men. Faithful to the breed, nothing beyond unscented talc would suit the creed.

Max still spent too many hours wondering what may have changed if he had accepted the musky

green

moss

.

Zara understood her father better than most. Both liked the security of something familiar touching their feet. They never wanted to feel alone but needed too much space. Fading in and out when it felt right, they’d peer from the outside looking in as long as there were no barriers to block return. Neither were control mongers, nor did they harbor illusions of leadership. They were artists, driven by and for personal rewards.

Brother Dack chose journalism. Anxious and inquisitive since childhood, family and friends knew he’d never survive on a farm and would eventually break the generational chain regardless of whether Max sold the property or not. Dack wanted the freedom to explore unique moments himself rather than through the fables of others. Word of mouth meant little. He’d much rather do it than hear it or read

about

it

.

All three remaining Proctars needed to see and breathe and move at will. They were obsessed with the desire to create their own comfort zones, a series of open-door pit stops in a world without walls. Max helped raise his children well. He stayed in Cane Alley despite himself. Nobody, least of all his children, predicted that he would challenge the inevitable corporate development with such disdain and personal sacrifice.

—

Zara went upstairs to prepare for a luncheon at her aunt’s art gallery, a short drive to the coast on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. Max placed his spiked coffee tenuously on the rutty arm of the family’s heirloom rocker. He’d recently adopted the most inappropriate spirit for South Florida’s climate as his go-to morning beverage. Cognac, smooth and regal with hints of licorice and black pepper, an elegant beverage challenged only by the most elite single malt Scotch from Speyside, Islay and the Northern Highlands. French selections were outrageously priced. Max settled for an honest alternative from Uruguay by a cottage distiller who’d earned the right to call their creations cognac after some timely assistance for the French government

during

WW2

.

Grinding his teeth in fastidious Proctar tradition, Max readjusted his ball cap and stood with caution to stretch a proud but failing torso. The smoky voice had long failed to impress, leaving him to choke on melancholy in bold display played forward through vitriolic sockets where caring eyes once resided. Off he’d go again, seething, wheezing, a self-betrayal of burning bridges tumbled before their crossing.

Max adjusted the portable television he left on the porch for catching the occasional breaking news snippet of interest that rarely came. Too many early-morning shots began their push. Drifting to and fro, he zapped between fantasies of the unabashed escapist through galactic hops of choice. The television flashed memories, now so silent, as separation and dizzy dashes played the villain’s role. Steadfast on its corner stool beamed the 24/7 glow of the tunnel tube, a pillow of habitual breakfast noise muffled by distant domestic chatter, a portal to familiar roots fought for light as the enemy loomed past rotting barns.

Max could dial a digital celluloid to anchor his soul. He’d feel the planet’s pulse as he savored the giant poet. He cheered for pint-sized players while they scampered on distant green, feigning the parched oasis of somewhere that couldn’t be seen. Even when hurricane winds blew and burning doors engulfed, he’d shatter them with the soothing eyes and customary smiles of news anchors seen around the clock. He honored the tones of the guiding voice as corporate cops strolled by

his

sill

.

A ball game after midnight. The comfort of recognition like his favorite Dolphins cap, his prized linen sweater and Levis faded to bare thread. He searched for the QC channel selling down-filled comforters wondering how Cane Alley could possibly still

be

home

.

Max sat on the brink while the clock ticked without effect. It was barely 9:15 am. The television was ready to say good night.

—

Blooming late enabled Zara to concentrate on academics for a few extra years before her hormones made their formidable debut. By the end of high school, she was one of the region’s most promising students, a skilled painter and the ceiling poster for many local boys. Her girl-next-door candor and effervescent personality were barstool friendly. The social dates were also there, once, perhaps a second or third if the date didn’t provoke hyperventilation. Cane Alley locals eventually accepted that Zara’s future would never be that of a doting wife for any sugarcane farmer regardless of the size of his plot. Nor was the stare down from Zara’s father worth the ridicule of inevitable rejection as predictable as a four o’clock Miami shower. Most boys turned instead to Wicked Winona, she of zero preconceptions and a willingness to match each wanton plunge.

In retrospect, Winona rebounded well from her nadir. After pretending to graduate high school — she was the one with the tassel-free pie hat and the empty envelope — Winnie managed to carve a nice career for herself at Miami Dade Correctional where her high school major finally bore fruit and a decent living in the form of prepaid conjugal visits.

Academic prowess carried Zara through college and garnered multiple post graduate scholarship offers. While contemplating potential paths during her final semester in New York, she considered the benefits of a bridge year in Cane Alley before continuing her studies as far away from home as a circular planet would permit. Most former neighbors were long gone, not that there were many friendships of particular interest worth the consequences to venture back. Spending time alone with her father might hold intrigue for both. An apprenticeship seemed like the perfect catalyst for Zara’s artistic growth before returning to the structure of theoretical academics. She dreamed she could revive Max’s lost spark while he mentored her with his fertile creativity combined with a solid grasp of form and balanced aesthetics.

Zara hadn’t anticipated meeting Jason Brannigan, a GCC digital imaging and marketing specialist on the rise. He was recruited from a software firm in Orlando. Frustrated with the lengthy process and visa scarcity when hiring qualified foreign employees to fill thousands of open technology positions nationwide, the owners of Jason’s former company packed the entire corporation and ventured offshore. They divided the managerial staff between India and China where skilled programmers and chip-burning gurus lined up to work for relative pocket change. Jason preferred to stay in Florida despite the offshore trend.

With a knack for driving simple messages home through memorable phrases and crisp graphic impact, Jason transitioned easily into GCC. His relationship with Zara developed equally smooth. They started with casual group gatherings the first week, shifted to private dates in the second and steamy sex in the third. Due to her unanticipated social life, Zara rarely saw her father Max long enough for a decent session.

—

After a quick shower, Zara returned downstairs to brew her morning coffee only to find Max well into his second pot and the dark side of a fifth. Thick air from the aborted discussion lingered.

"I see you’re still smoking, Dad. Didn’t you say

you

quit

?"

"That was yesterday. I’m still on and off. Sometimes I have a cigarette in my mouth. Sometimes I don’t. Before I forget, can you remind me to check the floor joists? This place rumbled all night. The breeze barely registered on the storm tracker yet I couldn’t fall asleep until three in the morning. I’m worried this blasted old house won’t withstand another

Cat

Five

."

Somewhat less than subtle. Jason wanted me to review some of his design projects, so he popped over. It was long after you’d gone to your room, so we spared you the greetings.

I’ll say he popped. What projects did he present, a lunar landing on my daughter?

"Enough already, Dad. Okay, we had sex. I was in guilt phase for coming long before him, so I went the extra yard. Jason made his final moan before rolling awkwardly off the far side of the bed into his clothes scrum on the floor. I jumped on him and got it done. Then I came for a second time since his sculpted body and tight butt looked as hot framed in moonlight as it did hours before. It was a nice fuck. There were no choirs from above, no sirens or congratulatory fist bumps. Solid, consistent and steady in a bass player kind of way all accentuated with a peck on the cheek. Is that what you wanted

to

hear

?"

You could have spared me the details.

"Jesus, Dad, you brought it up. I’m twenty-two. Jason’s twenty-eight. We’re consenting adults. You’re good with that by

now

,

yes

?"

I won’t bother explaining how that works from a father’s perspective. After less than a month, seems you’re rushing...

"Relax. I’ve gone over all that with Mom. A

decade

ago

."

"Do you really believe you love

this

guy

?"

"Love him? Hell no, not yet, but the bones have potential as you always

remind

me

."

I wasn’t talking about flesh and carcasses, I was talking about investment properties. Buildings! Development sites! Maybe a superb location for a public art project? When did I ever mention a boyfriend?

"That’s crap and you know it. Give me some credit for putting up with you so long. Do you remember back in high school? Every time I brought over a guy, you dragged me into the hallway to tell me to dump the loser because you didn’t think you’d be able to trust yourself alone in a fishing boat with goofy grandchildren. Maybe you despise Jason’s employer, but he’s bright and focused and sure as hell isn’t painful to

look

at

!"

Could you at least try to be more discrete? I’ve been alone in this monstrous house for four years after your grandparents passed away and everyone else evacuated. I hear everything down to nails shifting and the slightest bird skirmish on the roof. There hasn’t been a scent of sex in this house for years. By the way, where is your acrobatic squeeze? Or do I have to pretend to leave so he’ll come downstairs for breakfast?

Jason slipped out long ago. He didn’t stay the night. We’re not there yet, especially in your house. See, I played that card before you could. No need for unnecessary confrontation on a weekday morning.

Please tread lightly. I need to absorb this slowly. What ever happened to kids your age dipping under their covers with a porn magazine, hand cream and a flashlight?

"We’re

not

ten

."

Ten? I didn’t steal my first girlie magazine until I was fifteen. Kids these days are growing up too fast. It must be true. Dan Quayle often mentioned it on the Family Channel before he shrank into former-VP oblivion.

"Never thought I’d see the day you’d quote a politician. Hey, back up. You’re not trying to tell me that you miss Mom? Doesn’t seem appropriate for any

Proctar

male

."

Hindsight sucks. Max paused for a moment before continuing in his patented, attention-seeking plea drone. "We both put up the white flags years ago, her long before me, now that I think about it. Incompatibility discovered twenty years

too

late

."

You never fought while I was around. I always felt you were from different galaxies, but there must have been common ground to last a quarter century.

Call it ubiquitous denial, false hope and crumbled expectations. Maybe hearing you and Jason could have rekindled our own relationship. Sorry, I retract. For years I convinced myself that everything would improve after the turmoil of the village sale subsided. I wanted Lillian to see that fulfilling lives didn’t have to end at forty, postpartum or even after work. I’d never felt this alive, nor fifty.

I think you have that one backward. You seemed to be the one who unplugged long before Mom, even years before I left for college.

Perhaps, but your mother also tuned out permanently after she met the smooth talker.

Rupert Hawkings?

Rupert, right. After two plus decades, I didn’t think I was still auditioning for the role of husband. What is the appropriate response to silence after yet another night of potential bedroom euphoria quashed by a sleeping partner? I soon discovered that you never mess with your spouse’s REM stage. More than once I was impaled on a swift elbow to the ribs. I needed a signal that we were still lying under the same sheets in body, mind and soul. Instead, I received more of the dirty two letter word starting with N and ending with O forever scorned by all vanquished males.

I’m not sure this is the right time unless you offer me some of that cognac to accompany my coffee.

"Help yourself, and top me up while you’re

at

it

."

It’s not even nine o’clock... What the hell, go ahead.

"Look, I wanted your Mom to feel alive like the early days when dusk and dawn signaled rampant lovemaking without regard for the substrate, crib crawlers or restless relatives across the hall. Those were the glory days when sex never seemed like a stat or an obligation. I was finally ready once again to give her new experiences and rekindle special moments.

If

only

..."

Don’t stop now. Consider it catharsis. I’ll rinse my ears later. It seems like you’ve been suppressing this for awhile.

It started understandably, a litany of reasons too plausible to doubt. One day you’ll hear or use them all yourself, from the reliable headaches, tiredness, work stress and child pressure to the inevitable monthly events that over the years seem to stretch to fortnight no-fly zones even when we all know there is more than one way to travel. And what’s up with going to bed in the privacy of one’s darkened bedroom wearing flannel pajamas, those dreaded chastity belts for a clumsy male? Even now, every time I approach stop signs at street corners, all I see are Lillian’s panties perched on poles.

"Is this a fatherly warning? Please tell me there’s a takeaway for me

from

this

."

"Never

turn

off

."

—

Zara was always transparent with her father, much more than her brother. Dack hovered beyond arm’s length. For years, he felt the pressure of living up to their grandfather’s maleness and too close to the fall-out zone whenever their father revolted against his self-imposed malaise. For Zara, Max’s belligerence was a cry for help far too late to save a marriage, another raw defeat for the failing institution that could have been avoided.

"I’m trying to understand your side, but it sure as hell sounds like you screwed

up

,

Dad

."

"Look, I know I’m not what I once was. I accept that the present me at fifty can’t compete with memories of college guys at twenty or the thrill of the high life offered by your aunt Maddy. I wanted to try. Mom had already

checked

out

."

You can’t honestly believe it was sexual? Don’t you think Mom was simply past prime for new scenery and challenges? You must admit she hadn’t been happy in Cane Alley for years?

I blame myself.

"I’m not letting you off that easy. Rupert Hawkings is not private diary material. He’s slick and shiny, a social shaker who says all the right things. But he’s a weasel, don’t you think? If Mom was looking for a boy toy with a new motor, why’d she choose one older and even less fit

than

you

?"

"Oh ya, thanks for that endorsement, but you’re right. We disengaged over the future, not the past. I couldn’t reinvent myself to fly around pretending to be Richard Branson. Rupert offered Cannes, Bali and a beach condo befitting her circle. He brought social acceptance and front row tickets to every major happening. Hell, he gave her a lifestyle she could appreciate. I offered a back porch overlooking a glistening new parking garage beside a disgruntled flake who wouldn’t man up. Maybe this will get me off my ass. Enough already about me, what are you planning now that you’ve completed a fine arts degree as insignificant

as

mine

?"

"Touché for that encouragement. Why did you let me go to art college if you thought I was wasting

my

time

?"

"I didn’t say that. You needed to make your own decision. Look, you have the eye, the hands, the observance, the scientific rigor, the passion, all the intangibles to make a great artist. All I want to say is that being an artist is never a noble excuse for being poor. What’s

your

plan

?"

"I was thinking of hanging around here a little longer. The colleges that made offers all say I can defer my MFA enrollment for up to a year. So I thought, you’re not working the farm. Maybe I can set up