Wednesday, March 02, 2005


And oh, to the days of carelessness, or irration, or irresponsibility to the degree of excellence. When it was so nice to be a popular teenager in one of the worlds richest hamlets. To hear the leaves change with the seasons, to have mint juleps in the afternoon with the beautiful mother of your best friend who just happened to be away at Outward Bound.

I remember that day, cloudy as it was, with a clarity that pairs with few other of my recollections. It was a cool September day at the base of the Adirondack Mountains. I lived next door to my best friend Adrien. His father was a sleek investor, a genuine savvy businessman whose wealth exceeded even the grand wealth of my own father who was very wealthy and powerful in his own right.

I went next door because I was bored. I knew Adrien was out of town. I knew it. But his mother had been looking at me differently. I'm sure there were thousands of factors involved... Her subsequent dis-interest in everything her husband said or did with the exception of bringing home loads of revenue, the loss of control of her only son who was also her only child, the loneliness of a life of absolutely everything and absolutely, terrifyingly nothing. She was so different from my own mother.

I knocked on the door innocent, but it opened and I was immediately guilty.

"Hi there," she said.

"Hello," I said, "Is Adrien Home?"

"No. He won't be back until... the fourteenth. Would you like to come in?"

She smelled of what I would later learn was scotch, and she wore a sheer thin linen shirt that outlined her breasts in a way that made me feel weak. So I agreed. There was a strange feeling in my stomach, a feeling I still get just before lovemaking today. A feeling that I was going to hurt her somehow by doing this, doing what she wanted me to do. That was the first time I had felt it, that feeling of dulled dread that hides behind muscle and skin; the feeling that tends more often than not to be right foreshadowing that someone will eventually be very, very hurt, if not then than very soon thereafter.

I told Adrien about it one night when we had gotten drunk out on the golf course. I shouldn't have told him about his mother and I. I should have known better than to let the liquor speak so freely. But I didn't.

So when Adrien was eating dinner several weeks later with his neglected, emotionless mother and his rich and powerful father who never seemed to have the time or the desire to pay his wife or his son even courteous attention, it was time to put the story out on the table in front of his parents, and Blossom the cleaning lady and Mr. Lewis, the man-servant.

"Father dear, I bet you didn't know that my mother, your wife is the neighborhood whore. She fucks my friends. Did you know that, father?"

Adrien's dad took another swig of gin and said, "Son, I did not as a matter of fact know that. But she fucks my friends too, so at least now we have something in common..."

Adrien's mom left that night, and no one has heard from her since.
wow - reading that filled me with excitement and dread, all at the same time.
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