by Steve Bloom
“Lugubrious,” the somber voice enunciates. “Adjective, looking or sounding sad and gloomy.”
The guy on the tape couldn’t be more lugubrious. He sounds like he’s officiating at somebody’s funeral. Mine.
“Example sentence,” Mr. Personality continues. “Just because I am a bit down today doesn’t mean I am in a lugubrious mood.”
Then another voice joins the conversation. A perky voice. A hot chick’s voice.
“In fifty feet, turn right at the next exit.” It’s Google Maps on my iPhone.
“Jesus!” I curse. “How about a little warning!”
Dropping the hammer, I’m forced to cut sharply across three lanes of traffic, barely missing getting flattened by a big rig. But I take the exit. It’s an exit I’ve never taken before.
Although Havendale Hills is all of thirty or so miles from Pritchard, I’ve never been there. But I know something about it. The 07078’s one of the poshest—if not the poshest—zip codes in the entire state of Jersey. Its mall is the most humungous, with all the top chains. We’re talking Saks, Neiman, Barneys. No piddley-ass mom-and-pop outfits in the 07078. Not with a median household income of upwards of two hundred g’s.
I cruise along wide, clean boulevards. I am in a foreign land, a charmed place free of worry and woe. A land of thin, perfect-teethed, gluten-free people. I take in the block after block of manicured yards, the luxury craft gleaming in circular driveways, the glittering houses the size and scale of small hotels. They’re like palaces to me. As well they should be with an average asking price in the multi-millions.
“Catastrophic,” the tape intones.
I gulp, overwhelmed by it all. What am I doing here? What have I gotten myself into?
“Adjective. Of, or relating to, a terrible event or complete failure.”
I switch off the tape before it can go on.
“You have reached your destination,” pipes my iPhone.
I stop before what can only be described as a walled estate. This is wealth beyond my limited experience, beyond imagination.
“Example sentence,” I murmur to myself. “Brooks has a bad feeling that the evening is going to be catastrophic.”
But I’ve come too far to turn back now. I nose up to the solid titanium front gate built to withstand a siege from the justifiably outraged masses, roll down my window, and then lean out and press the intercom button on a high-tech security panel. An electronic orb swivels and rotates and gives me the stink eye.
“Please identify yourself,” a mechanical voice commands.
“Uh, it’s Brooks Rattigan,” I stammer, “the stand-in.”
Without another word, the gate magically swings open, revealing Versailles crammed onto a half-acre lot. Four stories high, with turrets and towers and all sorts of slanty things. It doesn’t work, not in Jersey, but the monumental expense and excess of it all is still impressive. My humble Electra sputters up the grandiose, if short, drive as a middle-aged man in a suit races out, aiming an elaborate, professional-grade digital camera my way. Burdette’s uncle.
“Thanks for coming!” he exults, fumbling for my name.
“Brooks,” I say.
“Brooks!” he repeats, all hale and hearty. Gripping my hand like a steel lock, he practically lifts me from the car, taping through the eyepiece the whole time.
Burdette’s aunt clatters behind on high heels across the imported flagstone. Attractive, although right on the verge of having too much plastic surgery and being grotesque, she throws herself at me, hugging me effusively.
“You’re an angel!” she gushes. “An angel from heaven!”
She’s followed by not one, but two sets of glowing grandparents. They stampede around me like there’s no tomorrow, which I guess for them is kind of true.
To say I’m surprised by my reception is a major understatement. I don’t know what I was expecting—mild disapproval, begrudging tolerance, maybe—but I sure wasn’t expecting this. I am dumbstruck and strangely gratified. For not only am I acknowledged, accepted, and welcomed, I am embraced, pounded on the back, and pinched on the cheek—over and over again. I am appreciated, on the verge of being worshipped. It’s as if I were a young deity—noun, supreme being—to them.
They practically carry me on their shoulders inside the castle—I mean, mini-mansion. The cavernous entryway’s also way overdone and not to my taste, but awe-inducing nonetheless. What must be Burdette’s cousin’s kid sister, mouthful of braces pigtails flying, bounds up all excited.
“Dana, he’s here! He’s here!” she giggles.
Burdette’s aunt thrusts a fancy corsage the size of a small shrub at me. “This is for her,” she beams. One grandma whips out a brush and starts adjusting a few stray strands on my head. The other one gravely issues me instructions like the guy you never see on Mission: Impossible.
“We’ve made reservations at Dana’s favorite restaurant. Giuseppe’s promised to take extra-special care of you . . .”
“Nothing’s too good for our princess!” the granddads proclaim in unison, then shoot each other dirty looks.
“Dana’s got a boyfriend! Dana’s got a boyfriend!” Burdette’s cousin’s kid sister screams, skipping around like she’s spastic.
“Shut your face, Ariel!” bellow both parents and both sets of grandparents in chorus.
Meanwhile, I’m just standing there, not speaking, just grinning like the village idiot. That’s when I get my first sighting of my date for the night. Shyly descending the curved stairway beneath a crystal chandelier, she makes an entrance out of some old Disney musical. All shiny, all done-up – nails, hair, face. She’s her own work of art, the polished finished product of some very serious thought and salon time. Her gown—that’s the only thing you can call it—is slinky, a little daring and obviously high fashion. Not girly stuff, very grown-up. Definitely not off the rack. Megabucks. I can see why Burdette’s aunt was ready to blow a gasket when Burdette’s cousin was stood up.
She stops before me so I can take in the whole picture. Burdette’s cousin’s not bad. A little bookish maybe. Okay, I’m not going to lie, not a knockout by any stretch, but more than acceptable. How’s the song go? She’s no beauty queen, but, hey, she’s all right and that’s all right with me. Or something like that.
Burdette’s cousin bites her professionally red-lipsticked lips, nervous and uncertain.
“I look like a total dork, right?” she asks me.
Seven sets of eyes turn expectantly my way. The pressure’s on. I feel like one wrong word and I could easily have my head lopped off and put on a spike.
“No, you look cool,” I say, more than a little relieved. Because, best of all, thankfully, Burdette’s cousin looks nothing like Burdette.
Apparently it’s the perfect thing for me to say. Because Burdette’s aunt breaks into tears. Both grandmas dab their eyes with hankies. The granddads shake hands, congratulating themselves. Burdette’s uncle, digitally recording in one hand, slams me on my already bruised back with the other.
“What size are you, Brooks?” he asks, all jovial-like.
Suddenly, I’m too aware I’m the object of their collective scrutiny and found severely wanting. Although I’m wearing my best khakis, my only sports jacket and tie, my one pair of genuine leather shoes, I’m hardly Prince Charming to her precious majesty.
Next thing I know, I’m upstairs in the His of His and Hers closets, each bigger than my bedroom. Rows of expensive suits whir by on automated racks. The parade of abundance is dizzying. Burdette’s uncle is about the same height as me. Admirably fit for his age. With my honors course load, SAT study regimen, job schedule, and resultant lack of regular exercise, I’m slightly out of shape for mine. Which makes us a match.
“Forty-two regular. I think I’ve got an old Armani around that size,” he muses.
He can’t find the Armani, but he does snag what must be a three-thousand-dollar Hugo Boss sailing by. As I change in the giant bathroom with more His and Hers ever
ything, the fine material fits like a calf leather glove. Linking my French cuffs, I almost don’t recognize myself in the full-length adjustable lighted mirror with wireless remote. I’m like James Bond, you know, all debonair and shit. So I’m feeling pretty dang dapper as I pose in the living room before a giant stone mantelpiece with Dana, who pins a boutonniere to my lapel.
“Okay, now present her with the corsage!” snaps Burdette’s aunt like an Off-Off-Broadway director. “Dana, stand straight!
We both smile wide for posterity. We shift positions. More shots are taken. The immediate family. Just with mom and dad. One pair of grandfolks, then the other. Girls. Boys. The configurations seem endless. Then, for the big finale: the group shot with Burdette’s uncle scrambling to get back in place before the shutter snaps. Again and again, the camera flashes.
As we move in a herd to the front door, Burdette’s uncle pulls me aside and discretely tucks something into my palm. It’s a thick—and I mean thick—wad of bills. No ones and fives, but twenties and fifties.
“Five hundred enough?” he whispers like we’re partners in some top-secret conspiracy.
It’s by far the most money I have ever seen in one place at one time in my entire life. And I’m holding it in my grubby Pritchard hands.
“More than ample, sir,” I croak.
Outside, Burdette’s cousin’s kid sister is examining my patched-up, rusted-through Electra with real curiosity.
“Ariel, don’t touch! It’s dirty!” scolds Burdette’s aunt, pulling her back.
“Actually I just had it washed,” I murmur apologetically. I actually did. And hot-waxed, for that matter. From the Rattigan perspective, the Beast’s in primo condition and has never looked finer.
Burdette’s aunt looks pointedly at Burdette’s uncle. He hems and haws and then, under her lacerating gaze, relents.
“Brooks, why don’t you two kids take the Volvo?” he offers munificently—adverb, to be generous or bountiful.
Dana stomps a spiked heel, pouting. “Daddy, we are not going to Homecoming in Mom’s station wagon!” Then she turns to me, smiling. “Are we, Brooks?”
I don’t know, a Volvo sounds plenty cush to me, but Burdette’s aunt gives Burdette’s uncle another stern look. He staggers back as if struck. His expression registers total horror. You know, one of those “No, God no, anything but that” looks. Because, although I don’t know it, that only leaves . . .
“Brooks.” Burdette’s aunt smiles at Dana with maternal triumph. “Why don’t you two kids take the Lamborghini?”
---
The Aventador LP 700-4 Roadster rides like a thoroughbred, not that I would know what a thoroughbred rides like, but if I did it would be like this. The sleek aerodynamic design slices through the wind. The carbon fiber chassis hugs the pavement low to the ground, nimble yet possessing tremendous tensile strength. The dual hydraulic brakes and power-steering system are frisky and fun but responsive, sensitive to the lightest touch. I shift gears like a Formula One race car driver, putting all seven hundred horses to the test. We whip around curves, accelerate up inclines, chew up ground. The precision-tooled Italian engine handles everything I give it effortlessly. Plus I got Andrew W.K.’s “Party Till You Puke” thrashing on satellite radio from, count ’em, twelve Dolby surround speakers, and I’m detecting layers of subtleties and complexities to his work that I never imagined possible. My expectations are exceeded. This is style. This is class. This, my friends, is where it’s at.
The deluxe GPS tracking system takes us within the exact millimeter of our destination and, I might add, with plenty of advanced warning. I stop on a dime before a plush red velvet awning. A valet in a commodore’s uniform swings opens Dana’s door. As I climb from the cockpit, I toss him the wireless key fob, grinning ear to ear.
---
Giuseppe’s as good as his word and takes extra-special care of us. Candlelit corner table for two with minimal foot traffic and an unobstructed view of the gurgling fountain with little cupids and spouting fish-thingies. He serves us sparkling water. He recommends the specials. First, the Insalata di Bietole—beet salad. Cozze alla Marchigiana for the antipasti; the mussels, he confides in an appealing hint of an accent, are fresh off the boat. For the pasta course, he suggests Pappardelle al Cinghiale, some kind of flat noodle in a wild boar ragù, whatever that is. For our carne e pesce, the Filetto di Manzo, as in Filet Mignon, baby. We order them all. I mean, who am I to argue?
“So then Graham G-chats me in Calc that he suddenly has to go out of town . . .” Dana is saying, by way of backstory to how exactly I got to be here.
“What a tool,” I sympathize. The mix of the red beets with walnuts and Gorgonzola is pungent, yet not unpleasing. I fork in some more.
“So I I-message the bastard that I’ve already told everybody and my mom’s bought a dress and what the fuck’s going on?” Her mascaraed eyes well up, remembering her disgrace. “But I know what happened. His friends said I wasn’t hot enough, so Graham wimped out.”
Now, I’m usually not a mussel man. Usually I find them gooey and stringy. But these, simmered in a delicate white wine and garlic sauce, I’m finding quite tender and flavorful. So this is what fresh is all about, I marvel.
Giuseppe hovers, alert to our slightest beck and whim.
“More breadsticks, sir?” he inquires.
“Absolutely, my good man! Absolutely!” I respond. What can I say? I have a jones for breadsticks. And these are the best I’ve ever had the privilege to crunch down.
“This guy Graham’s a dumbshit. And you’re way hot,” I comfort Dana. “In fact, if I wasn’t a gentleman and this wasn’t our first and only date, I’d be hitting on you right now.”
“Really?” she asks shyly. “You’re not just saying that to be nice?”
“You are definite potential-girlfriend material,” I assure her as I savor each delectable bite of my perfectly grilled steak. Filet of anything is not exactly a regular staple of the Rattigan family menu, let alone grass-fed. More like chemically injected ground round, and that’s when I’m lucky.
Dana laughs, and when I look up the tears are gone and she’s smiling. She’s radiant. She’s glowing.
“Anyway, thanks for doing this. It’s a really big deal to my parents, especially my mom.”
“No worries,” I say. “My pleasure!”
Another basket of breadsticks arrives. I ask you, can it get any better?
---
The rest of the night goes down like the mussels. We cruise in the Lambo to Dana’s school, where the actual dance is. It’s got color-coordinated lockers. The gym, where the action is, is like an NBA stadium compared to Pritchard’s. No bleachers that fold out, but real seats and high-tech video scoreboards. The floor’s packed and the DJ’s tight. We work off the calories, burning a groove with the best of them. She shows me a few steps, I reciprocate with a couple of mine. Afterwards, we zip to an all-night diner to grab some grub with her crowd. Her friends are nerdy but supersmart, interesting to talk to, and refreshingly nonjudgmental for a bunch of rich kids. Before I know it, it’s a quarter past one in the morning and I’m gallantly escorting Dana up her front walk.
“Anyone who tells you it doesn’t matter what college you go to is a liar.” I’m expounding on my new favorite subject. “They’re either a success who went to a good school trying to make you feel better—”
“Or a loser who didn’t,” she finishes my thought. “Rationalizing a life of disappointment and mediocrity.”
Precisely. Dana, it turns out, is applying Early Action to Yale, retaking her SATs again-again, although not again-again-again, and I have found her to be most agreeable company. Arriving at the front door, we pause and look at each other awkwardly, knowing our paths will forever part, never to cross again.
“That dumbshit Graham really missed out,” I whisper.
Dana’s eyes glisten. For her, it’s the perfect end to what has turned out to be a perfect evening. I’ve made a dream come true
. I’ve lived up to the fantasy. The power’s intoxicating. Suddenly, the door opens from inside and Burdette’s aunt’s sticking her head out.
“So how was it?” she shrieks, giving us both heart attacks.
“Never mind that. How’s the Lamborghini?” grunts Burdette’s uncle right behind her.
They both loom anxiously in their bathrobes, shattering what could have been a beautiful moment.
“Mom!” Dana yowls in embarrassed protest.
“Don’t Mom me! Who was there and what were they wearing? Tell me everything! Tell! Tell!”
Burdette’s aunt pursues Dana up the stairs. It’s the last I see of her. I’m left alone with Burdette’s uncle. Not knowing what else to do, I turn to leave.
“Uh, Brooks . . .” he says.
“Yes sir?”
“The suit.”
Upstairs, standing in my boxers, I carefully hang the Hugo Boss back on the rack in the immense warehouse of a closet. It’s like I’m a character in Cinderella. Except I’m not the prince, I’m the girl.
Burdette’s uncle’s yawning by the front door, eager to get to bed, when I trot back down the curving stairway in my own diminished evening wear. I pull out a still-thick wad of cash from my hip pocket to return his change.
“Uh, dinner was $153 including tip, and then there was another eight for parking . . .”
“Keep it, Brooks,” he says, too beat to deal with minutiae. “You’ve made my little girl’s night. You’ve earned it.”
---
I sit in my pumpkin in the driveway, staring at the $312 in my paws. No exaggeration, my heart’s pounding like a Keith Moon solo, my hands shaking. It takes a good five minutes before I can pull it together to drive home.
A Growing Concern
“Three hundred bucks? You gotta be shitting me!” The Murf says when I debrief him at work the next day.