The Caste System (Part Eight)
Brenton and I sat in the front-right corner of the dining side of The Top, our favorite restaurant here in Gainesville. Two double Bombay Sapphire and tonics into things, the conversation turned its magnifying lens to women, as it does all too often.
"She might have the ground to stand on. It's not that she's so exceptional, but you're... Well, you know," he spoke of the girl with the azure eyes.
"What? What the fuck am I?" I asked.
"Well, you're fat. You don't have a real income. You drink. You... hallucinate..." he continued.
"Look, it's a vivid imagination, a propensity for drinking, and a reckless taste for adventure." With a shrug, my side of this part of the discussion was finished.
He added, "and these ultra-white conservative upper-Northeasterners find you to be of questionable ethnicity, too. You can't do white people things with your hair, everyone knows you're an atheist, you'll never quit smoking, you can't shave every day or even every other day-"
"-I get it," was my interruptive attempt at conclusion.
He moaned, "You don't get it. All of your life, you've been wrong about getting it."
Everything inflated a little, but this stretching didn't distort anything. It was magnified, all of it. "This isn't what I signed up for."
He continued, "...But it is. You were born into a level of privilege and opportunity only you, here, now have the privilege and opportunity to neglect. You didn't have to grow so unbridled, ignorant; intelligent. They have drugs for attention deficit. It's really a disorder. You neglected having yourself treated and went through life... retarded."
At this point, I had lost contact with myself, but managed a, "What?"
"Everyone is born into a certain level of semi-pre-destiny. You were to spend your earlier life wearing strong sunblock, in the shade, or inside, but you took those freckles and ran. You could've dyed your hair black, but you left it red. Instead of not drinking all that soda and eating all of that garbage, you were the fat kid. You were destined to be a fat loser. You have a handsome face and some undeniable charm, wound up with a few beautiful women somewhere between high school and dropping out of college that led you to try and get your shit straight, but, in the end, you're a damn retard and now you're 27 and you're nowhere. Even if you do have your moments, you're probably out of your mind right now," he explained.
"Elaborate; what about that guy?" I asked, pointing to a scrawny white boy with blue eyes and long, straight, black hair.
"He only has that hair while he's in college 'cause every girl will fuck him," he added as the two girls at the table he was leaning on giggled and batted eyelashes, silently warring with one another. "Once he's out, he's cutting the hair, buttoning up a shirt, and taking his place in middle management making almost six figures. He'll have a wife that he cheats on that doesn't care and probably will cheat on him, 1.7 children, at least two mortgages, and an American car."
I had to ask, "Wait, what about me?"
A long exhalation blew. There was a moment of what must've been feigned pondering. He let loose, "I think you're supposed to be in and out of prison, dead, or married and/or divorcing a very disgusting woman you'd made a baby with. This is what you're supposed to be working for; not a mortgage."
"Why does she have to be disgusting? I'm not that bad, really� Wait, am I?" I asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, and this is what this whole thing's about. You've been going through life motherfucking wrong, and in ignorance of that," he concluded.
I put an elbow on the table, brought my hand folded backward over my forearm under my chin, and leaned on it. My eyes were open all too wide. The straw made it easy to drain the gin and tonic. My eyes had to be shut.
"She might have the ground to stand on. It's not that she's so exceptional, but you're... Well, you know," he spoke of the girl with the azure eyes.
"What? What the fuck am I?" I asked.
"Well, you're fat. You don't have a real income. You drink. You... hallucinate..." he continued.
"Look, it's a vivid imagination, a propensity for drinking, and a reckless taste for adventure." With a shrug, my side of this part of the discussion was finished.
He added, "and these ultra-white conservative upper-Northeasterners find you to be of questionable ethnicity, too. You can't do white people things with your hair, everyone knows you're an atheist, you'll never quit smoking, you can't shave every day or even every other day-"
"-I get it," was my interruptive attempt at conclusion.
He moaned, "You don't get it. All of your life, you've been wrong about getting it."
Everything inflated a little, but this stretching didn't distort anything. It was magnified, all of it. "This isn't what I signed up for."
He continued, "...But it is. You were born into a level of privilege and opportunity only you, here, now have the privilege and opportunity to neglect. You didn't have to grow so unbridled, ignorant; intelligent. They have drugs for attention deficit. It's really a disorder. You neglected having yourself treated and went through life... retarded."
At this point, I had lost contact with myself, but managed a, "What?"
"Everyone is born into a certain level of semi-pre-destiny. You were to spend your earlier life wearing strong sunblock, in the shade, or inside, but you took those freckles and ran. You could've dyed your hair black, but you left it red. Instead of not drinking all that soda and eating all of that garbage, you were the fat kid. You were destined to be a fat loser. You have a handsome face and some undeniable charm, wound up with a few beautiful women somewhere between high school and dropping out of college that led you to try and get your shit straight, but, in the end, you're a damn retard and now you're 27 and you're nowhere. Even if you do have your moments, you're probably out of your mind right now," he explained.
"Elaborate; what about that guy?" I asked, pointing to a scrawny white boy with blue eyes and long, straight, black hair.
"He only has that hair while he's in college 'cause every girl will fuck him," he added as the two girls at the table he was leaning on giggled and batted eyelashes, silently warring with one another. "Once he's out, he's cutting the hair, buttoning up a shirt, and taking his place in middle management making almost six figures. He'll have a wife that he cheats on that doesn't care and probably will cheat on him, 1.7 children, at least two mortgages, and an American car."
I had to ask, "Wait, what about me?"
A long exhalation blew. There was a moment of what must've been feigned pondering. He let loose, "I think you're supposed to be in and out of prison, dead, or married and/or divorcing a very disgusting woman you'd made a baby with. This is what you're supposed to be working for; not a mortgage."
"Why does she have to be disgusting? I'm not that bad, really� Wait, am I?" I asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, and this is what this whole thing's about. You've been going through life motherfucking wrong, and in ignorance of that," he concluded.
I put an elbow on the table, brought my hand folded backward over my forearm under my chin, and leaned on it. My eyes were open all too wide. The straw made it easy to drain the gin and tonic. My eyes had to be shut.