Pests

Class Part 8

Monday arrived quicker than expected. The rest of the weekend consisted of trying to relax as much as possible all while being completely anxiety riddled.

I was paralyzed by my fear of what could happen next. After you kill someone, can you go back to an unassuming normal life? The body of that drifter was found, the local news reported it as self-defense, but they were still investigating the matter.

At 8 a.m. I woke up and started to pack, I brought out some slacks and button downs I bought over the weekend, in addition to some casual bullshit graphic T's and jeans. This is no Cannes after all, so aside from some potential after parties; who really cares?

My only real concern about this upcoming road trip is meeting Brad's potentially stuffy, upper crusty family . First off, how would I relate to them? I can't fathom that any of them really give a shit about film or its cultural impact, but you never know. The last thing I want to do is have nothing but a long weekend with bourgeois waspy assholes that are treating this film fest not as a cultural touchstone of our time, but a happy jaunt in Telluride to flaunt their money and treat it like yet another high society elbow-rubbing elitist affair.

Then again, maybe I should be more worried about how I interact with them. Can I maintain a happy, well-adjusted facade? Maybe I should read their thoughts and merely be a mindless "yes" man to them. The rich are surrounded by people like that right?

According to Brad's last text, he would pick me up at 11:00 with his family. It was 11:15, and I of course was still packing. I wasn't completely unprepared, but I was mostly unprepared (as usual). Then I heard this first Beeeeeep of his car. It was long, inconsiderate, and extremely impersonal. I really hope I was ready to deal with whom and whatever I was walking into by encroaching on this family trip. I threw the last of my toiletries and clothes in my bag and ran upstairs.

Before I ran out of the now, almost completely barren first floor, I legitimately checked how I looked in the mirror.

Why does this matter so much to me now? I've never given a shit about first impressions. Maybe this will be a lesson in why I should have always cared. You have to remember about all the potential opportunities you could have just because of your interactions with the right people during this time.

One last straightening of the hair and I was out. I faced the door, locked it, and turned around to by far the nicest car that has ever been in my driveway, a brand new Black Cadillac ESV Escalade. Was this seriously happening right now?

Well, if they have to travel, may as well be comfortable and travel in style, I guess. It was as if I looked from bottom to top of this gawking, ridiculous car in slow motion; stunned by its mass alone. I felt like Charles Foster Kane in Xanadu, completely dwarfed by the cavernous monstrosity in front of me. Brad rolled down the window on my side.

"Hey man! You ready for this trip? Let's fucking do this."

With that, he kicked open the door, and the foot lift jutted out from underneath the car in an motorized, streamlined fashion; then locked itself into place before I stepped up on it to enter the car. I have never seen something as ridiculous as I am witnessing right now. This was a completely unnecessary luxury.

"Brad, honey, don't talk to your friend like that!" The shrill, demeaning tone coming out of the Stepford-esque woman in the front seat continued, but I thankfully stopped paying attention.

"You must be Phil! It's a pleasure to meet you and my, you look so nice! I'm Jeannie, you can call me Jean. This is my husband Samuel -Sam, and this is my daughter Lindsay. If she really likes you, she'll let you call her Linds!"