The Boiling of the Bones

2. Weekend Retreat

A couple weeks passed. With one remaining weekend of summer vacation, I planned to hang out with Rob, relishing the last remnants of freedom before our senior year began Monday morning.

Friday afternoon, dad came home and made the sudden announcement we were leaving immediately on vacation for the weekend. We have a condo in West Palm Beach. I didn't want to go; it would be super-hot and muggy, and the mosquitos would be terrible and I already had plans.

I planned to persuade Rob to hang out at Starlight Brew, hoping to bump into my dream girl. I hated dad's impetuous decisions. But there was no fighting it. Like it or not, I was going. A limo pulled up moments later and we hopped in.

Nobody packed clothes because we had wardrobes of vacation wear already neatly folded in drawers and hanging in closets at the beach house. It does make traveling easier without all the baggage.

At the airport, the limo pulled onto the tarmac, and we scurried into the law firm's private jet. Moments later the plane was airborne. Two hours later, we touched down in Florida. It was raining heavily, but a waiting limo driver extended an oversized umbrella escorting us inside the nearby stretch Navigator. He promptly closed the doors behind us and whisked us to the condo.

I know I lived a luxurious lifestyle, and a lot of people would kill to be so lucky, but honestly it gets old, like anything in life—you grow tired of it. There's always an insatiable desire for more stuff, better stuff—whatever you don't have. No one's ever truly happy in a materialistic world.

I don't even like caviar or oysters. Foie gras is a fancy name for nasty stuffed goose liver pate, and if you eat nothing but prime rib tenderloin you eventually get tired of that too. Once you're accustomed to nothing but the best, there's nowhere to go but down. With the bar set so high, you're destined for perpetual disappointment.

Dad had a few cocktails on the plane, but he really wanted margheritas on the pier at Whaler John's. He liked to sit and drink, starring at the waterfront enjoying the sunset even though we were on the East coast of Florida. With the rain, he'd have to settle for a spot under the covered awning. The sky was already darkened under gray clouds anyway.

At the condo he went straight for the gold Lexus parked in the garage. Mom went inside and screamed.

Dad and I hurried after her. Water was pooling an inch deep across the living room floor. The water damage was extensive, stretching across the ceiling, down the wall and across the buckling floor. Dad began yelling obscenities, pacing angrily, sloshing with each step. He found a flashlight and went outside.

A squirrel had made a nest in the eaves. It chewed a small hole through part of the wall and pushed away the metal flashing adjacent to the roof edge--the part where the rainwater comes down and drains away through the downspout.

Dad pulled out his phone and dialed the property management company and launched into a verbal legalese tirade about incompetence and negligence. He yelled into the phone threatening a lawsuit for breach of contract as they'd failed to uphold their responsibility to maintain the property. Even on a Friday night, they promised to send over a technician immediately.

I went upstairs to my room and flipped on the TV and watched the local news. The forecast was for overcast skies and rain all weekend. An hour later, dad was still yelling on the phone. I'm sure he had the after-hours clerk patch him through to a manager at home. It was taking a long time to reach an acceptable resolution. I felt sorry for whoever was on the other end of the line.

Eventually a tech showed up to temporarily patch the roof and clean up the water and mess. Another hour and three drinks later, dad finally worked his way up the management chain of command to someone at the top of the ladder who agreed to pay for all the property damage, comp us two nights in the presidential suite at the Marriott, plus an undisclosed settlement deal, as well as one free year of property management services.

Once he'd reached a satisfactory level of compensation, he rounded up mom and me.

"Come on, let's go to the Marriott."

"Hang on, I need to grab some clothes."

His brow furrowed as he fumed.

"Do it quickly, you could have already done that while I was on the phone."

"I don't have a suitcase."

"Oh, for crying out loud, just use a trash bag."

"Never mind, I'll come back tomorrow."

Mom drove to the Marriot, and we checked in. She and dad then went to Whaler John's. Mom left me a credit card and I ordered a Meat Lover's pizza and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. I sat and ate by myself on the covered, screened in balcony listening to a steady patter of raindrops punctuated by the occasional thunderclap. I could hear faint sounds of the surf washing ashore on the beach twenty stories below.

An impending sense of dread washed over me as I anticipated going back to school. I hated school. It was still a couple days away, but the thought of it induced anxiety. The pressure and stress were physically painful. I felt sick to my stomach. Going back to school was emotionally traumatic—I felt like an escaped prisoner forced to turn around and crawl back into a horrible cage I'd just escaped from just in time for more excruciatingly painful torture. It felt like PTSD. I tried to drown out thoughts of school by watching TV in bed.

I watched an old Ed Norton movie called, Fight Club. It was quirky, but I kind of liked it. It resonated with me because it symbolized disillusion with the shallow, superficial, emptiness of consumerism. There's got to be more to life, but he can't wrap his head around what he's searching for. Honesty? Integrity? Purity? Trueness to oneself? Inner conviction or moral compass?

There are so many phony people. Especially politicians with their hypocrisy and cowardice who say one thing but do something else. Deep down inside they must despise themselves for being so shallow. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I liked that expression. It came from Shakespeare's Othello. It suggests an emotional openness or candor. There seemed to be honor in living a life without the contradiction of double standards or the burden of carrying secrets.

I eventually drifted off around two.

I slept in and went for a walk. I still had mom's credit card, so I bought some lunch and clothes and a book to read and spent a few hours at the beach under a covered pavilion. I liked the sound of the rain and had the entire beach to myself. I tried to make the best of it, but honestly, I was only killing time the entire weekend and couldn't wait to go home. Mom texted me a few times to check up on me, but otherwise, I spent two days by myself. Finally, Sunday afternoon we flew back to New York.

I hung out with Rob Sunday night. We dropped by the Starlight for an hour. I'd gone there alone a few times, but never saw the girl again. It dawned on me the chances of running into her again were slim to none. Eventually I gave up hope.