by Peter Travis
A teenager’s life is wrought with drama, disorientation, and heartbreak. Have you seen the new MySpace? It looks to have been slapped together by a frantic bat — struggling to free itself from the Internet’s suffocating gnarl.
In 1924, one extraordinarily tragic 18-year-old boy — having lost both his mother and father within the cruel span of two years — found himself buried alive under a viper’s nest of cold-blooded relatives. All fanging for a single drop of the only child’s considerable inheritance.
So, how was your Valentine’s Day?
Whether the sorry little ragamuffin’s parents passed on — or simply wandered off — the true value of their legacy cannot be measured in dollars. Not that I didn’t try converting $1,000,000 in 1924 to a reasonably accurate present day value. It falls somewhere between $12,590,818.71 and $166,095,026.61 — depending on which indecipherable, outrageously convoluted economic indicator you employ. Either way, I’m now left with cluster headache. Unable to close my left eye — yet unwilling to open my right.
Fortunately, we can glean something of value from the sudden departure of the poor kid’s parents that requires absolutely no math.
Sage advice.
First off, one should never allow the elderly off leash — no matter how confident you are with their level of recall training. You don’t get a second set of parents when you lose the first.
I can also say with 100% accuracy (the percentage thing was a huge mistake — my scalp is literally on fire) that one of Sag Harbor’s most eligible (for Medicaid — not Match.com) bachelors (think Paul Lynde rather than Apostle Paul) should never spend Valentine’s Day weekend alone again.
I’m lashing out at the elderly and poking fun at death. Both of which I may…all right, will surely regret.
It’s just that I take writing this column very seriously. I tend to sever all contact with the outside world while working. Until my assignment is complete, a laser-like focus is priority #1 (again with the numbers — I smell burnt toast).
So dedicated am I to you — kind reader — I’m willing to make the ultimate sacrifice by going “off grid” on the highest of all holidays for a romantic (disaster) like myself.
If that’s not Apostle-like behavior, I don’t know what is.
Plus, you can’t throw a proper pity party while exchanging bitter quips with the handful of unattached friends still taking your calls. Nothing kills a good “poor me” buzz faster than mutual commiseration.
So, here I sit. Eyes wide shut. As a hydraulic punch press makes nonconsensual love to my cranium.
If only I were more like Howard Hughes…
That’s right. Howard Robard Hughes, Jr. — the filthy street urchin whose parents slipped through their respective pet doors never to be seen again.
Or died.
Whatever. I respect the way young Howard dealt with loss. Instead of unplugging phones or hiding behind a scrim of sarcasm, he relied on his least attractive character defects — a loony willfulness and total lack of risk assessment skills — to care for himself.
So what if the highlight of my Valentine’s Day was finding a missing sock while cleaning my cat’s litter box?
The sock wasn’t in the litter box — it was behind the toilet. In the guest bathroom. Where I keep the litter box. Cats value their privacy almost as much as I value a complete pair of my favorite, thickly padded Thorlos®.
Need I remind you — the information I provide you with in this column is of a proprietary nature. It is not to be casually shared. No breathlessly blurting this stuff out to your damp treadmill neighbor.
And don’t even think of adding any of this to your archive of topic-changing small talk. Unless it’s an actual emergency. Like, say — if you just happened to bump into your dentist at the local food pantry. Twice. And the first exchange went something like this:
“Hey doc! Have you tried the boxed mac-n-cheese? It’s totally organic and naturally high in calcium. Which is super great for teeth. And I guess bad for your busine…so how about all this…weather? Oh look — my car’s on fire…really great seeing you!”
Personally, I’ve grown comfortable with the idea that it is better to have had _____ and lost it — than never to have had _____ at all.
Fill in the blanks. One sock. Both parents. Calf muscles. A decade of domestic partnership. Your sanity. A beloved pet. A healthy libido. A libido. Any feeling below your never-to-measure-thirty-inches-again waist. Custom upholstered furniture, silk dupioni drapes, and bespoke Berber carpets once featured in Metropolitan Home. An immune system undeterred by lingering Lyme spirochaeta. The ability to make ice (anyone know a good Sub Zero technician willing to barter his services for mine?). Dinners out. Dinners in — that don’t involve frozen chicken nuggets, canned corn, and broccoli scraps salvaged from 3-day old Chinese takeout.
I could continue. But I won’t. Because HRH, Jr. didn’t waste time inventorying what once was.
Dissatisfied with a 75% “under-aged minor” stake in the estate of his father — HRH, Sr. — 19 year-old Howard petitioned the court to be recognized as adult. Without having to wait an eternity for his 21st birthday like every other Texan teen (Hey kids! LegalZoom now offers Minor Emancipation Lite for about the price of a Mezzo Grande Tazoberry Lactté — for those allergic to dairy but deeply addicted to superfluous froth!).
No stranger to shameless political manipulation, Hughes also began playing golf with a powerful local judge and close friend of his father’s. Coincidentally that very same judge wasted no time in granting Howard his emancipation. Along with full ownership of Hughes Tool Company. And the bottomless geyser of cash HRH, Sr.’s groundbreaking invention — the self-sharpening dual cone roller bit — provided.
Gee, I sure am grateful to have reunited my precious Thorlos®. What a spectacular Valentine’s Day gift!
Three-dozen long-stem red roses are quite frankly more a burden than a gift. They require constant attention and close supervision. Only to expire the moment their selfish, sinewy stems aren’t cut — on the bias — within seconds of their return to a clean vase filled with fresh, room temperature water.
I know toddlers more resilient.
And how about that adorable pink and white miniature stuffed teddy bear — the one clutching a heart-shaped straw hat to his downy chest?
Wireless spy cam.
Your “sweetheart” is no doubt uploading a terrifically humiliating video of you right now. Imagine the damage a 30-second clip could do — of you — literally prancing with joy after finding a sock behind your toilet!
I know I have.
Pardon me while I re-claw my way through my kitchen’s junk drawer again for a stray Advil®. I ran out a while back and lack the loony willfulness and with an overabundance of risk assessment skills to make the 3-minute drive into town.
PETER HAMILTON TRAVIS wishes to thank all those whose benevolence and support enable him to write. You know who you are. Except for Katherine, who hasn’t a clue. She’s the Apple Support Ingénue who — when asked why someone working on a 2004 iMac can no longer access Apple’s vast Internet Services — yet continues to be auto-billed for them replied: “Oh…really? Well, why don’t you just get a new iMac? They’re totally cool!”
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