It was one o’clock, not on a weekend nor any day of the week that even in college feels like one. It was the one hour in a hundred and sixty-eight that even the most satisfied retiree thinks about going back to work. For you, it was “Thai for breakfast.”
You stumbled into the backseat in exaggeratedly large basketball shorts, a T, and flip flops. Teetering one of them at the end of your big toe, your head cocked watching it dangle, you scratched your leg and told me about your weekend, which “is still going.”
Your boarding school friend flew you out to Vegas, and you were “recuperating.” It was his dad’s jet. “Well, actually, I think it was his dad’s company’s jet.” In a parallel universe, I cared about the difference I’m sure. You talked about what it was like, “you know, the one percent thing,” like you were considering it yourself – like it was something you just had to sign up for. About those one percenters, you said, “Yeah, there won’t be any convincing these people.” You seemed to be waiting for it to not be quiet — for me to ask you to go on. “You know, to not be one percent.” In a parallel universe, I was glad you clarified that.