Today is 3-11.
We've changed a lot and then some some!!
Know that we have always been down down!!
if i ever didn't thank you you!!
Then just let me do it now!!
haha. Get it?
I've really had no motivation to do anything the least bit scholarly, as all my tests were last week. Hence, I've been trying to do all the things and see all the people I've wanted to before
I GET KIDNAPPED IN ACAPULCO FOR DRUG MONEY RANSOM, AND WHEN MY PARENTS FAIL TO PAY THE MILITIA GROUP, THEY CHOP UP MY GRINGO BODY AND SCATTER IN ALL DIFFERENT PARTS OF THE GUERRA STATE
anyways for my creative writing class I wrote this story about Long Island, so I figured I'd post it... THIS IS IN NO WAY A TRUE STORY IN ANY WAY, I LOVE MY TOWN, I LOVE MY FRIENDS, THE NAMES ARE ALL RANDOM AND HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH TRUE EVENTS, SO DON'T BITCH TO ME ABOUT IT. It's just an idea of that I drew from various inspirations so we'll see what you think, without further adieu
P.S. It is in no way complete, but here is what I had to submit thus far
“I’M FUCKING SORRY!”
The white Range Rover rushed home: east on the Long Island Expressway. The bright lights of the Manhattan skyline were winking at them, inviting the two boys to come back any time.
“Listen, if a massage parlor gives hand jobs, they are not suppose to have a fucking age requirement! That’s like a drug dealer asking me how old I am before he sells me an eighth, bro!” Matt saw the agitation in CJ’s face as he silently drove, gripping the steering wheel like the handle of a Desert Eagle. CJ finally took a deep breath.
“It’s just common sense…if someone asks you for your ID, and you don’t know what their rules are, you give them your fucking 21…this is why you are a retard. This is why you always find yourself in retarded situations.”
CJ slowly turned the wheel to the right, on to the Glen Cove Road exit, and made a left on to one of the woodsy, secluded streets where homes were scarce; not because Old Westbury wasn’t densely populated, but because of the amount of property and space each massive home stretched across. The green glow of the navigation system beamed against Matt’s face, which was twisting and contorting, as if this was going to help him form his rebuttal. After a couple seconds it softened up to its normal position.
“Bro…what kind of rub and tug spot has a fucking moral code? “I sorry, dat’s ah pahracee” I’m a sexually deprived 18 year old, fuck your policy, allow me some enjoyment in my sordid little experience I call my life, and LET ME GET A PROPER JERKING…. we playing ball tomorrow?”
CJ pulled up to the wrought iron gates, entered the security code on the silver keypad, and proceeded to speed up Matt’s cobblestone driveway.
“I don’t know…maybe… get out”
“Dude, I’m fucking sorry…here…I’ll give you the password to Milfhunter. I pay
20 bucks a month for that shit. All yours. Latinas, Asians, BBWs, they even have bloopers and outtakes! This one dude pulls out and-“
Matt lowered his eyes and slowly exited the luxury SUV and headed towards the garage to enter the code on yet another next keypad. He gave CJ one last final stare before he sped off, this was one of Matt’s trademark glances, it had seemed to resemble a dog that just got hit with a rolled up newspaper for peeing on the new Persian rug. After CJ had left, Matt tiptoed past his mother and father’s room and spun into his own. This was their lives.
Old Westbury had no stores, no schools, and no warmth. It was comprised strictly of homes. At a time, it had claimed residences like the Vanderbilt family, the Phipps, and Guests. Old Westbury was valued for its exclusivity, its proximity to the metropolis, yet it’s beautiful forests and fields as well. Now, these powerful American dynasties’ sprawling estates had been divided up and countless houses were built and bought by and for doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, financiers, CEOs, CFOs, CPAs, philanthropists, swindlers, geniuses, adulterers, politicians and criminals.
Matt woke up the next morning still in disbelief from last night’s events. His Seven For All Mankind jeans had been hastily thrown over his desk chair; his red and blue Nike SB Dunks were on opposite sides of his room. His Gucci wallet, BlackBerry cell, and his BMW X5 keys were all stacked on top of each other on his nightstand, like a totem pole of materialism.
Paula, his housekeeper slowly opened his door, as if last time she had opened it to something extremely unpleasant. She was a woman in her mid 50s, short auburn hair, and a muscular build. She was of ambiguous eastern European descent. It didn’t really matter; she had been there Matt’s whole life. When he was 5, she had been there, sitting outside, cheering him on as he attempted to shoot a basketball. When he was 14, she had been there, scrambling about the basement, trying to stop the older kids from smoking weed inside the house when he had the house party. And she was there now.
“Matthew…eh..I sorry…Mommy, Daddy…go Hamptons…come back Sunday…I walk the dogs, then go home okay?”
Matt rose off his back.
“Okay Paula, don’t worry…say hi to your family…justgetthefuckoutokay? Bye Paula…have a good weekend!!”
Paula smiled at the 5 foot 6 soon-to-be high school graduate with curly brownish-blonde locks and exited the room.
It was May, and everyone was ready to get out of town. Stickers with names like SYRACUSE and MICHIGAN were emblazoned on the rear windshield of entry-level Mercedes coupes and Lexus trucks. It was almost a paradox. The young men and women of Old Westbury were ready to start a new life in these remote locations, far away from the comforts of home, but clearly, they weren’t ready to rough it at all. Their methods of transportation were just one of the many support arguments to this claim. After all, this graduating class had employed people to guide and instruct them through every assignment, sport, and test since elementary school. Over the last 10 years, Matt had required a math tutor, an English tutor, and a Spanish tutor. He had enlisted a tutor for the Earth Science Regents in ninth grade. He had used a tutor for the AP Calc test in twelfth grade. He had consulted a college advisor who “helped” him write his heartwarming tale of his dying grandfather’s wish for his only grandson to attend the University of Miami. He had practiced under tennis pros. He had taken basketball and lacrosse lessons. He had wondered how basketball and lacrosse teachers earned a decent living. They did, though. This was Old Westbury.
This particular Saturday, there was to be a graduation party at Matt’s friend Becca’s house. This wasn’t going to be your average cake and fruit punch party, this was going to be the one that would land the high school their own reality show, this was going to be the one where everyone was going to finally say what was truly on their minds for the past four years, this was the one where someone was going to bang Lindsey’s mom…or at least Matt had been hoping it was.
Matt spent that day like every other since he had found out he got accepted to Miami. He took his lunch at the popular Kitchen Kabaret, a quaint little gourmet eatery that was packed to the brim with men shouting sandwich orders while maintaining cell phone conversations with their wives, small children begging their parents to buy them eight dollar epicurean Rice-Krispy treats, and of course young adults adorned with spiky-gelled hair, silver dog tags and white v-neck t-shirts. They held court at the “big table” in the back of the eatery.
“Bro…I heard she rented a moon bounce…someone is def gonna vom in there!” initiated Scott, another member of the “crew”, his lanky arms flailed about, bits of chicken-bruschetta panini shooting out his mouth.
“ The whole thing is fucking retarded. You know her little brother is graduating from eighth grade? Apparently, they’re combining both into one fun-filled night of debauchery.” Lamented CJ in between sips of a strawberry-guava-passion fruit smoothie. He still had yet to acknowledge Matt’s presence. Matt decided to put his mozzarella-caprese salad container down and chime in.
“So, I think we all know what that means…I’M GONNA GIVE A 14 YEAR OLD BITCH THE BUSINESS!”
CJ smiled and the three boys erupted in laughter. A youthful father, who was accompanied by his two young, pig-tailed daughters, still in their soccer jerseys from practice, sat adjacent to them. Frowning, he had been staring at the bunch but upon Scott’s detection, turned back to his girls and resumed his conversation with them.
Many directors had utilized Old Westbury in the recent past as a standard filming location. One particular home had been featured in the film “Cruel Intentions”, as the main character’s lavish summer residence. Another had been in about half a dozen rap videos as the cliché` “we made it” spot.
Traditionally, the rapper starts off standing on a street corner, maybe in Brooklyn or Harlem, rapping under the light post. Then he “makes it” and invites his homies, the ladies, even his mom to the “spot” out on Long Island, where they pop champagne, watch the big game on the plasma, and do burn-outs in the Ferrari in the drive-way. “This is what outsiders strove for?” Matt had sometimes pondered. He and his friends had lived every day in the fantasy of others. As he pulled up to Becca's house, past the two marble lions that guarded the driveway, he thought, “Is this it...is this what it’s all about?” He left the keys with a bowtie-clad valet, and headed towards the backyard.
“Holy shit” he muttered to no one in particular.
It was just as he imagined. A cross between the parties Adam Sandler had in the film Billy Madison when he had graduated each elementary grade and an MTV Spring Break party, the backyard was decorated like a carnival for Forbes magazine. Men in white shirts and puffy white hats carved roast beef under heat lamps. An ice sculpture of the Syracuse Orange Man (where Becca was to attend in the Fall) was adorned with plump shrimp and lobster tails. A semi-familiar looking man, with shoulder-length coiled brown hair played a saxophone to the amusement of many of the parents who stood atop the courtyard. Younger children, little brothers and sisters of the attendees fought with giant boxing gloves in a big inflatable ring. A shirtless, overweight man splashed into a tank of water as one of Matt’s friend’s little brothers nailed a target with a baseball, his cronies cheering him on. Oh, and of course, the moon bounce.
He spotted his friends, and a few of his friend’s parents surrounding Scott, who was kneeling below a block of ice, with his wide lips pursed at the bottom of the ice block like it was a gym-class water fountain. Vodka was streaming down a lane that cut through the block like a water slide directly into Scott’s mouth as the crowd cheered him on. An ice-luge, Matt remembered it was called. He glanced back toward the crowd of adults and spotted his parents. He immediately ran over to them.
“Hey, I thought you guys were in the Hammies!?” Matt hugged his father, who bore a striking resemblance to Larry David. Many of the men in the crowd seemed to.
“And miss a party like this? Are you nuts?” Matt’s mom exclaimed, kissing his cheek. She had bleached blonde hair and orange-brown skin. She was noticeably younger than Matt’s father. Matt’s father pulled him aside.
“Matt, I want you to be careful tonight. No fucking around. I don’t know Becca’s parents but I can tell they’re real partiers”
“Dad, don’t worry, who am I? What am I gonna do?
“It’s not you that I’m worried about” Matt’s father nodded towards the adult and teenage crew using the ice luge
“Glen, don’t bother him, it’s a party!” Matt’s mother interjected, her champagne spilling out of the glass”
“Just. Promise me, no bullshit, okay?” Glen said softly to his son.
“ Yeah…Dad…no bullshit. Don’t worry” Matt pulled away from his father and went towards the ice luge.
Matt’s father grew up in Brooklyn, far removed from graduation parties with ice luges. Glen’s father struggled in the garment center business in Manhattan his entire life and ended up dying of a heart attack at age 50. He had left the family penniless, and Glen was forced to take a job as a dockworker near Coney Island to pay his way through Kingsborough Community College. Eventually, he became a physician and moved his family to Old Westbury when Matt had turned nine. He wasn’t like the other fathers…he didn’t have a BlackBerry, he didn’t belong to the Country Club. He drove a nice car, however but in reality, it didn’t matter to him.
“WHAT’S UP FUCKERS?” Matt said, announcing his arrival at the ice luge station.
The crew roared and Matt let the ice cold vodka slide down his throat.
Across the pool, there was a parquet floor had been built on the grass, under a big white tent. There was a DJ booth and multicolor lights flashed onto the floor and smoke seductively wafted through the air. The graduating seniors and incoming freshmen made their way over to the makeshift nightclub and the DJ was holding a microphone.
“ALRIGHT EVERYONE, LET’S GIVE IT UP FOR BECCA AND JARED’S GRADUTIONS, NOW IT’S TIME TO DROP IT LIKE IT’S HOT!”
On cue, the Snoop Dogg song of the same time blared and the future leaders of industry, innovators and business criminals of America began to grind rhythmically to the music as the younger guests looked on from a corner on the dance floor.
“YO, IT’S COHEN’S SISTER, WHAT’S GOOD LITTLE COHEN?”
Scott drunkenly pulled Chelsea Cohen’s little sister by the wrist into the center of the dance floor. The thirteen year old appeared apprehensive at first, but then seemed to enjoy the attention, allowing the eighteen year old to dance behind her, grinding his hips into hers. He grabbed her hands and lifted them into the air, exaggerating the motion. The rest of the seniors began to cheer and high five, chanting:
“LIT-TLE CO-HEN! *CLAP CLAP CLAP* LIT-TLE CO-HEN!
Chelsea looked on in disgust, and more guests began to make their move to the dance floor. It certainly was a spectacle.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” it was Little Cohen’s father.
“Excuse me, bro?” Scott pushed the girl off him and was an inch away from man’s face
“That’s my fucking daughter, you little prick? You think that’s funny? You wanna mess with Big Cohen, huh?”
“Yo…chill the fuck out, old man”
Scott half -seriously shoved Chelsea’s father in the chest, sending him back a few inches. Chelsea’s father was pushed back forward by the older boys in the circle and swung a punch that cracked Scott in the eye.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”
Scott rushed the man, tackling him to the ground, sending a flurry of punches to Mr. Cohen’s face and mid-section. The teenagers cheered and chanted for Scott’s victory. The music still played. About fifteen seconds later a group of the fathers, including Matt’s, ran onto the dance floor and broke up the display of pure sophistication. They led Mr. Cohen out of the tent and out of the party. Matt stood still, mouth agape, as people began to dance again.
“YO, FUCK THAT BITCH-ASS, LET’S MAKE IT RAIN!”
All was right again with the world. The party resumed, although Matt suddenly didn’t feel like partying, he sat down in a chair and called his Dad who had disappeared after the melee`.
“Where the hell are you?”
“Me and mom went home. We… I had enough…I think you should come home soon”
“Yeah, Dad, I will…Love you.”
Matt put the phone in his pocket and looked up and saw Scott coming towards him in what seemed like slow motion.
“Yo, did you see that shit? I knocked h-”
Scott looked down at Matt.
A pool of blood leaked was leaking out of Matt’s stomach and he slumped over in his chair. Mr. Cohen stood about ten feet away, dropped the pistol, and was silent.
This was Old Westbury.