Daniel Berifeld in worn sneakers and fashionably torn jeans, that
simplistic smiling vision of youth gone astray, light blond hair
softly curling like ringlets of sunshine, that soft spoken,
well read young man gliding across polished floors, or down marble
steps to his fathers wine cellar for his favorite glass of fruity but
dry merlot, Socialite Berifeld at night dancing drunk over manicured
yards, darting down the road and turning onto a place where he knows
he will arrive at the oceans edge where he stops slowly at the
shoreline, looking on at the water glinting in the moonlight, waits,
and then charges out, running, and then swimming farther out, and
dives down, but before the current catches him, he pops back up like
cork particles in old wine.
Mrs. Berifield is at the door with a 2 gauge shot gun, pointing it at
the lock to her sons room, which she has not been in for 5 years
thanks to his protests, shakes with anticipation, and the tension
rises and she blows another hole in the lock, and the door swings
steadily open and she looks inside the dark dusky room: Just as she
had suspected, she doesn't have to see them to know, because of the
new scents that have just assaulted the hallway, the smell of
formaldehyde and desperation. The corpses of Daniels long line of
missing Beaux. She recognizes them from faint meetings after midnight
when they would stumble in drunk, held up by her dashing son, sober,
some where dried and mummified, hung up like drying meat, some where
moldy from recent decay, and all of them bearing the brunt of hard
use, covered with hand prints and bite marks, and one wrapped in duct
tape from chest to ankle.
When you live a privileged life, you create your own problems.
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