Murphy's Law

10 Generations of real life problems.

This was supposed to be a legacy but it's turned into a story...

Anyway, this story is inspired by favorite books, movies, television shows and personal experiences.

Life is not a fairy tale but that doesn't mean it's not beautiful. After all, you love people in spite of their flaws, and sometimes their flaws make you love them even more.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Chapter 2.10 Wanna Be a Baller

I was nick-named for a Dutch Post-Impressionist painter who only sold one painting in his entire lifetime.  His name was Vincent van Gogh.  He had several afflictions in his thirty-seven years on Earth, among those being anxiety and mental illness, but in my opinion, was one of the most brilliant painters of all time.

At the age of twenty-five, I had already sold five paintings and owned my own gallery.  Farryn  fielded countless calls a day from clients asking about future exhibitions and custom collections.  I wasn't delusional enough to believe that I could be the future father of Expressionism, but thanks to my grandparents' money, I was lucky enough that I could do what I wanted.

Farryn Morgan was yet another blessing that had found its way into my life.  Sweet, detail-oriented, and efficient, I couldn't have asked for a better curator.  And that was just when she was working.  After Penelope, I had thought it wasn't possible to have feelings for someone.  I was wrong.  Maybe it wasn't love, or never would be, but having one girl every single night felt better than having a one-night stand every single night.

We didn't have a traditional "romance" but that seemed okay with her.  I think we both had our own baggage to sort out.

So for the time being, we were perfectly suited for one another, free to enjoy each other's company and bodies.

I had everything a person could want: a career and a pretty girl.  I was living the dream, yet nothing satisfied me.  I would lie in bed for hours after Farryn would fall asleep and feel completely empty, as if I could walk away from all of this without one regret.  Van Gogh committed suicide before his ingenuity could ever be properly accredited to him, shooting himself "for the good of it all".  I suppose many great artists, philosophers and writers fought a constant battle with the madness inside them, as if they were blessed with limitless potential at the cost of their sanity.  And I wondered, if that is what they would say about me some day as well.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Farryn and Go did the same thing every weekend.  They partied with the same assholes at the same bar with the same bartenders and the same drink specials.  Since quitting P.U.R.E., she hadn't expressed much interest in returning, even as a guest, but yet she'd go out with him, even if she was dragging her feet and even if it was only to make sure he didn't go home with some skank.

Farryn had thought he hated high school.  At least, that's what he had led her to believe.  Of course, she had dropped out when she was a sophomore, but she hadn't been impressed while she was there.  There was nothing to be liked about the unspoken social barriers that were set by household income or good looks.  Males could move up on the ladder by playing sports but females had to put out.  She found the whole mess disgusting.  Almost seven years after graduation and the "popular" crowd still held court.  Did some people ever grow up?

Isabelle Rhodes, Go's best friend, was the only person that Farryn could stand and that was only because she had left everything behind to be with the man she loved, her fiancé, David Clark.  Rather than marrying someone with prospects, Isabelle chose to buy a house with her trust and get a job without relying on influential references and a heavily padded résumé.

Unfortunately, even as much as she resented the movers and shakers of Hidden Springs, these little outings were completely necessary.  Sure, Go had to have a couple of drinks before he was sociable but the truth is, is they sold paintings for a living; very expensive paintings at that.  And the only people who could afford to buy such paintings, were in fact, the classe supérieure.  

So, if they had to blend in with the rich and boring, so be it.  They could tell the same tired jokes, laugh at those less fortunate and knock back the Gin and Tonics round-for-round.  After all, their livelihoods depended on it.

As well as someone else's.

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