'City of Angels' Creative Writing

Rachael Kerr
AP English
May 18, 2010
‘City of Angels’ Creative Writing
The Uninterested Pauper
Everyone loves having that one rich relative who sends hundred dollar checks for birthdays, graduations, and insignificant shortcomings. Although you hate the fact that they flaunt their wealth, that is quickly defused by “Look! Free money for learning how to drive!” It so weird-too- that you only go to one party they have each year, with no gifts, but just a twelve-pack and your church clothes. So after all that, being given a week in their house would be a blessing from the most generous God. But for me, I was a little less loud-mouth hymn, and a little more “I have better things to do”.
But that didn’t matter because there I was, against my will on a four-hour plane ride from Camden, New Jersey to Beverly Hills, California. I remained quiet, feeling the appropriate course for someone of my stature should be barely seen, and never heard. I silenced my astounded reaction as I watched uppity businessmen get snippety with their flight attendant because their water wasn’t bottled using the water Bernadette drank from the bank. Here I was, eating peanuts from a baggie I brought with me (I thought you had to pay for the ones they gave you) and this guy was complaining his t-bone was too well-done. And these were the kind of people I was going to be bumping elbows with for the next week.
I knew I didn’t belong as soon as I got off the plane. As I turned to thank the hostess, the woman behind me walked right into me, not paying attention die to the pressing conversation of which of her tennis courts she would play on taking place beneath her manicured finger nails.
“Fuck!” I shouted.
Her alligator pumps tore the blister on my heel from my oversized hand-me-down shoes. She reeled back as if I had insulted how the fire red top she dawned complemented her overly bronzed face. Furious whispers from the snooty rubbernecking crowd chased me down the clanking steps, until I lost them in the overbearing shouting of cell phone conversations revolving around which of their vacation homes on which continent they offer for time-share next. My eyes darted from sign to sign until I recognized my name, strangely written in elegant script. Pushing past designer luggage with designer puppies in tow, I waved to what I assumed by his hat to be the driver.
“…Miss…Gray?” He would have sounded more courteous, if he wasn’t so confused. My oversized hoodie, faded jeans, and torn sneakers definitely caught him off guard.
This scene played out numerous times: meeting my escort, the doorman, the elevator operator, and the baggage boy. Each looked from me to the previous greeter, seeking for any hint to tell of a joke, hoping I was just a random orphan they flew in for shits and giggles, because they have nothing better to occupy their time, not the god-daughter of their master and lady.
My earlier sentiment about rubbing elbows was completely off-base. It would be damn-near impossible to accident brush any part of anyone in this mansion ever, this impossibility closely followed by being found walking around stark naked. Simply put, this mansion was massively-massive. In fact, my godmother did not know until the next morning that I had arrived the preceding afternoon. Enraged, she demanded an explanation for such insolence (she used those words exactly), seeing as it was clearly the fault of the people who could not find the tiny woman, not of the woman who was expecting a guest. Her dark eyes shifted quickly beneath her wrinkled skin, and her oddly pearly white teeth peeked out from underneath a heavily-made-up face. I knew her name was Felicia, yet she introduced herself as if I was the daughter of a business associate: overexcited with a lot of hand gestures and touching. Hastily, she called for her husband and son, who took a minimum of twenty minutes to navigate to our location. Henry, my godfather, was in his late forties like his wife, although years of stressful business had hardened his features into a permanent ‘thinker’ expression. Thomas, their son, was a reasonably handsome man but the idea of his wealth made him an automatic ten. He had an excitable disposition, but his character was burdened down with the naivety one only receives from a large sum of constantly available funds. At a first glance, it would seem like they were the kind of people I would not be confront too often. But first impressions are always wrong.
Within one day, everything I knew had been flipped on its head. After tossing and turning for hours in my king-sized bed in my czar-sized guest room, my cell phone alarm rang telling me to get ready for the worst experience of my life: rich people high school. I jumped in the shower for five minutes, before throwing on the best fitting and least worn clothes I had for my first day in Hell, and crossed my room to the engraved mahogany door. Hyperventilating from the long trek, I quickly caught my breath from a surprise gasp. The knob turned itself, and I soon stood eye to wrinkly eye with an unfamiliar butler. He was as shocked as I was; for me it was because I wasn’t expecting to ever be this close to anyone in this house, and him because I imagine he thought I was a homeless child who snuck in by mistake.
“Oh Miss Gray, I was coming by to wake you for school, but I see you have already prepared yourself...” The elderly butler explained, his voice trailing off as he looked me up and down.
“…its 6:15…wouldn’t I be late if I just started getting ready now? Or is the school that close by foot?”
He answered my question with a blank stare, I assumed that he didn’t speak much English, and thanked him as I passed to go down the stairs. After running through art filled hallways, and carpet lined sunroom, I made my way to the kitchen, where I was told to meet Thomas. A plump gray-haired maid occupied the kitchen, dashing from one side to the other, preparing a multitude of dishes looking reading to be photographed for a cook book. Apparently, this was everyone’s breakfast. And by everyone I mean Felicia, Henry, Thomas, and me. Around seven-ish, Thomas finally strolled in, paying no attention to the delicacies decorating the marble and onyx breakfast table; the same reactions with for Felicia and Henry. At seven-thirty I questioned our departure for school, stating that we would probably have to run to even get a tardy. I received the same blank stared but this time it was accompanied by Felicia’s answer of “it only takes five minutes by limo”. Strangely, this did not bring on a discussion of how long it would actually take, but of which vehicle Thomas wanted to ride in today- the Mercedes Benz, the Jaguar, or the BMW.
I stepped outside to get some fresh air after being suffocated by all the ostentatious smog created in that one tiled prison. I was sick to my stomach, not only because I was not used to the high quality of the breakfast spread, but because the things these people took for granted literally disgusted me.
Going to a hoity-toity high school was not all that different from a regular high school when you got down to the basics. The student and their conversation were pretty normal, but their subjects were slightly altered. Instead of “My parent are gone this weekend, who wants to have a killer party?” it was “My parents are going to Thailand for a month, who wants to live at my house?” It wasn’t “Your parents won’t lend you the car? That sucks”, but “Your parents won’t lend you the yacht? That sucks”. The torturous week flew by about as fast as lead weight blown across a desert by an asthmatic grandmother.
I reached my inner-peace on the plane; not because I meditated, because it was either block out the other passengers’ voices, or repeatedly slam my forehead against the tray table. After another grueling four-hour flight back to Camden, I stepped off the plane, calmly walked to my house, and softly opened the door. As I shuffled down the creaky hallway, passed through the doorframe into a room the size of the walk-in closet at my god parents house, and I placed on my bag on what Henry would most likely call a pillow. After examining the peeling wallpaper, the rusty faucet, and broken window pane, I dropped to my knees. God, it’s great to be home.