The view was spectacular. 47 floors up on one of Manhattan's most illustrious and visible condo complexes provides a most vivid scenic summary of a bulk of the New York City skyline. Stare out into the horizon and on a clear day you can gaze into the dark sublimity of New Jersey and the gloomy cynicism that presides over it like a George Orwell experience. Look down from the cozy 4-foot balcony and you can make out the lethargic movement of the city's inhabitants down below, scrambling around like roaches. Only a very few select are lucky enough to experience the amenities that come along with being rich. I'm not talking an “I can pay my bills on time and still have enough left over for a brand new pair of sneakers” rich, where you proudly snub your nose disdainfully upon the poor, while still somehow being able to slide by amongst a more modestly wealthy class. No, the type of wealth I'm referring to is one only imaginable by those who have attained it. We snatch up land like you collect novelty magnets that say things like “Stuck on Miami”. When we crave European food, we go straight to the source where the more frugal plan their escape around a trip to the Polish Deli on the other side of town. But, there is no greater pleasure to being part of the absurdly upper class than being able to look down upon everyone... literally and figuratively. They say New York City has a thousand and one stories? Well, I'm forty-seven of those stories up from the starting point.
I wasn't born into money like so many of my colleagues. In fact, I wasn't born into anything, really. Never knew my biological family as I was one of those lucky orphaned babies, discarded just for breathing and basically being a burden. Don't get me wrong, the family that adopted me, June and Carl Gladstone were both loving and supportive parents who gave me an opportunity to be a somebody in this cold, pathetic world we live in – something my real parents never bothered to want. Or maybe they did, who am I to say the circumstances of what I was tossed aside like a choir boy in church with a cracking voice? I didn't find out I was adopted until I was in my late teens, and to be honest, it didn't hit me as hard as I thought it would, but it's still something that stays with you every day of your life, and for some, initiates that little extra motivation to prove everyone wrong – that your life is actually worth a damn. Eventually I found out my real parents were a couple of Jersey teens who got knocked up after Prom. Nothing like finding out you were a dumpster baby probably conceived in a “let's blow off some steam” romp during finals. In all fairness though, there's no doubt I ended up better off than if they would have kept me. Afterall, I grew up in a fairly healthy family environment. Mom... sorry, June ran a flower shop, typical, I know, while Carl, well I never really knew what Carl did. He was a good man, I don't want to give the impression that he was some non-existent father figure that showed up at odd hours, bought mom and me fancy things and then took off and we never saw him again for weeks on end. In fact, he was probably as close to the alpha male/father you could get. I just... I know his job was stressful and the only times he ever really scared me was when he would come home from particularly tense-filled days at work, get down on one knee, grab me by my shoulders and tell me, “Son, when you grow up, don't turn out like your old man.” It always seemed funny to me because I didn't know if he was talking about him or about my real father, who's probably off hoking tasteless souvenirs on the Jersey shore. But there was always food on the table, gifts around the Christmas tree and we all seemed pretty happy so who am I to complain?
It lingered though, the lasting image of a defeated man's plea to his son not to end up like him. A proud father, I figured, yearned to see his son follow in his footsteps. An embarrassed father does whatever he can to make sure his son doesn't make the same mistakes he did. For me, Carl strayed into the latter, and I took his warnings to heart. I started young, nabbing various treats from the corner store and offing them at a premium discount to the other kids in my grade. As I got older the risks grew as did my desire for more. By the time I was the age of my real parents when they decided I wasn't good enough for them, I had moved up to larceny and grand theft. I was seventeen the first time I got pinched, fortunately still young enough to be treated as a minor. But I've learned my second valuable lesson: Don't turn out like my father and don't get caught.
And here we are, twenty-seven years to the day my parents gave up on me. The phone rings, probably my driver letting me know it's time to go. He's been calling for a half-hour now. Fucking amateur doesn't realize it's important to be late to your own party. Twenty-seven years is a long time to be weighted down with the knowledge that you're not good enough. Twenty-seven years is an excruciatingly long time to feign happiness to everyone. This morning I got word that my real parents were killed in a tragic car accident along with their two children, two siblings I'll never get to know or even meet. My real father was drunk behind the wheel, blatantly disregarding the welfare of his family for his own selfish intolerance. It's sad not because this sort of shit happens all the time, but because I never had a chance to introduce myself to them and give them a great ol big “fuck you, look at me now” speech. Part of this bullshit consoles me in that they led the life I, looking back, feared living the most. By giving me up they gave me an opportunity to not be them, to not follow in my father's footsteps and getting shitfaced at a TGIFridays and sacrificing good judgment in hopes of catching the extra innings of the Yankees game. But, what hurts more than anything is the idea that they probably never even thought about me after leaving me for dead. They went on, had their own little white trash family and just chose to acknowledge that I ever existed. I mean I wasn't even good enough to drop off on someone's doorstep with a note. Nope, I was destined for the trash bin and it seems as if everyday, no matter how much closer I get to finding my way away from all the garbage, it's as if more gets piled on, preventing me from escaping. It's as if I'm still trying to do them right, have spent the last twenty-seven years doing so, and for what? And now, well now, it's completely irrelevant after what has recently transpired. I... I just can't do it anymore.
The phone rings again...
“Yes?”
“Mr Gladstone? We must be going if you don't want to be late.”
“I'll be down in a minute.”
“Yes sir.”
The balcony seems higher than it ever has. I wonder how long it'll take to hit the ground from here?
