It’s easy to mock the elderly for how they make every seemingly innocuous errand into an “event.” And yet, there are phases in the lives of “youths” when they’re capable of experiencing a similar excitement over the most minuscule of tasks simply because it’s “something to do” (people being as concerned as they are about needing a “purpose”). For example, when a “youth” is in college and mostly relishing the joys of a cakewalk course schedule. At times, sure, they’ll feel faintly “guilty” about draining their parents’ accounts for the sake of being able to imbibe and inhale as many drugs as possible (under the pretense of higher education) before being shat back out into the “real world.” And, admittedly, they could probably just take drugs at home, but it’s all about doing it in a “collegiate atmosphere.” That’s what makes it more of an “experience,” a “rite of passage.” One needn’t mention that it’s a very privileged rite of passage that most Black and Brown kids still don’t take as a given. Or maybe one does need to mention it. Especially to someone like Cal Amandine.

But Cal was often too blasted out of his mind to give much thought to these types of “political matters.” Besides that, everybody he knew was white anyway. Not much chance for “discourse” in a crowd where everyone was the same. Both racially and socioeconomically. Cal had told his parents he wanted to use his first year in college to explore what he was actually “interested” in, knowing full well that they would inevitably force him into a business and marketing major regardless. The first year was meant to be a “free pass” for him—one that would be given in exchange for this tacit understanding of what his major would (and must) eventually be. It was with this understanding in mind that Cal took especial advantage of coasting. Of doing absolutely fuck-all under the guise of “learning.” Oh, he was learning all right—about which drugs mixed best for an optimal high and what hangover cures worked most effectively so that he could achieve the same highs the following night after spending all morning and afternoon recovering. 

It was only during his rarest moments of daytime lucidity that he would remember some of the most garden-variety chores and errands that “adults” were expected to do. Like the laundry, or buying a few groceries (if for no other reason than to furnish his hangover cure recipes). That’s when his mind would wander toward thoughts of the elderly. Of people, like his grandparents, who found it both herculean and “exciting” to plan their day around the most basic shit. He supposed, in his own way, he did too. So no, he never thought about race discrepancies at all, so much as age-related ones. Or, more to the point, how none really existed between old and young while you were in a certain era of your youth. Namely, college and the magical time when unemployment is instead referred to as “studying.” Needless to say, Cal definitely wasn’t doing that at all. There was no need. Most of his classes were either “arts-centric,” therefore totally objective, or graded heavily on papers rather than tests, which meant Cal could just pay other people to do the assignments for him. 

Everything was such a breeze, and this made Cal feel as though Aeolus himself was guiding it all. And yet, precisely because everything was so easy, nothing ever had any sense of value. Naturally, Cal himself wasn’t aware of that. Of how it was for this very reason that he was so underlyingly depressed. A depression he deftly mitigated with his drug intake. So deftly, in fact, that he was able to lie to himself about what he was really feeling by never feeling at all. And so, he went about the days and nights of his “collegiate career” just like this, failing to imagine or even remotely consider a time after college when he might not be permitted to languish in such a reckless manner. Maybe because, for someone whose life was so perennially charmed, it was unfathomable. Cal just knew—somehow, some way—his parents would always take care and provide for him. Which is why every “standard life event,” college included, seemed entirely performative. Knowing that nothing he did would ever result in any consequence, good or bad, had turned him into something of a nihilist. And nihilists can’t avoid the characterization of being fundamentally depressed. Thus, Cal was the embodiment of so many rich kids like him. The ones who knew nothing really mattered, that their life path was firmly cemented regardless of what they did or didn’t do. Or how “buck wild” they got. 

Short of driving someone off a bridge and drowning them (here’s looking at you, Ted Kennedy and Kendall Roy), there was little that might kick up dust. And even then, the path wouldn’t be derailed. Nothing more than a few headlines of disgrace and a slap on the (iced out) wrist. The worst thing that’s ever happened to a child of privilege was having their royal titles stripped away (*cough cough* “Prince” Andrew). The only way for a rich kid to escape their fate of perpetual ennui was to off themselves. Which would be insanity, right? With so many others in the world who would commit murder rather than suicide to be in their position. Cal knew this. But he also knew he was a prisoner to the Bob Dylan lyric, “I’m helpless like a rich man’s child.”

The only way to cut out that feeling was to cut himself out of this life. The thought was always there, ever-bubbling, but it started to really boil over in the months after his graduation ceremony. Months during which he continued to act as though he hadn’t graduated at all. Days spent, incidentally, at his Grandma Beverly’s house in Beverly Hills. That’s right: Beverly in Beverly Hills. Fortunately for Cal’s “needs,” Beverly tended to be as non-sentient as he was, what with her predilection for self-medicating with what Cal viewed as “old lady drugs” like Seconal (which she still managed to buy from a mysterious supplier after it was discontinued) and Valium. She had been numbing out like this ever since Cal’s grandfather, Richard, died three years ago. 

After just over a month of staying with her, all while assuring his parents that he was looking into some very “strong prospects” on the employment and/or internship front, Cal started to lose count of how many times he had fantasized about utilizing Granny’s stash for himself. About how it would be the best way to go, blissed out in the pool on one of the floats as he waited for the meds to take their glorious effect. It would likely be hours before his grandma noticed. Plenty of time to check out successfully, averting this fate of endless failing upwards. The more Cal thought about it, the more he thought all the children of the rich should take a page from him. Offer themselves up to the gods and circumvent being accused of the nepotism and privilege they enjoyed until their dying days, passing those things on to their children ad infinitum. What if Cal could put a stop to the unbreakable cycle by being the first to make the grand gesture of renouncement? What if this could be his real, self-made legacy?

In the wake of several days of rumination, Cal could wait no longer to take destiny into his own hands. It was time to, for once in his life, actually do something—make a decision that was his alone. On the morning his mind was made up, he woke up early to collect the necessary dose as his grandma continued to sleep. It was around ten a.m. and she was still sawing logs. The sun outside was starting to gain momentum above the pool. Cal chose a lavender-toned lounge float with a cupholder for his “final voyage.” Upon downing about twenty pills (a mixture of the abovementioned Seconal and Valium), he chased the “dolls” with a bottle of vodka. Unlike Susanna Kaysen, however, he opted for Grey Goose. Probably much more expensive than whatever kind of vodka Susanna was chugging. And that was it. In less than fifteen minutes, he could feel himself start to go, start to “fade out.”

He experienced briefly what he imagined to be something like the “twilight sleep” of heavily sedated women in labor. Eventually, everything went black, and he was no longer able to ponder if this self-loathing gesture would have any impact—any ripple effect—at all. Apart from the ripples forming in the pool as he slumped off the float and plunged into the water.