Screwdrivered
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So off I went, acing my advanced applied mathematics courses and taking some art classes every semester. By the time I was a junior and declared my official major, computer engineering, I stunned my family with my minor: studio art. I further stunned them when I turned down a summer internship at a rival software firm for a summer program in Italy, studying in Florence. What was even more stunning? I spent a semester of my senior year in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne. I took just enough core classes to satisfy my parents and a figure drawing class just for myself.
Graduation loomed, job offers came in, but it was understood that I’d be following my brothers into my father’s company. So I did what every girl from a wealthy family does: I rebelled. In perfect, by-the-book fashion. I dyed my hair, got several tattoos, pierced some things that were noticeable—and some that were not—and when I walked across the stage to get my diploma I did so in combat boots and a sign on the top of my cap. In masking tape, I’d spelled out:
MOVING TO FRANCE
This was my totally pu**y in-your-face way of telling my parents I wasn’t taking their job, or any job for that matter. I’d secured an internship at a gallery on the Left Bank in Paris, had some money from a trust that kicked in when I turned twenty-one, a travel visa, and a spanking-new backpack.
My. Parents. Were. Livid.
I. Was. On. An. Adventure.
I apologized to my parents, who initially responded with the threat of disowning me and insisting I was throwing my life away. They eventually ended in tears, fearing I’d lose my head and virtue to a Frenchman. They had no idea that my virtue had been lost years ago in the backseat of my car, The Blue Bomber, but that was neither here nor there. The here was leaving my family behind, to do something no one was expecting. The there was a fourth-floor walk-up in the 11th Arrondissement with two roommates I’d met online and arranged a sublet with.
I had the best time of my life. I lived, worked, and loved in the City of Light. I spoke marginal French but learned quickly, ate delicious food, danced in delicious nightclubs, and had my first delicious sexual encounter with an uncircumcised man. Ooh la la. I took art classes, I rented a studio space, I had passionate love affairs with passionate artists as passionate about their craft and their determination to live a bohemian idealistic lifestyle as I was. I traveled throughout Europe and points farther east, resulting in an unexpected meeting with Simon in Istanbul toward the end of my European adventure.
By now I was well into my romance novel addiction, taking any gloomy day or disappointing date as an opportunity to indulge in steamy and dreamy. But while the heroines in my books all ended up with their happily-ever-after, my love life was falling short. Sex life was off the rails, but love eluded me. I’m a reasonably attractive young gal, great rack, nice legs, and never had any complaints in the sack. But I’d never been—cue sad music—in love before. And no one had ever been—cue sadder music—in love with me. No one had ever taken me in his arms, kissed my sweet lips, and whispered the words I love you.
For the record? No one knows that. But back to Paris.
I remained in adventure mode, indulging in very satisfying but safe naked times with beautiful boys, traveled all over, painted whenever the muse struck, and just lived. Lived in that way you can only live in your early twenties, when nothing truly epic has happened yet, and it’s time to just dance.
But then my father had a heart attack, which sobered me up fast and brought my traveling ass home. Seeing my strong, invincible father falter like that brought everything into focus. Family trumps everything, and soon after his recovery, I was back in the fold as if I’d never left. I’d had my adventure, I was now twenty-three, and math was calling. I’d actually missed the certainty that came from working with numbers. Safe, solid, wonderfully complex simple numbers.
I retained some of my independence, though. Early on, I got lucky with a computer program I’d written, and used the money from selling that license to fund my own start-up. So I was within the realm of the family business, but on my own two feet. Which were still clad in combat boots. And though I liked my comfortable life, sometimes I caught myself holding my pen like a brush, mimicking brush strokes when I was puzzling out a particularly tricky problem. Sometimes I missed that romantic, wild, carefree lifestyle.
So hearing Simon talk about where he was and what he was doing made me a bit wistful. “Sounds amazing,” I said with a sigh. I was dying for an adventure!
“What’s up, Viv?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
“Tell me everything you know about Mendocino,” I said.
“Mendocino? As in California? As in, three hours north of where I live?”
“That’s the one.”
“Um, it’s on the beach.”
“That’s descriptive.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”
“I just found out that my Great-Aunt Maude, who I barely knew, passed away and left me her beach house, her ranch, and everything that comes with it.”
“Holy shit! So when are you coming out?”
“Not sure yet,” I replied, chewing on my fingernail, then sat on my hand. Nasty habit.
“What’s your family say?”
“I literally found out thirty minutes ago. My family knows nothing about it,” I answered, chewing on my fingernail. Again! I grabbed a sock from the dresser and put it over my hand.
“Wait, wait, so this is, like, all yours?”
“Apparently. The attorney said I can go out there to sign everything and take possession, or he can handle selling everything for me.”
“Don’t sell it,” he said instantly.
“Oh, I’m totally not. At least not until I’ve seen it again.” Huh. Looks like I was going.
“Cool,” Simon said.
I agreed. Very cool.
Now I just had to tell my family. Me going off on an adventure? These conversations traditionally never went well.
I took the sock off my hand.
Two weeks, three fights, and four packed bags later, I was ready to fly across the country. Telling my family had been interesting, especially my mother. It was her aunt who had passed away, albeit one she had no contact with. Aunt Maude had pulled away from the entire family toward the end of her life. My mom called a family meeting with her sisters, Gloria and Kimberly, spoke with our family attorney, spoke with Aunt Maude’s attorney, and realized it was all very clear. Maude had died without wanting anyone to know except me, her sole heir.
Graduation loomed, job offers came in, but it was understood that I’d be following my brothers into my father’s company. So I did what every girl from a wealthy family does: I rebelled. In perfect, by-the-book fashion. I dyed my hair, got several tattoos, pierced some things that were noticeable—and some that were not—and when I walked across the stage to get my diploma I did so in combat boots and a sign on the top of my cap. In masking tape, I’d spelled out:
MOVING TO FRANCE
This was my totally pu**y in-your-face way of telling my parents I wasn’t taking their job, or any job for that matter. I’d secured an internship at a gallery on the Left Bank in Paris, had some money from a trust that kicked in when I turned twenty-one, a travel visa, and a spanking-new backpack.
My. Parents. Were. Livid.
I. Was. On. An. Adventure.
I apologized to my parents, who initially responded with the threat of disowning me and insisting I was throwing my life away. They eventually ended in tears, fearing I’d lose my head and virtue to a Frenchman. They had no idea that my virtue had been lost years ago in the backseat of my car, The Blue Bomber, but that was neither here nor there. The here was leaving my family behind, to do something no one was expecting. The there was a fourth-floor walk-up in the 11th Arrondissement with two roommates I’d met online and arranged a sublet with.
I had the best time of my life. I lived, worked, and loved in the City of Light. I spoke marginal French but learned quickly, ate delicious food, danced in delicious nightclubs, and had my first delicious sexual encounter with an uncircumcised man. Ooh la la. I took art classes, I rented a studio space, I had passionate love affairs with passionate artists as passionate about their craft and their determination to live a bohemian idealistic lifestyle as I was. I traveled throughout Europe and points farther east, resulting in an unexpected meeting with Simon in Istanbul toward the end of my European adventure.
By now I was well into my romance novel addiction, taking any gloomy day or disappointing date as an opportunity to indulge in steamy and dreamy. But while the heroines in my books all ended up with their happily-ever-after, my love life was falling short. Sex life was off the rails, but love eluded me. I’m a reasonably attractive young gal, great rack, nice legs, and never had any complaints in the sack. But I’d never been—cue sad music—in love before. And no one had ever been—cue sadder music—in love with me. No one had ever taken me in his arms, kissed my sweet lips, and whispered the words I love you.
For the record? No one knows that. But back to Paris.
I remained in adventure mode, indulging in very satisfying but safe naked times with beautiful boys, traveled all over, painted whenever the muse struck, and just lived. Lived in that way you can only live in your early twenties, when nothing truly epic has happened yet, and it’s time to just dance.
But then my father had a heart attack, which sobered me up fast and brought my traveling ass home. Seeing my strong, invincible father falter like that brought everything into focus. Family trumps everything, and soon after his recovery, I was back in the fold as if I’d never left. I’d had my adventure, I was now twenty-three, and math was calling. I’d actually missed the certainty that came from working with numbers. Safe, solid, wonderfully complex simple numbers.
I retained some of my independence, though. Early on, I got lucky with a computer program I’d written, and used the money from selling that license to fund my own start-up. So I was within the realm of the family business, but on my own two feet. Which were still clad in combat boots. And though I liked my comfortable life, sometimes I caught myself holding my pen like a brush, mimicking brush strokes when I was puzzling out a particularly tricky problem. Sometimes I missed that romantic, wild, carefree lifestyle.
So hearing Simon talk about where he was and what he was doing made me a bit wistful. “Sounds amazing,” I said with a sigh. I was dying for an adventure!
“What’s up, Viv?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
“Tell me everything you know about Mendocino,” I said.
“Mendocino? As in California? As in, three hours north of where I live?”
“That’s the one.”
“Um, it’s on the beach.”
“That’s descriptive.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”
“I just found out that my Great-Aunt Maude, who I barely knew, passed away and left me her beach house, her ranch, and everything that comes with it.”
“Holy shit! So when are you coming out?”
“Not sure yet,” I replied, chewing on my fingernail, then sat on my hand. Nasty habit.
“What’s your family say?”
“I literally found out thirty minutes ago. My family knows nothing about it,” I answered, chewing on my fingernail. Again! I grabbed a sock from the dresser and put it over my hand.
“Wait, wait, so this is, like, all yours?”
“Apparently. The attorney said I can go out there to sign everything and take possession, or he can handle selling everything for me.”
“Don’t sell it,” he said instantly.
“Oh, I’m totally not. At least not until I’ve seen it again.” Huh. Looks like I was going.
“Cool,” Simon said.
I agreed. Very cool.
Now I just had to tell my family. Me going off on an adventure? These conversations traditionally never went well.
I took the sock off my hand.
Two weeks, three fights, and four packed bags later, I was ready to fly across the country. Telling my family had been interesting, especially my mother. It was her aunt who had passed away, albeit one she had no contact with. Aunt Maude had pulled away from the entire family toward the end of her life. My mom called a family meeting with her sisters, Gloria and Kimberly, spoke with our family attorney, spoke with Aunt Maude’s attorney, and realized it was all very clear. Maude had died without wanting anyone to know except me, her sole heir.
