Poor Little Rich Girl

I knew my girlfriend’s family had “old money” the moment I saw the two massive stone lions flanking the entrance to their home, like they were daring someone to question their pedigree. The neighborhood was full of peacocks—literal peacocks—strutting around and sprawling in the middle of driveways like they owned the place. A stark contrast to where I grew up, where the only thing strutting were hookers loitering under streetlights and drunk hobos throwing punches in parking lots. There, life was a struggle against the tangible, and “quality of life” was some laughably theoretical phrase people read about in sociology textbooks—here, it was a performance of the intangible, a theater of abundance.

It was July, brutally hot, and we were at Gwen’s parents’ house for the pool—a chlorinated Eden with its own rock waterfall spilling into water so blue it could’ve been Photoshopped. No one swam except the pool guy, a tan, wiry man in his forties who clearly resembled a Saint-Tropez gigolo. Gwen’s mom drifted through the house vibing a sentient Dior ad, doped up on Xanax, Klonopin or both. Her wineglass—always half-full—was less a drink than a mood, an accessory she abandoned in every room like she was planting flags on conquered territory. The house reeked of stagnant opulence: designer upholstery no one sat on, and chandeliers no one dusted—a fever dream where the jaded were perpetually bored of their own wealth.

Gwen herself was a vision: perfectly executing a splashless dive into the pristine water, and I was immediately reminded of David Hockney’s acrylic painting, A Bigger Splash. (Irony, no?) She surfaced, her brunette hair slicked back and rubbing the chlorine out of her eyes. She radiated this flawless, pearly white smile like a fucking toothpaste commercial, like she knew she was impressive. I obliged: “Your dive was incredible.”

She beamed at me. “I used to swim competitively in high school.”

She was strikingly beautiful and fun, but her intellect, such as it was, operated exclusively within the bounds of the practical and the immediate. She couldn’t follow an abstract conversation to save her life and seemed utterly uninterested in trying—her critical faculties extended only as far as deciding which brand of kombucha to splurge on that week. This wasn’t surprising; as on our first date, she’d been forty-five minutes late, and when she finally showed up, she didn’t apologize but instead launched into a monologue about the insanity of her closet.

Gwen’s mother floated by, materializing like a character from a dream sequence with a new glass of wine in hand, her silk kaftan billowing behind her. “You guys all right out here?” she asked; her pupils were tiny pinpricks, her gaze unfocused. She didn’t wait for a response before wandering back inside, a vapor trail of Chardonnay and floral perfume in her wake.

“Does she ever, like, do anything?” I asked.

Gwen shrugged. “She reads sometimes. And shops. And she’s really into those healing crystals now.” She said it like it explained everything.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Somewhere in the distance, a peacock screeched, its cry echoing across the manicured lawns. I reached for my drink, though I didn’t particularly want it.

I looked at the pool’s surface, so still it could’ve been lacquered. In a place like this, I thought, you could sink to the bottom and stay there, unnoticed until the pool guy fished you out. His tanned arms flexed, not a trace of concern on his face. Just another day in paradise.