GOST: Project Brennan/Yale

The Californian Caste

The Rich

The room is calm, lifelessly still as though it were frozen in time. The setting sunlight flows through the clean glass windows in the study, illuminating the floating dust like drifting fireflies. The book on the dark oak shelf closest to me, Aesop’s Fables, fills my head with tales of crows and frogs, learning lessons one is supposed to learn that many don’t. Its gilded lettering spills from top to bottom, an El Dorado waterfall. I rise, and walk into the hallway, greeted by silence, struck by silence. The rug under my feet is knotted, rough, tired. I run my hands along the recently cleaned walls, feeling the cool, refreshing bite of marble. Down the stairs I glide, blinded by the glaring crystals suspended in the dizzying swirl of steps. Failing to catch the last step on my descent, I trip, slipping on the recently mopped floor. Sliding on my hands, I feel the sting of a burn, the first pain felt in days. I slowly walk to the kitchen, through the sun room, through the dining hall, through the reading room. Each blessed by the scent of freshly cut flowers, delivered from the florist, delicate and bought to be replaced by the next batch, next week. Grabbing the bactine under the chrome sink the road rash is cleaned and covered with a tan Band-Aid, just the right size. To the leather couch, to the remote, to bliss. Plunged into the tanned, skinned cow, slaughtered for pleasure. To fall asleep on the couch, bathed in moonlight and the BBC’s coverage of the suffering of others. What a gift. We slept softly that night, serene brick, marble, and maple houses dotted the street, all with enough room to be comfortable on their grass beds. No cars, no people, no worries. Nothing but the sounds of silence.

Poor

Mom says don't go out of the house without company. Dangerous people, harmful opportunities, bad influences. But outside is never as bad as inside. One bathroom, one bedroom, one living dining room, one kitchen, four people. Mother and father sleep in the bedroom, grandma and I get the living room couch and floor. In the bedroom, stained, dirty white sheets fall, slumped over on Mom’s side. On Dad’s side, the springs are shot, creating a prolonged use pit. I hear a shrill shout beckoning me to the kitchen, so I rush, careful not to stub my socked toe on the corner of the stucco wall. I duck under the doorway and the sticky heat of boiling soup fills my lungs, choking me until I can regain my bearings. Grandma stands at the small linoleum counter cutting celery with a dull knife and scarred hands. Lit by white-blue fluorescent tube lights, she asks me to take the trash out back. Tying it up, the smell of wilting vegetables and neglected tendons hits me like a truck, the shockwave smacking me with rancid vigor. The second I leave the kitchen, the cold becomes apparent. Beads of moisture condense on my radiating skin. I miss the sweaty steam of the kitchen. The back door opens, squeaks, and shuts, shouting it's second to last breath for the day. Dogs bark and street lights buzz. The city shines in the distance blocking out the stars with a light blue glow. The city never truly going to rest, the stars never truly waking. Stuck in a dirty limbo, stuck in a dirty life. Struggling to be better, thrusted down by the better. Clawing to never be worse, mauled by the worst.