Delusions of Grandeur Ivy Becker

2:46 pm

The first line of a great novel is supposed to be iconic. To begin what is widely considered her magnum opus, Virginia Woolf wrote, “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.” There we have it. A protagonist, an action, and most importantly, unanswered questions. Who is Mrs. Dalloway? Why did she have to buy the flowers herself? Who did she say that to? But this isn’t a great novel, it’s a manifesto. “A manifesto?” You may ask “why a manifesto?” Well shut up and listen. Was that harsh? Oops. I hope you know that this isn’t how I am in real life. Were we to have this conversation face to face and you asked “a manifesto?” I would answer with a smile and a flick of my gold bracelet clad wrist: a manifesto to explain my actions over the course of the past afternoon.

She’s going to try to say that I left because I was unhappy. That’s not true though, because I’ve always been unhappy, yet I’ve never left before. The real reason for my leaving is that I felt guilty for being unhappy which made me unhappier, unhappy enough to finally do it. I felt guilty because in comparison to the rest of the world my life is golden. But then again, who is the rest of the world? Who are those faces I see on the news living in grass huts stretching condoms over piles of trash and kicking them like soccer balls? Does that make me sound like a brat? Because I don’t want you to think I’m a brat.

Brat. That’s what Mother shouted at me when I refused to call her “mom” even though it’s a plebian nickname. If you live in Syosset, which, if you’re reading this you probably don’t because Syosettites are practically illiterate, then likely you’ve seen her, Mother that is, bumbling down Dorcas Street in her barf green clogs, stapling pictures of my face to every available surface area. God, she better not be using a picture where my hair’s still curly or I’ll kill myself. Oh my gosh, I’m kidding, I promise. Suicide’s not a joke, I know. But, like, I swear to God if Mother’s distributing grotesque photographs of me then I will kill myself. I want you to know that I’m not obsessed with looks or anything. No really, I promise. I mean I definitely think that presentation is important. Like, if you show up to a job interview wearing a Kmart maxi skirt and carrying a tattered leather bag from the recession, then you’re probably not gonna get the job *cough* *cough* Mother. I’m not shaming anyone, it’s just how the world works.

3:03 pm

Sorry, I had to take a break. My pen ran out and the idiot conductor took like, eight years to grab me a new one. Anyways, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that my mother, the breadwinner of our family of two, at least attempts to get a new job. It’s completely unfair and totally fascist of her to tell a sixteen-year-old that “Christmas is going to look a bit different this year” and “no more going out to eat unless it’s a special occasion.” Like she’s the one who made me accustomed to a certain lifestyle and now she’s just gonna take it away? Because of her own lack of motivation? It’s honestly absurd. God, my hand’s starting to cramp. Give me like five minutes I’m gonna see if I can snag one of those mini bottles of chardonnay from the bar in First.

3:12 pm

Ok so two things: first of all, the shiny bald man with the bushy eyebrows (some type of train butler maybe?) said that only the First Class riders have access to the bar. Like I’m in Business not Unreserved Coach- really? They couldn’t have made an exception? Whatever. Maybe I’ll, like, sue Amtrak. Second of all, walking all the way up there and then getting turned around gave me some time to think. It’s been almost an hour since I ditched fifth period, so they definitely called Mother like thirty minutes ago which means that she should have called me by now asking where I am. I guess she’s too hysterical to even try to contact me. Maybe she thinks I’ve been like, kidnapped, or something, and she’s at the police station. Dammit, I should’ve tried to get kidnapped. Would’ve made a helluva college essay. Oh shoot one second. My phone just rang. It’s definitely her, Mother, I mean. Oh my god I can’t wait to hear her voice! It’s gonna be sooo shrill. Like shriller than that one time I forgot to let Froufrou out and she peed all over the rug Mother spent like ten years knitting. So funny. Ok oh my gosh should I let it keep ringing so she panics?

3:22 pm

Sooo, it was just a telemarketer. Some idiot who sounded like they were gargling mouthwash trying to sell me a life insurance policy. No freaking thank you. The train butler just made this big announcement about how there’s “ah-two mo stahps til ya get to tha city” and my phone’s at six percent so Mother really needs to call me soon.

I’m not quite sure yet what I’ll do when I get to the city. I might go to Bergdorf’s for tea and look out at all the people in Central Park and wonder why they’re walking so fast. Like I did with Mother when I was little, and we still went to the city together, and she still called me her curly haired cutie, and let me order the deluxe macaron platter. Maybe afterwards we’ll walk around the floor with the fancy dresses and I’ll try on the most expensive one and she’ll tell me it was made for me. Maybe…

4:30 pm

I could file a lawsuit against the evil woman on my right. I guess I fell asleep or something and my neck craned slightly toward her and instead of lightly tapping me to let me know she just shoved me? I wasn’t aware this train was under Draconian rule? Oh shoot, what time is it? FOUR FREAKING THIRTY! Oh my God what if I missed Mother’s call? We’re pulling into the city any minute! I need her to call me, Mother that is. She will, though. I know she will.

5:11 pm

The train pulled into the city half an hour ago. I’m sorry I didn’t write during that time. What happened was that the train butler grabbed my manifesto out of my lap and screamed at me that he wouldn’t return it until I got up out of my seat and left the train. Then, when I asked him if he would yell at a BOY for taking an extra couple of minutes to get up, he called me a spoiled little brat. I guess that’s what I get for trying to make a feminist statement. Sorry Gloria Steinem. Anyways, now I’m sitting at Grand Central, completely alone. I know that you’re supposed to ‘show not tell’ when you write, but it’s just the facts of the matter. Me. Grand Central. Alone. No Mother in sight. She didn’t even give me the dignity of a call. Instead, a simple, scathing text. “Aunt Ninny saw you boarding a train for the city. What were you thinking? Anyways, don’t bother coming home until you get rid of your delusions of grandeur.”

I’ve got two hundred dollars’ worth of birthday money in the back pocket of my mini skirt and I’ve always wanted to explore the city on my own. Looks like now I’ve got some time to kill. Sorry Mother, but I’m never coming home.

***A stack of Amtrak branded napkins were found on a bench at Grand Central Station yesterday containing the above words. If you have any idea who these musings belong to, please contact Maury Cohen (producer of The Wealthy Women of Westchester franchise, Beverly Hills High Schoolers, The Rich Teens of Richmond etc.) at MauryC@realitystar.com or 917-BEA-STAR with this young lady’s contact information for a reward of $500 USD.