Member-only story
Foreign cars, large homes, and too much time are just the start
In the crowded country club pub, the men gather as they always do, with drinks in hand after their daily rounds of golf. Sometimes they drink beer, sometimes it’s bourbon, but there’s always a drink that accompanies the bursts of laughter. Occasionally, I catch boastful conversations about corporate conquests but mostly, they rib one another over their golf scores. Any random whisper of politics is quickly shut down.
I don’t know these men, and they are easily interchangeable with the scores of others who file in and out of the cozy, wood-paneled room.
This is upper-middle class suburbia in 2022. It’s a bubble of privilege where the occupants have too much time, and contrary to their beliefs, a worldview confined by their small economic bubble.
“Mia’s over there,” a booming voice says, and I snap my head up. I’m used to being recognized, but hearing my name still startles me. “Someone grab an NDA,” the man says, and everyone laughs.
I, like I always do, smile and reply that I never write about my friends and if I don’t know you, I don’t know you well enough to write about you. It’s an innocent lie; we all know pieces of this will end up in my stories. It always does.
