I was twenty-two, alone at my parents’ Orlando winter home, roughing it without any of our staff. My father had made it known I was not to get too comfortable, saying, Life offered no handouts.
A trend exploded in May: high schoolers descended onto random backyards in well-to-do neighborhoods for an unwelcome pool party. Cannonballs, deafening music, and foam noodle battles–all filmed for social media. The first time they crashed my parents’ winter home, I approached the leader who wore neon sunglasses and broccoli hair, explaining I would appreciate it if he wrapped his little prank video soon. Of course, I expected that he’d skim all the Solo cups out of the pool, recycle the pizza boxes, and have his own landscapers fix the stamped-flat flowers, but after that, we’d be totally square.
But the leader only lowered his shades and asked if I was going to cry. Even though I said no, he chanted, Look at this guy. He’s gonna cry. Soon everyone joined in.
I’ve always had a temper. Over the years, I’d been kicked out of my fair share of boarding schools and galas for justified reasons. The next thing I knew, sixty laughing teens were filming me as I threatened the sixteen-year-old pool party leader while unsuccessfully trying to topple my dad’s bronze Poseidon statue. That video got a lot of views.
Afterwards, high schoolers no longer crashed random pools. They specifically targeted me. It was every weekend, and when summer vacation kicked in, daily. When I called the cops, they said, Boys will be boys. When I called the local news, the parties grew after the segment aired; everyone now in on the joke. Tweens showed up with squirt guns. Divorced guys puked in the koi pond. F-tier influencers brought their own film crews and made t-shirts with my face captioned, He’s gonna cry. Soon, they invaded the house, chlorine staining an imported Japanese sectional, dripping on a Persian rug worth more than luxury cars, and destroying the indoor fountain’s pump with discarded condoms.
When my dad called, he said with venom, Handle it or I’ll revoke your trust. I tried to explain, but my father had already hung up.
I’d pleaded, begged, and bribed. All that was left was the threat of violence.
Real violence.
I bought the largest, scariest-looking gun on display at Machine Gun America. I didn’t plan to kill anyone. I wasn’t a maniac. Here’s how I wanted it to go: the partiers show up, see me locked and loaded, and realize the fun was over. They’d apologize. Dignity restored.
Here’s what actually happened: the leader hopped the fence, howled laughter, and said, You can’t stop us with your fake-ass rifle.
For dramatic effect, I fired a warning shot into the fence.
At first, an echo and ear-ringing silence.
Then an animalistic cry.
Amidst a chaos of screams, being rushed, and pinned to the ground, a teenage girl shouted that I’d shot a kid. If I had seen the camera, I would’ve either told them it had been an accident or said nothing. But my temper got a hold of me, and when the girl told me I’d shot a kid, I said, Good. Because, honestly, it felt good to be feared. Please remember, I hadn’t yet seen the boy bleeding in the road. In that moment, he had been no one, just one of many who’d disrespected me.
Only later would I see his dark blood and experience my cosmic epiphany regarding the cruelty and compassion inside myself. I’d made so many mistakes, and if I were given another chance, I knew I could bring so much joy to others. I’d give my Omega Speedmaster to a needy child. I’d work at a soup kitchen on Christmas. I’d run for office and make a difference. I would have lived inside that enlightened moment forever if I could.
Yet I’d been instructed to lie low by my lawyers. Months passed, and my trial was short. This was Stand Your Ground country, so the court ordered me to take ten hours of anger management. By the time I finished my last class, I could barely remember that epiphany I had while watching an anole lizard lap up blood. I would’ve lived in that enlightened moment if I could have. I’d never experienced such hope. But life continued. Given time, even the profound feels quite normal, quite pointless.
