Elon

I grew up piss poor, but smart. There was this kid, across town, name of Elon. He had an elaborate tree house, the size of my actual house, and I hung out there with the other boys. It was a circular, elevated fort, wrapped around an 130 year old oak. It was truly beautiful. His dad was some kind of blood diamond broker.

I didn’t like Elon at all, no one did. But he had all the toys, so he was artificially popular. We all just played in the gargantuan tree house, nodding to, and abetting Elon’s fanciful stories about his family. It was a worthy tradeoff.