Peter had gone to university with the intention, and under the impression that he would, upon graduation, begin a stable, lucrative career in helping producers and manufacturers meet their demographics more efficiently to better sell their products; “Marketing and Public Relations,” as the university’s school of business had titled the program. The rationale was seemingly faultless leading up to, and during the enrollment process: as long as things were produced, things would need to be sold. Peter was to be the bridge between the factory floor and the consumer; his responsibility was to make sure that browsers became buyers, and that whenever possible, their minds would be made up before they even took a step inside the store.
Everything that is purchased is produced, and this was a very reassuring concept of which he regularly reminded himself during his enrollment. Careers in marketing are virtually limitless, because no producer or manufacturer will ever look at their sales figures and think to themselves, “Say, this is a bit too much money to be making; time to scale back production.”
No, the manufacturers always will want to sell more. Similarly, mankind holds within their souls an insatiable want. Whether the goods are grocery items, processed foods, pharmaceuticals, toys, automobiles, digital technology components or otherwise, the public generally wants more of them. This is why marketing was, supposedly, such a surefire hit of a career: the public generally is not aware that they want something, and given such a circumstance, must be exposed to what they can buy, and know that something exists to be purchased before it can be purchased. The public, once sufficiently exposed to the virtues and values of a particular product, can hardly resist picking one up at the store; once they understand, of course, how much the product will improve their lives.
Peter, for years, salivated at the concept that an unlimited demand means limitless wealth.
He reflected for a moment, trying to recall the moment that the seed for desiring such a career had first been sown. Thinking back to his enrollment, as he filled out the forms and took the placement tests, what had been his inspiration? His home was stable, if humble. Both of his parents were modestly educated, his mother having sacrificed any prospect of a career to raise her two children, and his father having climbed the ranks of a drilling company through on-the-job training; obviously he had not acquired a taste for higher education through their example. Though they encouraged him every step of the way to complete some degree of post-secondary education, they were hardly his main inspiration. After all, they had encouraged him to take hockey lessons as well, and for years he refused, and their efforts bore no fruit.
Eyeing the statement periodically, and driving with the summer evening sunshine at his back, he again racked his memory banks. What had driven him to undertake such a reckless gamble, which resulted in such an egregious error? He thought back to high school, at the pivotal year his grades took a long-overdue turn upwards: his sophomore year. Long days of television, biking and gaming had become long nights of studying chemistry, biology and math. That year he first abandoned applying the condemning notion of “busywork” to all of his assignments, and had begun completing all of his assignments with a newfound fervor, even enthusiasm.
A memory of an exquisite, luxurious lust came floating to the surface of his mind. Peter was offered a taste of a lifestyle from another dimension; a spoonful of wealth, stability, and prosperity was given him by a man he barely ever knew. From that moment on, he knew the ends he wanted to achieve; the only riddle was to acquire the means. This was my inspiration, Peter mused, and began reminiscing about the day that had had a profound impact on his busy teenaged conscious.
The summer preceding his sophomore year of high school, the family had attended an event that was very unusual for them. In the midst of summer picnics and birthday parties was a stuffy, dressy, pretentious social event, held at the home of his father’s boss.
Peter’s father spent weeks at a time away for work, working on oil rigs for an international energy corporation. The extraction of resources from beneath the surface of the Earth was a very mechanically and manpower-intensive line of work, and demanded a great deal of time and effort from its employees. Fortunately, the money he earned in the process gave his family a stable lifestyle. Mom could stay home and devote her full attention to raising the kids, buy name-brand groceries and clothing, they were able to afford a new car every few years, and even a vacation just as often.
Unable to recall the specific details and cause of the event, the drilling company had landed some sort of big contract, and in commemoration of the event, an older fellow, many rungs up the corporate ladder, had decided to throw a big party for all of his team and their families. Peter was a bit apathetic about attending, as most kids at the age of sixteen are when they are about to meet older, influential people.
The family’s preparations for the event were over-the-top and extravagant, as well as, in Peter’s opinion, unnecessarily formal for something that was supposed to be fun and enjoyable. Peter and Trini, then a ten-year-old squirt, were dressed up very similarly to how they had been when attending weddings, which were the opposite of fun. He was forced to wear a necktie of obnoxiously boring patterns of beige and tan. Fancy dress pants, white collared shirt, and jacket were exhibiting their full, sweaty, stuffy glory. Trini was coerced into trying on about 100 different preteen dresses a few weeks prior to the event, and fought Mom in between every trip to the dressing room. Looking absolutely miserable in the dress Mom had decided she would wear, Trini was also wearing a few frivolous ornaments in her hair, also at the behest of her mother. The little squirt sulked around the house all morning before they left, with her little hands balled into fists and her arms either folded or straight at her sides.
Mom and Dad had each made new purchases for the event at hand: Mom in a bit of formal wear, and Dad ecstatic to try out a new suit from a menswear store. In addition to the great fuss made over formal attire, the siblings were subject to what Trini, in hindsight, cleverly referred to as, “Introduction Camp.” In the weeks leading up to the event, Mom and Dad periodically quizzed them on “Appropriate Squeeze Pressure” for a handshake, how long to maintain eye contact when introduced, not to lean forward, to smile, and to be prepared to answer questions about school and, for Peter, college. Well understood was the idea that they were to make their parents proud at this party, and look dashing in the process.
Whereas most trips of this sort entailed a long ride in the family minivan, Dad had made an executive decision to rent a luxury sedan for the occasion so as to arrive in style. Dad always had a flair for the extravagant, but this time it meant leather seats in an air-conditioned cab, instead of a hot, stuffy voyage in the minivan, so neither Peter nor Trini voiced a word of dissent.
After a two hour drive, they pulled into the host’s driveway. Peter was immediately intimidated, as the area of the parking lot alone was easily twice the area of the home and property on which he had grown up. A few hundred feet in, Dad pulled the rented vehicle through an open, wrought-iron gate with lamps atop each post of brick and mortar. Overhead, suspended by more wrought-iron architecture, was an insignia in Victorian cursive: “Pavlovitch.”
They parked alongside the driveway, amidst a fleet of similar vehicles: clean and shiny, fleets of luxurious sedans and SUVs were parked down the rest of the driveway. The four of them emerged from the car into the hot summer sun and dense humidity, the pleasant AC effect quickly wore off while beads of sweat formed upon their lips and foreheads, and they began walking towards the estate.
From behind a curtain of trees and foliage emerged a home that could easily be mistaken for a resort. The house itself was a matching brick-and-mortar arrangement as was seen at the gates, and contained three floors; the roof of the building contained the third floor, and was quite steep with several windows emerging around the perimeter, giving it a unique, if subtle, gothic shape and style. The second and first floors collapsed into a greater rectangular area. Ground level extended outward. Patios of fine hardwoods emerged from and wrapped around all sides of the home, and descended from the foundation and led tenants and guests to the currently vacant swimming pool and hot tubs. A significant portion of acreage was a lush, grassy carpet.
The parking lot extended up alongside the house, and a four-stall garage was its opposite. Peter presumed the doors were shut