Aiden Taylor Smith rode down the sidewalk on his shiny new tricycle. He left his cap on the front porch, so he’d know when he was back home. His house had a larger lanai in the back, counter-clockwise drainage gutters, and a few more flowers, but these differences were difficult for his seven year-old eyes to identify. The home association noticed to the tune of $100 more per month on the mortage.

Daddy played golf Saturday and Sunday — cocktails and cigars; handshakes; pleats; and visors.

“Business,” he said.

Mom spent most of her time churching — bakesales; righteous marches; indulgences; hairdos; and gossip.

AT Smith was safe within the confines of the gated community with only golf carts and Cadillacs on the streets. His private school taught him to sit up straight and follow the leader. But, they also told him that he was the “leader of tomorrow.” This conundrum confused him briefly, but he heard his handheld educational device and tuned back in — his high score flashed — excitement remounted.

Learning is sooo easy, he thought.

Yes, the future was bright. But, Daddy told AT being a stock broker is hard work.

“Like school?”

“Yes, son.”

ATS nodded and smiled thinking of sweaters, sweet smelling cigars, sipping sauce, and secure society. It was all around the corner.

Also around the corner were pills, pot, coke, crabs, sex slaves, and sealed sandwiches. Convenience suited his taste. School had taught him so well. He was accustomed to service and loved life on the couch. Mommy and Daddy were not pleased. They wondered long and hard.

What is wrong with our boy? What happened to Christian work ethic? But, we paid all that money…

They prayed extra hard, hit the high notes sitting in the front pew, and went to visit the Pastor; still, questions remained.

Chicken Soup didn’t seem to soothe their aching souls when he came home in the morning and slept all day only to go back out at night. The Seven Habits and Doctor Phil only gave them false hope.

One night AT came home reeking of booze and cheap perfume. He staggered right into Dad’s golf trophy case. Glass shattered all over the Persian rug scaring poor Princess the poodle out the doggy door and into the street where she was struck by a speeding Navigator.

Dad grabbed him by the collar and slammed him to the ground.

“WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?! WHAT do you NEED!”

His eyes were slits and drool fell from his limpish lips. He gazed up at his father and said, “A purrrpose.”

The next day, the whole family drove to the Army recruiting station at the mall. The spiel went great and he was signed up on the spot. He died six months later from irreversible schrapnel injuries to the carotid artery.

His parents efforts at the church doubled. They wrote letters of thanks to the President, urging him to “stay the course.” At night, they often awoke clutching each other and repeated, “he did not die in vain.”

It wasn’t until they visited a hypnotist that they realized their son died of vanity…theirs.