He became, in his own words, “a defensive caricature of a Northeastern elitist.” He leaned into the sneer. He grew his hair long. He started drinking black coffee and reading The Economist in the lunchroom. The kids called him “New England” like it was a slur. He called them “bless-your-heart barbarians” and considered it a fair trade. Here is the thing about Prescott’s bitchiness: it is never lazy. A lazy insult is broad. Prescott’s are bespoke.
I typed: My only bitchy cousin is a Yankee-type guy the exclusive. I meant it as an indictment. But as I stared at the screen, I realized I had accidentally written a poem.
“A sentimental overcorrection. You made me sound like a Hallmark movie with a thesaurus. But the radiator hose story is accurate. And for the record, you’re my only exhausting cousin who writes three thousand words to avoid saying ‘I love you.’ So there. Don’t publish that part.” my only bitchy cousin is a yankeetype guy the exclusive
That’s the secret of “the exclusive.” His behavior isn’t for everyone. It wasn’t designed for everyone. It was designed for survival. The bitchy Yankee exterior is a velvet rope, keeping out the people who would demand he be simpler, warmer, more digestible.
He drove four hours in an ice storm when my father had surgery. He didn’t say, “I’m worried.” He said, “Your father’s insurance paperwork was a disaster. I fixed it. Also, the hospital coffee is undrinkable. I brought a thermos.” He became, in his own words, “a defensive
He showed up to my book launch—a tiny event in a rented room—and sat in the back. Afterwards, he handed me a single typed page of notes. It was all criticism. Structural. Pacing. Character motivation. At the bottom, in handwriting: “Proud of you. Don’t let it go to your head.” After more than three decades, I’ve learned that the keyword isn’t just a description. It’s a philosophy.
At a family barbecue, my uncle (a wonderful man who thinks mayonnaise is spicy) brought out what he called “gourmet burgers.” Prescott examined one, rotated it slowly on his plate, and said: “This patty has the structural integrity of a wet ballot. I admire the commitment to disappointment.” The kids called him “New England” like it was a slur
We all gasped. But then my uncle laughed—a real, belly-shaking laugh—because Prescott had, in his horribly precise way, diagnosed the problem: the burgers were indeed overhandled and under-seasoned.