My pal, Mr. Imma, otherwise known as Sorryless, inspired this with his comments concerning the self-absorbed habits of the very rich.
I was in my late 20s, my clarity impressive, when I lived in my garret of an apartment with nothing in it but an old black and white TV set, a used mattress that was given to me, and my esteemed wicker chair that still nobly graces my bedroom.
It was a muggy summer’s day when I found it at Housing Works, the charity thrift shop, still in existence championing the homeless and those suffering with AIDS.
It was 35 dollars, a fortune back then, especially for me who lived on brown rice and beans, but fell so in love with it, like it was waiting for me to take it home.
I carried it 5 blocks and three avenues with great pride, bumping into Marty Fab, I’ll call him, and his snooty wife on the esplanade at Park and 77th.
I wore old denim shorts, a Hanes T. and Keds, my uniform back then, while they, in all their rich splendor, looking like Astors, gave me their best condescending smile.
I remember it well, the seeds of that cub reporter taking it all down.
“Oh, you got yourself a little chair I see,” said Marty, while his wife, who never speaks directly to the servants, the category I, as Daisy Mae fell into, gave me an icy stare.
I didn’t let them dampen my joy, I’m happy to recall.
“Yes, isn’t it great?” I said, skipping across the street as the light changed, stopping every few feet to rest.
It was a brief encounter that I believe had become significant in memory because of what happened to them…this elite couple who on paper had everything, including a beautiful baby girl.
Their marriage fell apart, him moving into a hotel, she becoming much more successful than he in the art world, not caring what it did to his self-esteem, while he to this day, remains a devoted drunk.
The only thing going for him now, with his wife’s earnings, is to drink at the Saint Regis Hotel, ironically once owned by an Astor, in an overpriced suit, staggering his life away.
As for me, I’m very content with everything I have, while my chair, that if could only talk, would lecture on what’s important, and what’s not and how money doesn’t buy happiness. Sigh
I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves.
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