Idle, Screwy Rich

Growing up in Pawtucket doesn’t afford too many experiences to hobnob with the “rich.” By rich I don’t mean Donald Trump status. I mean making over $150k a year would qualify. In a way, that is considered the high end of middle class. But I’ll start that figure as on your way to being rich.

Seven years ago, my brother worked with a magazine whose emphasis was on RI. In order to generate a splash and revenue, the magazine would offer this deal to upscale Providence restaurants. If the magazine gave a free, color, whole page ad, would the restaurant cater a party with free liquor and food? Ten times out of ten the restaurant would say yes.  Advertisers, media types from paper, radio and TV were invited to attend and all other hanger-ons too.


I managed to attend one of those parties as my brother was in need of “help.” He was being dragged down by cystic fibrosis and my attendance was more of a “just in case” need should something happen.


I hate social events where I know so few people and have little connection to. I won’t go out of my way to network or make friends there. I find it incredibly shallow, dull and usually you never see these people again. Light conversation can be had at the ER or bus terminal too and you probably won’t seen any of them again either. So what’s the difference?

 I did managed to luck out as two other writers (who I did know) where at the event. We commented on the crowd and happenings to one another. All the women were under 30, svelte and were dressed in the latest fashion. The men were of two types. The business ones who “made it” and the business ones who were schmoozing their betters to gain some access or favor. It struck me as a great big suck-up party with the latest social etiquette and Mojitos.


Around 10:30, the party started to move to the back room of the restaurant. That’s when the real business deals started. I began to notice people occasionally dart their head up from some table, there and here, wiping their noses and throwing their heads back.


Peruvian Marching Powder. Nose candy. Whatever it takes to get that contract signed! This went on at a casual pace till 11pm.


Finally the restaurant was closing up and wished us gone. It was suggested by the partiers we move onto Westin’s International Yacht Club. So off we went.


I hung with the people I knew and learned some gossip about who was who. I then got to watch some of the wealthier party goers act like spoiled little brats. A couple, a business owner and shrewish wife, decided to display their awful marriage for us. She, in a drunken/coked haze, accused her husband about that “little slut” he’s been seeing. He quickly moved her to the elevator banks where they continued their “talk.“ A trophy wife I was informed about must’ve been looking for better prospects as I watched her toy, tease and flirt with a WBZ ad executive. The husband of said trophy wife was half snoozing at the bar. Another well off couple were quietly, but within earshot, haggling over their fucked up son at Moses Brown.

 

When Westin told us to beat it, about 1/3 of the party ended in an East Side home far too elegant for use. I was sprawled on the couch, begging for sleep while I had to listen to that couple whose husband had a “little slut” continue their bitching in the kitchen. Later on, I heard a loud THUMP come from upstairs with yelling followed by more yelling. Down the stairs comes one of the ad girls shoving her tits back into her blouse followed by either the boyfriend or some business guy she met earlier. She grabbed her coat and shot out the door to her car.


I realized I wasn’t going to get any sleep and dawn was about hour away, so I got my brother, told him we were done and bugged out.


I was driving home down Blackstone Blvd. thinking to myself how the previous night wasn’t worth it. The sun hadn’t risen above the horizon and I realized I’d shoot half of this new day sleeping. That too was going to be a waste.


My brother, who was slumped in the seat next to me, prophetically answered a question I kept in my head most of the night.


“Well, they’re not all screwed up” he says.


“No, not all, just 90% of them?” I said back.