But What I Don't Get I Can't Use

September 10, 1998

I was walking down Fifth Avenue late this morning, when a radical idea struck me: I'd rather be rich than poor.

Five minutes earlier, I left a gallery on 78th between Fifth and Madison that was selling oil paintings of pretty little girls in blue sun-dresses for $375,000. As I've said before, that is mind boggling. But the really amazing part is that there are people out there who have enough money to buy a painting of a pretty girl in a blue sun-dress for $375,000, while still clothing, feeding, and providing shelter for themselves.

It was around 70th and Fifth that I finally acknowledged in my conscious mind the existence of a Master Class. While the thought of such a class is loathsome to my egalitarian soul, I must consider the facts: The master class can do anything and go anywhere. Their world is a billion times bigger than mine. They know things that I can't even imagine. A word from them can pull the financial rug out from under millions of people. Conversely, a word from them can provide shelter for millions of people.

I want to be one of them.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't want to be some snotty jackass. I'll still open doors for women. I'll still be kind to small children and animals. I'll still write stories and search for love and appreciate the quiet dignity of an old tree and the awesome beauty of a spring flower. But I want to be rich. Rich, rich, rich.

What's so great about being middle-class anyway? You do the same things rich people do--work, sleep, eat, shit, fuck, laugh, cry, dream, fret--you just can do those things in your house in Aspen, your penthouse on Park Avenue, or your newly-renovated chateau outside Giverny.

Poverty sucks and it's time I wised up to the harsh fact that there's no romantic dignity in staying middle class.

The other night I had dinner with a classmate of mine from West Point who now works for a big international bank down on Wall Street. This friend confessed to me--at my serious drunken prodding--that he makes a quarter of a million dollars a year. The guy is 27-years-old, he graduated even lower than I did from the Military Academy, he doesn't have an MBA, and he's making more than my dad and me and the two guys sitting next to me at work combined.

I want the freedom to go and do whatever I want. To do that, I need money and lots of it. And I'm not making that kind of money in this job. So, as I stared down Fifth Avenue and thought of all the money that lined that great street, I felt a change coming from within me; an idea about to take form. And as my eyes rested on The World Trade Center--those two giant rectangular pillars of capitalism on the southern horizon--I knew what I had to do.

I had to get an MBA.

With an MBA I could get some lucrative finance job on Wall Street. With a lucrative finance job on Wall Street, I could make a zillion bucks. With a zillion bucks, I could buy a great apartment and a nice new collar for Jack. I could quit working in a formal job and just manage my money. In my free time, I'd join clubs, and societies, and sit on the boards of non-profit organizations. With a firm financial foundation, I could do all of the neat humanitarian and social things that I just don't have time for now. I'd pay for a new science lab at my high school and build a new student radio station at West Point. I'd get my grandma out of her old folks home and put her in a nice apartment with 24-hour care. I'd buy Eva a diamond necklace and a big ring and I'd whisk her off to Paris and ask her to marry me.

There's just so much you can do when you have money. And let me make that point again. I don't want money for money's sake. I want the freedom and the opportunity that money buys.

I was thinking these grandiose thoughts, when a homeless guy interrupted my trance by asking for money so that he could have something to eat. It was an odd, very grounding feeling I got when I looked at this man who had absolutely nothing in this world, having just daydreamed about wealth and power. Here was a guy who would never have any wealth and the only power he might ever weald would be in the quickness of his fists. But this guy's fists weren't moving too quickly. He was a burnout. A helpless, lost fallout on the roadmarch of life.

Instead of giving him money, I offered to buy him a hotdog. He kindly accepted and the two of us sat down on a bench on the Eastern edge of Central Park and ate our tasty franks. There I was, young, well-dressed, full of ambition, foolishness, naivete, and near-complete optimism. And there he was; hungry, humiliated, dejected, homeless, hopeless, dead-ended, and alone.

Perhaps my chance encounter with this man was a sign from God that my sudden obsession with financial power was misguided. I have spoken about the "angels in the alleyways" before. Maybe this hungry outcast was a messenger. Perhaps, in addition to the spittle I noticed on the corner of his mouth, there was wisdom dripping from those lips.

"How are you doing today my friend" I asked; the first question on what I hoped would be a spiritually riveting conversation.

"Not doin' too well, sir" the man said. "Got no place to stay and had nothin' to eat till you came along. Thank you again for the hot dog sir."

"No need to thank me" I replied. "It was my pleasure, sir." (I always call homeless guys "sir" and "ma'am". I consider it a free way to give them a temporary dignity boost.)

The man scarfed down that hot dog faster than the rats in my apartment eat the food out of Jack's bowl.

Then it hit me. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe God was telling me that I needed to forego wealth and power and dedicate my time and energy to living among the poor and helping them in any way I could. Maybe my destiny was to become the next Mother Teresa. (A Mother Teresa that didn't have to sit down to pee.)

But the homeless guy kept talking.

"Sir, I hate to ask you this," the homeless man began, "but like I said, I gots no place to stay. Might you be able to spare 20 dollars so that I can stay at the YMCA tonight?"

My breathing got tight. At first I thought he was going to ask me to stay at my house. I'm not that nice of a person. I should be, but I'm not. But when he asked for only money, I let out a sigh. Money wasn't so bad. The thing was, I didn't have a spare twenty. I'm completely broke. I'm more than broke.

Then it hit me again. Maybe THIS was the sign! If I were rich, I'd have plenty of money to give to homeless guys. I could give huge donations to all sorts of charities.

Thank you God. I know what I need to do. Wharton, here I come.

"No sir," I responded, "I am sorry, but I do not have an extra $20 to spare. But someday I will, and I'll put you up in the Y for as long as you need. And I'll get you all the hot dogs you can eat."

The smile stayed on my face even though I was done speaking. God had spoken. My course was set.

"Oh come on man" the homeless guy said with a contorted face, "give me twenty bucks. You know you got it."

"I assure you sir, I don't" I said, with a moderate amount of alarm in my voice.

"Listen, I tell you what" the man said, a little more calmly, "I know this woman. She's a real freak. If you give me that $20, she'll let you do anything to her. She'll suck your dick. She'll jerk you off. Hell, you can even fuck her in the ass if you want to. C'mon, wadda ya say. I need a room real bad, sir."

The smile was now gone from my big, round face. So much for angels in the alleyways. So much for a sign from God. All that nonsense was just me being a romantic fool.

I walked away from the homeless guy and back into my silent thoughts.

"What? Are you a faggot?" the man called after me. "You don't want some girl on your dick?!"

To be continued...

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		But What I Don't Get I Can't Use
		September 10, 1998 I was walking down Fifth Avenue late this morning, when a radical idea struck me: I'd rather be rich than poor. Five minutes earlier, I left a gallery on 78th between Fifth and Madison that was selling oil paintings of pretty little girls in blue sun-dresses for $375,000. As I've said before, that is mind boggling. But the really amazing part is that there are people out there who have enough money to buy a painting of a pretty girl in a blue sun-dress for $375,000, while still clothing, feeding, and providing shelter for themselves. It was around 70th and Fifth that I finally acknowledged in my conscious mind the existence of a Master Class. While the thought of such a class is loathsome to my egalitarian soul, I must consider the facts: The master class can do anything and go anywhere. Their world is a billion times bigger than mine. They know things that I can't even imagine. A word from them can pull the financial rug out from under millions of people. Conversely, a word from them can provide shelter for millions of people. I want to be one of them. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't want to be some snotty jackass. I'll still open doors for women. I'll still be kind to small children and animals. I'll still write stories and search for love and appreciate the quiet dignity of an old tree and the awesome beauty of a spring flower. But I want to be rich. Rich, rich, rich. What's so great about being middle-class anyway? You do the same things rich people do--work, sleep, eat, shit, fuck, laugh, cry, dream, fret--you just can do those things in your house in Aspen, your penthouse on Park Avenue, or your newly-renovated chateau outside Giverny. Poverty sucks and it's time I wised up to the harsh fact that there's no romantic dignity in staying middle class. The other night I had dinner with a classmate of mine from West Point who now works for a big international bank down on Wall Street. This friend confessed to me--at my serious drunken prodding--that he makes a quarter of a million dollars a year. The guy is 27-years-old, he graduated even lower than I did from the Military Academy, he doesn't have an MBA, and he's making more than my dad and me and the two guys sitting next to me at work combined. I want the freedom to go and do whatever I want. To do that, I need money and lots of it. And I'm not making that kind of money in this job. So, as I stared down Fifth Avenue and thought of all the money that lined that great street, I felt a change coming from within me; an idea about to take form. And as my eyes rested on The World Trade Center--those two giant rectangular pillars of capitalism on the southern horizon--I knew what I had to do. I had to get an MBA. With an MBA I could get some lucrative finance job on Wall Street. With a lucrative finance job on Wall Street, I could make a zillion bucks. With a zillion bucks, I could buy a great apartment and a nice new collar for Jack. I could quit working in a formal job and just manage my money. In my free time, I'd join clubs, and societies, and sit on the boards of non-profit organizations. With a firm financial foundation, I could do all of the neat humanitarian and social things that I just don't have time for now. I'd pay for a new science lab at my high school and build a new student radio station at West Point. I'd get my grandma out of her old folks home and put her in a nice apartment with 24-hour care. I'd buy Eva a diamond necklace and a big ring and I'd whisk her off to Paris and ask her to marry me. There's just so much you can do when you have money. And let me make that point again. I don't want money for money's sake. I want the freedom and the opportunity that money buys. I was thinking these grandiose thoughts, when a homeless guy interrupted my trance by asking for money so that he could have something to eat. It was an odd, very grounding feeling I got when I looked at this man who had absolutely nothing in this world, having just daydreamed about wealth and power. Here was a guy who would never have any wealth and the only power he might ever weald would be in the quickness of his fists. But this guy's fists weren't moving too quickly. He was a burnout. A helpless, lost fallout on the roadmarch of life. Instead of giving him money, I offered to buy him a hotdog. He kindly accepted and the two of us sat down on a bench on the Eastern edge of Central Park and ate our tasty franks. There I was, young, well-dressed, full of ambition, foolishness, naivete, and near-complete optimism. And there he was; hungry, humiliated, dejected, homeless, hopeless, dead-ended, and alone. Perhaps my chance encounter with this man was a sign from God that my sudden obsession with financial power was misguided. I have spoken about the "angels in the alleyways" before. Maybe this hungry outcast was a messenger. Perhaps, in addition to the spittle I noticed on the corner of his mouth, there was wisdom dripping from those lips. "How are you doing today my friend" I asked; the first question on what I hoped would be a spiritually riveting conversation. "Not doin' too well, sir" the man said. "Got no place to stay and had nothin' to eat till you came along. Thank you again for the hot dog sir." "No need to thank me" I replied. "It was my pleasure, sir." (I always call homeless guys "sir" and "ma'am". I consider it a free way to give them a temporary dignity boost.) The man scarfed down that hot dog faster than the rats in my apartment eat the food out of Jack's bowl. Then it hit me. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe God was telling me that I needed to forego wealth and power and dedicate my time and energy to living among the poor and helping them in any way I could. Maybe my destiny was to become the next Mother Teresa. (A Mother Teresa that didn't have to sit down to pee.) But the homeless guy kept talking. "Sir, I hate to ask you this," the homeless man began, "but like I said, I gots no place to stay. Might you be able to spare 20 dollars so that I can stay at the YMCA tonight?" My breathing got tight. At first I thought he was going to ask me to stay at my house. I'm not that nice of a person. I should be, but I'm not. But when he asked for only money, I let out a sigh. Money wasn't so bad. The thing was, I didn't have a spare twenty. I'm completely broke. I'm more than broke. Then it hit me again. Maybe THIS was the sign! If I were rich, I'd have plenty of money to give to homeless guys. I could give huge donations to all sorts of charities. Thank you God. I know what I need to do. Wharton, here I come. "No sir," I responded, "I am sorry, but I do not have an extra $20 to spare. But someday I will, and I'll put you up in the Y for as long as you need. And I'll get you all the hot dogs you can eat." The smile stayed on my face even though I was done speaking. God had spoken. My course was set. "Oh come on man" the homeless guy said with a contorted face, "give me twenty bucks. You know you got it." "I assure you sir, I don't" I said, with a moderate amount of alarm in my voice. "Listen, I tell you what" the man said, a little more calmly, "I know this woman. She's a real freak. If you give me that $20, she'll let you do anything to her. She'll suck your dick. She'll jerk you off. Hell, you can even fuck her in the ass if you want to. C'mon, wadda ya say. I need a room real bad, sir." The smile was now gone from my big, round face. So much for angels in the alleyways. So much for a sign from God. All that nonsense was just me being a romantic fool. I walked away from the homeless guy and back into my silent thoughts. "What? Are you a faggot?" the man called after me. "You don't want some girl on your dick?!" To be continued... Broadway Jim Jenkins