The hedonist and the pauper

I’ve only come close to hating one person in my life. He was my haughty Freshman year college roommate. I remember the turning point, the day that my dislike for him momentarily turned into seething hatred. We were in our dorm room and as usual he was droning on about politics and religion but in his racist, sexist, elitist, and every other “ist” way. I sat there on my computer in silence, trying to ignore him.

As he finished getting ready, he opened his wallet, scrunched his face, and then turned to me. “Hey Marcus?” he asked. “Can I borrow some money?” I looked at him in bewilderment. I was a broke college Freshman, making pennies every week at the catering job I didn’t like. He was the son of a billionaire and the heir of his father’s great wealth. If he was humbling himself to ask me for money, he must’ve really needed it. For as much as I didn’t like him, his humility was humanizing, but I still had my doubts.

“How much do you need?”

“One hundred dollars.” That was a lot. I didn’t have that, especially just lying around my wallet.

“What do you need it for?” I questioned further. His response still makes me angry to this day.

“I only have a hundred dollars in my wallet right now,” he said smugly as he pulled out a crisp c-note from his wallet. “I like to carry two hundred dollars with me wherever I go.”

In that moment I became Mother Nature. There was fire in my eyes from the volcano erupting in my head. I started shaking; my clenched fists produced earthquakes. I summoned the flood; my skin began sweating. He didn’t even need the money. It just made him feel comfortable to have that much cash on his person. How could somebody be so pompous? I might have strangled him if he wasn’t already on his way out the door.

Fast forward five years later to last night. I’m sitting in a restaurant booth across from someone I just met, a friend of the girl sitting next to me. He had just pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, displaying it to me and my friend almost completely unprompted. Immediately, I remembered my college roommate and the anger I felt the day he arrogantly waved his Benjamin around in my face. And in that moment I shut down.

I was still coming down from the high of the amazing event I attended just an hour before where dozens of sexual assault survivors bravely shared their stories in a room full of 200 supportive people. I was hugging people that I loved and encouraging strangers who were courageous enough to talk about their traumatic experiences and deep social issues. How did I end up at a table somewhere I didn’t want to be, with someone so shallow and self-centered and annoying?

He repeatedly asked, “Aren’t you going to get something to drink? I don’t like drinking by myself.” To which we replied that we couldn’t afford it. He usually responded with an indignant look and some contrived statement about how we should treat ourselves.

I’ve never been rich, but I’ve been afforded many luxuries in my life. I’ve been invited and gone to far more events as a VIP than as a general admit. And it’s all the same: a room full of men with their dicks in one hand and a measuring tape in the other. These men, although much older, always had the same smug smiles and the same scared eyes. It was the same familiar face of my college roommate and the boy waving his money around like a patriot waves our country’s banner.

It’s true. Your money will impress most people, but not me. I can read between the lines. I can see the insecurity. But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.