"You're a rich girl,
And you're going too far
'Cause you know it don't matter any way.
You can rely on the old man's money." - Darryl Hall
"Only rich kids refuse money." - Claire Delaware
"Give yourself away,
and find the fake in me.
You'll never be a man." - Elvis Costello
I'll be honest with you: being a spoiled rich white kid has its advantages. Jobs you don't deserve, clothes you don't buy, credit for things you don't do, others getting blamed for things you did. And automatic membership in the ruling class.
But it has its disadvantages, too. And here's the main one: money.
That's right, cash. Not the kind you're thinking of - that's the FUN kind. The kind of money you're thinking of is what buys you new stereo systems. Or impresses your girlfriend by letting you buy her expensive jewelry. Or pays for a cool apartment in a city far away from your hick hometown. It's the kind of money that buys you freedom.
I'm talking about a different kind, and that is money you get from your Daddy.
My Dad is a pretty big deal real estate broker where I come from, and during the 1980's, when the then-thriving bank frauds were inflating property values everywhere, he raked in the cash. Like any loving son would do, I showed my affection by taking thousands from him.
College tuition. New sports car. Money for a towering credit card bill which I ran up while "vacationing" in Europe - for two months - one summer. Free rent for two years after college when I lived at home - socking away my paycheck for me alone.
But for all the glorious toys - I was never happy, or even excited.
Because money from your Daddy might as well come with a pair of hedge clippers to lop off your testicles. It's given as a gift, but the unspoken part of that gift is "as you can see, son, I am the man, and you are still the boy."
My favorite example: Last year, I secured my first job which required wearing a suit every day. Buying four suits - enough to get me through a week - would cost a minimum of $800 - and those would be cheap suits.
But the job that required them was worth it, so I prepared to march off to the store, credit card in hand, when my Dad stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
"Hey, why don't you let me get you a suit?"
Well, why not? But once at the store, with the salesperson measuring my inseam, my Dad announced he would buy five suits, and not the cheap ones, either. I could feel my shoulders slump and balls shrink from the implication.
"Sounds like a nice offer to me," said the salesman, sensing a nice commission in his future.
"Hey, it's his first job, right?" said my Dad, beaming. Actually, my fourth in as many years. Just the first one in a suit.
"Just out of college, son?" asked the salesperson.
"No, I'm 25," I said, as my testicles rose far into my stomach, undoubtedly hiding from the world of adults.
Sensing my embarrassment, my Dad approached and said "Clark, I LIKE doing this, okay? It's what fathers are for."
Emasculated, but glad to not pay for these clothes, I kept quiet and took the loot.
Two weeks, later, I'm packing for the city. My Dad enters the room, lounges against my doorway, and waits five minutes before speaking.
"So, how are you going to pay for this apartment?"
"I don't know. I'm going to crash with John (buddy from high school) for a while until I can save enough for the security deposit."
"You mean you don't have enough NOW?"
"No. You know I don't."
Dad shook his head and sighed. "Listen, what would you say if I said that was it?"
"What do you mean?"
"That's it. You're cut off."
"Of what?"
"No more money."
Pause. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've got to start taking care of yourself. What are you going to do the next time you need suits? Have me buy them for you?"
He raised his eyebrows and held open both his palms to emphasize the idiocy of that thought. And there in his hand, I could see my balls. Orphaned, and trapped in the folds of his wallet.
My eyes narrowed. For that moment, I hated those suits so much. I hated myself and everything I had ever been.
Well, I wish I could say I refused the suits with a newfound sense of pride, but I'm wearing one now. And I'm sitting in an apartment paid for with money I got selling the car my Dad gave me.
I mean, like I said, it's a good gig. I'm pushing 30 now, and have yet to really experience material worry. But I wonder who lost more that day, when I left my lonely sack in the family trust fund, and strutted off with my Pierre Cardin.
