"Adapting to the Rich Life"

The Universe must know of my secret love affair with Finer Things as there are now two rich friends in my life. There’s Deidra Spires back home in Houston with her sprawling pink-brick estate in River Oaks. Her father does something having to do with oil and some company named Enron. There are large bills perennially stuffed in his wallet and Mr. Spires is always pushing a handful of it Deidra’s way like it’s burning a hole in his tailored pants. And then there’s Deidra, taking her dad’s money with a sigh that can only come from repetition.



I’m sitting in the back of Meeka’s leather car, studying its wood-trimmed front and sides. A large “B” is indented in the middle of the steering wheel, on the passenger’s side! I want nothing more than to tell Meeka how awesome her car is but it is more important to act like it is no big deal. This is what rich people do. Luxuries for the Deidras and Meekas out there are like water—not even worth mentioning as it is always there. So I decide to go with an intellectual inquiry, instead. “What’s the ‘B’ stand for?”


It is with embarrassment that I watch the corners of the drivers mouth turn up.


“Bentley,” she sighs and I am reminded of Deidra.


“How was school today, Miss Jones?” The driver asks. His starch-white shirt bears gold cufflinks on the wrists. All he’s missing is a shiny chauffeur’s cap.


“Fine,” she shrugs and turns to me. “Do you want a drink?”


“Sure.”


“We have Perrier and regular water,” Meeka says.


I do not know what a Perrier is yet I’d prefer physical torture than admit this. “I’ll have a Perrier, please.”


“Wise choice, Miss Fluchter,” the cap-less chauffeur says and hands me a green-glassed bottle.


I am not surprised that the man knows my name. My mother may be mildly comfortable letting Seth and Mr. McGee drive us around, but a stranger was a completely different beast. It took three phone calls to Meeka’s home to finally reach her mother. Then, when it became clear that Mrs. Jones couldn’t pick us up from school, it was onto the Jones’ chauffeur. Several taxing inquires later (My mother had gone so far as to make the poor man fax his driving record to her office!), and my green light was, gratefully, decreed by one Sam Fluchter.


I take a sip of the mysterious liquid and my eyes tear. The taste-bud vote is in: Perrier is gross!


“Mother drinks Perrier, too. I don’t know how you both do it. I think it’s just awful,” Meeka says and takes a drink from her Poland Springs water bottle.


For the rest of the ride to her house I nurse the fizzy, tasteless Perrier, forcing a casual smile with each sip. By the time we pull up to the circular driveway of Meeka’s house, I’ve convinced myself that my Perrier-drinking appears effortless. But then I see the chauffeur’s bulging cheeks again, smiling like he did over my Bentley ignorance.


Clearly, adapting to the rich life required some education.