money

freaks me out. supposedly, the 'law of abundance' (Isabel Hickey style) claims that if you don't ask for what you don't need the universe will provide. even as i buy into that i'm buying way too much, although my collection of the useless seems less indulgent than it might be. the clothes i buy at Old Navy. for dinner out it's chinese-in-a-bag. my last vacation was 15 years ago and paid for by a dear friend. when i was a kid i watched mom pay the bills, while the old man in his red leather chair smoked a pipe and chewed ice on his 5th vodka tonic. mum sat at her creaking antique desk, leaning forward, neck long, writing checks and balancing bills vs income. i'm like her. i try not to live beyond my means. i refuse to be held hostage to debt. i don't O.C.D. balance my checkbook, but i keep a wary eye. i didn't have a credit card for decades because i'd never bought anything on time. i paid up front or didn't buy. i loathe the idea of paying money to spend money. eventually my friend's dad cosigned for a card and now i have one, which i pay off as fast as i use it. i love the bitch. the simplicity of the hard shiny rectangle. the clarity, tax time, of the statement. the speed of web transaction. but here's the rub: my grandfather's father was a millionaire. he lived in a mansion in Rhinebeck, NY. he lost his shirt in the crash of '29 and my grandad, having grown up with dough, with a chauffeur to drive him to school a) never learned to drive and b) didn't give a fuck about money. his son, my father, felt cheated out of 'the life'. he wanted the show money could buy. Broadway musicals, fancy suits, new cars, a 50's bullshit status with decals of the colleges we went to littering the rear window of his Jaguar. my mom had a small inheritance that doubled dad's income so we were ok, just shy of upper middle class. we lived in a big house with 9 acres of lawn, two cars, private schools and big-assed vacations. but we saw how much dad hated his job at the 'Girard Trust and Corn Exchange' (who's name shitted out of his mouth like an oily turd). he wished he'd been a writer. he resented mom's income as a sword held over him even as he lapped it up. my sisters and i never mastered the money game. we scratched out a living, two of us as waiters, one a teacher and none of us making the big grab. this painted us into a corner at times. the fat options money could buy were out of reach, but we saw through the charade of vacant materialism, opted for art, life, love and spirit ahead of wallet. we seem happier for it. my sisters have great kids and their lives are full. i don't have a family, but i spend my tips making records. i lose money, but i love it. it's who i am, it's what i do. i stand tall on the catalogue. i wander afield only on rare occasions when i want to give a friend a good time and they can't afford it. or if a Democrat has a chance of kicking Republican ass in an election. still, i worry. what will happen when i'm 'let go' at work? when my measly Social Security check can't pay the rent, let alone a trip to the movies. i fantasize myself sporting a beehive and pencil and pushing a walker around Doyles 'til the cows come home, but without that, to tell the truth, i'm screwed and drooling toothless in a wheelchair onto a linoleum corridor and hopefully so out of it on tranquilizers i won't know the difference. was there ever a time in history when money had nothing to do with quality of life? probably not. were this India i would head out onto the dirt path with a rag around my waist, low balls, a wooden bowl and chase all the skinny black-eyed boys who'd have me.