Aloha
When living in the U.S., I live high on a bluff overlooking the ocean, secreted behind a wrought iron gate, nestled in Redwood trees. I am a rich man and need no introduction. You all recognize me, yet each of you sees me differently. To some, I’m the guy commanding the corner office high above a street in any city, to others I’m prowling around Wall Street, but one thing we can all agree on is that a rich person can do anything.
When the door to the study opens, Jenny enters with two cups of tea on a tray, and two shortbread biscuits.
I’ve almost finished packing for the trip.
Great, I said. Jenny sets the tray down.
Steve is here; he’s washing up. I made him a cup of tea.
Why? Do you think he’ll be staying? I asked.
Be nice, okay. Try!
At that moment Steve strode through the door. Ha, you think he’ll change the habit of a lifetime, Jenny? I don’t think so, Steve said, obviously catching Jenny’s comment be nice.
I’ll leave you guys alone, Jenny shut the door after her.
Is one of those for me? Steve asked, gesturing his hand toward the cups set on the tray.
No. Jenny will be back shortly. We were just about to have afternoon tea.
Is that right? I don’t think she’ll mind, he said, picking up a cup with one hand and taking the biscuit with the other. I just saw her walk passed the window, looks like she’s heading to the barn.
What’s the purpose of the visit, Steve? I’m busy here.
Before your trip to Hawaii, I guess. Tell me, at what point were we going to discuss your absence?
You know, I said, a light going off in my head, is that why Jenny has skulked off to the barn, you’re in cahoots?
What are you working on, not writing a song, I imagine?
I’m working on a piece about being rich, because rich people can do what the hell they like. Because they can.
Jesus, you sound so American.
How does an American sound, Steve?
Steve replied, like you, listen to yourself. Let me ask you something: exactly how much does it take to be rich in America today?
It takes a bundle to live comfortably in a place like New York City, or San Francisco, but if you desire to live fabulously, then maybe a bunch of bundles.
Does being rich mean you can abuse people, strain friendships, ignore having any responsibility? He asked.
I think it might. I think all that is okay for the very rich.
Meaning what, that it’s okay for you to behave that way?
Oh, I get it. You’ve come to give me one of your sermons, I said. Save it for a poor person.
How would you define a poor person, Harry? I’m interested in knowing.
Honestly? Well, in the first place, someone like yourself. Your Rover P5 is near fifty years old; you take one holiday a year, you don’t have a single country club membership and, to my knowledge, not a single asset. I’d say that’s a poor man, don’t you agree?
I don’t, but let’s not get into it. I came to talk to you about how difficult a time it is to be going anywhere.
Not difficult at all, Steve. Why would you think so?
Oh, I get it. You want to prove you’ ridiculously rich, which means you don’t give a damn, we can all go to hell.
No, I don’t believe that’s what I’m saying. I’m saying I’m going to Hawaii with Jenny. You can take a week off. Where do you want to go, I’ll make it happen? Hong Kong? Moscow? Just say.
You’re in a weird mood. Jenny told me. She said you’re doing weird things. She thinks it’s your age.
What?
Your age. Something any amount of wealth won’t prevent.
I have no idea about what the two of you are talking.
Well, here’s an example, you think it’s okay to up and leave because you can. You’re the guy who never has to look at the right-hand column of a menu, and lately, you seem to enjoy doing disagreeable things. But rich people are also free to do nothing. Anyway, I guess we are wondering what happened to the Harry Hogg who loved his life, loved his wife, loved being at home, where did that person go?
Hawaii come Saturday, I said.
Yep, I suppose so. Jenny will be with you because for her, well anything is better than being without you while I will be left to deal with the bona fide pile of shit left in your absence.
Wait…wait…wait a damn minute. What are you worth, Steve? You must be worth a mint! You haven’t bought a new car in twenty years, and fifteen years ago you purchased a three decades old Rover. So, tell me, what the hell do you do with your money? Are you broke? Is this your way of asking for more money?
Jesus, you have a low opinion of me, Harry. You pay me very well. I happen to like my Rover.
Steve, no one in their right mind likes Rover cars, and they’re as heavy as dust carts.
Just then, the door opened; Jenny entered.
Voices are raised, boys. More tea?
No, thank you, I said.
That would be great, Jenny, Steve said.
I jumped in: Jenny, before you go, hear this. It’s getting away from this subject for a minute, but yesterday I answered a letter from a person on Medium, an older woman, a poet, she said, living in New York, married with three children. She asked two central questions, I believe, in a subtly secretive way, even in a poetical way. Was I rich, and how do I keep my personal writings safe? I told her that I do keep a diary and a daybook, and I like to jot down something in it every day. Interestingly, I did reveal to this person that many times the writing has got so personal the first instruction in my Will is that my diaries are to be destroyed. Secrets are secrets, and if only one other person knows what is hidden, then the secret is no more, and without being around to sort out the fact from fiction, it doesn’t seem fair to involve others in my ramblings that they may feel compromised or ill at ease.
So here I am, with the two most loved people in my life. The most important thing I have is time, I enjoy having time to write, sit in the garden, but any amount of money won’t give me the time I need. I only must accept whatever is given to me. Following that message, I read a poem on Medium. I was deeply moved by it, frustrated by it, felt small, felt I could not write anything. In that moment I decided I was taking Jenny to Hawaii, to look down on the stars from the summit of Mauna Kea. That’s when it struck me that I’m rich, how at the drop of a hat there’s nowhere on the planet I cannot go. Nor do I have to drive a fifty-year-old Rover.
Funny, haha, I suppose, is that a cue for me to laugh, Steve said.
Jenny came around my back, put her arms over my shoulders, and brought me down to earth like the god of up and down, Otis! I heard a song you wrote being played in an elevator yesterday, honey.
I glared sparks. Why don’t you get Steve that cup of tea, Jenny, I said.
In the main much of what I write about are episodes in my life. Some important, others not so much.
I didn’t know how to talk to the kindly stranger who wrote to me about wealth, or its importance in my life, and in my confusion about the subject this morning I thought I’d have a bit of fun with it.
Sometimes, often, in fact, I have no idea what will come down through my index finger, but for a week, or for however long, I’m going to love my wife on Hawaii.
Mahalo.
P.S. Holidays are fun, but it’s a real bonus leaving Steve behind to deal with a pile of bona fide shit. Luv ya, mate.
