The One Percent: A True Story

It was getting dark when I drove into the neighborhood looking for a house.  This place wasn’t like normal neighborhoods with straight streets and addresses painted on the driveway curbs.  I curved around here and there straining to see house numbers that didn’t seem to be there.  I was thinking how embarrassed it would be to have to go home and call saying I couldn’t find the place.  After all Dr. Orpha Oxy (I cross my heart and hope to die, that was her name) recommended me and I didn’t want to have them question her professionalism.  After all she couldn’t have any better judgment then to send me.

 Well, after getting in and out of my car several times I finally found the house.  It was really getting dark by now which wouldn’t have been a problem with normal houses that had a porch light on, but this was one of those special residences where the multiple lighting all over the place would shine here and there from the ground, showing off the fancy architectural detail.  With all that lighting, I couldn’t find the front door.  I’m thinking, here we go again.  After wandering around the front for a while, all the time thinking that soon I would trigger floodlights and a loudspeaker voice booming, “Move away from the house,” I finally found it. It didn’t take quite as long to locate the doorbell.

A stately looking elderly lady answered the door holding a small type of clipboard.  I introduced myself as she looked at the schedule and said, “Yes, Mr. Dodd, 7:00, come right in.”  I learned later she was the grandmother.  She led me past a huge glassed in area that housed an in-door jungle with a bunch of birds flying all over the place.  It seemed like I was at the zoo.  I was introduced to the family who was running a little late and just sitting down for dinner.  I declined the dinner invitation, but joined them at a kind of conference sized dining room table for some tea and, if I recall correctly after forty-five years, maybe some dessert.  I really felt out of place.  I was only twenty-six at the time and had not begun to develop the fine art of humorously puncturing pompous dignity.  Now, I probably would have looked at the aviary and said something like, “Me Tarzan, where Jane?”

I wanted to come across as half way intelligent which translated into not saying anything if I could help it.  The father engaged in small talk that I handled okay, I think.  After all it would be hard to mess up where I came from and what I was doing there.  After the fear of a Jeopardy question was gone, I got real bold.  I inquired about the company he owned and then asked if his corporation produced any consumer products; his main business was government contracts.  He said no, but after some thought decided that he had forgotten about a division in another state that did manufacture air conditioners of some sort.  How soon we forget about frivolous types of consumer products when the government pays so well.  I got the impression that he wasn’t sure of everything he owned.  At one point while the cook (yes a chef) was serving some part of the dinner, the wife did compliment her on the wonderful food she had prepared.   It was like the movies.

I was so thankful when that stress was over and the daughter and I could be placed in the library for her private guitar lesson.  That’s right, I was paid to come to this luxury suburb in another world and give guitar lessons to their daughter of twelve years of age or so, made possible only by the influential Dr. Orpha Oxy.   That’s another story.  The daughter was a bright, fouled mouthed little brat, who didn’t practice.  That didn’t matter to me though, I was being paid handsomely (or so I thought) to be a private tutor on a movie set, and who knows, maybe her dad would like me and give me a company or something.

I don’t remember exactly how long this weekly event went on, our family’s stay in that area was relatively short.  In addition to employing probably thousands of workers, this one-percenter did hire the cook, and me, and that was cool, although I didn’t get the company.

 

Note:  As you are aware, I’m using this erroneous ninety-nine percent versus one percent jargon being used by the current occupying “Flea Party” group.  During the years of this story until now, no one knew that the groundwork was being laid that would result in our current president trying to incite the class warfare necessary to usher in his Marxist “fundamental transformation of the United States.”

 

 

 

 

 

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