The room was full of the casually wealthy. They went from station to station so that each of us might capture a momentary advance from their mirth. And we should be happy. We all should be happy because they were so goddamned rich. And we were there with them.
A young woman masked a case of childhood acne with powder and perfume and Givenchy. An old man wobbled on his dark black New Balance shoes because using a cane made him recognize his elderliness. The security guard told me a joke and winked at the sofa reserved for the main man and his entourage. Behind us all, a gallery filled with paper and plywood mock ups and loafers that cost more than a couple month’s rent.
Later, while eating the grilled chicken and the choco mousse, they all commemorated the old architect. Everything leaked, but who cared. You can fix a leak, someone said. Tell that Hartley, Bricoux, Hume, Krins and Brailey, the men that played the music as the Titanic went down.
The burst of implied magnificence documented in the shoes and the loaned debt of the monstrously rich turned into a grin. I could see it all from there. The folly of being human is being human.
by Hank Cherry
