The Age of Gatsby is Over

In celebration of my monumental completion of graduate school, I've degenerated to a state of weekday boozing this body hasn't experienced since college. And let me say, it's been glorious. My afternoon and evening liquid-fueled adventuring has taken me around the District to locations I wasn't able to explore because of onerous erudite obligations. I've forgotten how damn good it feels to walk the sidewalks with a warm buzz in the middle of the afternoon. Along the way I've met some interesting people too, but one encounter in particular sticks out.

It happened last night, after an afternoon of sushi and sake bombs, followed by an evening of trivia and social (but overpriced) drinking at a gentrified oasis: Not a white person to be seen for blocks around the tavern, but once inside, it was filled with glasses-and-polo wearing crackers. But that is for another blog post.

After, I was reveling in my second successful DC bus trip in two years on the metro platform, waiting for the train, when I spied a clean cut, well dressed, prematurely gray-haired white dude stumbling around with his garment bags and approaching fellow metro takers who were keeping to themselves but obviously distressed by his presence. I was listening to music so couldnt hear the details of this sport-blazer'd, khaki'd accoster. My 'good neighbor' instinct kicked in (hey, I did just earn an MA in philosophy) and I took off my headphones to cautiously approach this situation that clearly needed intervention.

"What's up, man?" I asked.

He slurred out his destination, and asked how to get there. Unfortunately he was looking for a stop on the other side of the district that would require several train switches -- a cerebral task that this man had drank away his capacity to complete.

I tried to think of the simplest way to explain how he could get there. He, sensing my benevolence, dropped his bags and sat down on the floor of the station, using a bag as a pillow. He asked my name, and we exchanged pleasantries. Soon he understandably began getting looks from strangers who wanted to know what this lost, preppy man was doing drunk off his ass laid out on the floor on a Wednesday night.

He miraculously sensed their disapprobation and started off on how his family had "a ton of money," and he couldn't care less what they think. I grew intrigued; I sensed that I was in the presence of some bourgeois class member that grew up on yachts, mimosas, and nannies. In short, that I was in the midst of greatness. He was from "Park Avenue" and visiting his sister.

My fascination kept the conversation going for another minute before he once again began to spontaneously talk about all of the wealth his family owned, obviously not due to his thriftiness. I immediately grew disgusted, wished him good luck in finding his sister, and walked off. He called after, but did not get up to stop me.

I'd like to comment briefly on my weird attraction to the social class that he claimed to be from. For some reason I've conflated good with wealth. I think that most of us -- if not all of us -- do that. We enshrine those around us who earn money, thinking that this accumulation inherently places them above others.

This encounter has made me realize that this is simply not the case. Sloppy drunks are sloppy no matter who their father is. It is absurd and pathetic that one of the first things he mentions to total strangers concerns the amount of money he has. I fear that his lifestyle (and the lifestyle of all of those sad people who grow up with everything they need) stunted his growth. This money is no substitute for character. Who we are is independent of what we own. And I'm starting to think that it is only those of us who own less that can actually grow into men worthy of listening to, speaking with, and gleaning wisdom from. For it is our lack of immediate satisfaction that forces our brains to turn on.

But the drive of those who have little wealth should not be towards this arbitrary medium. The man who seeks happiness through wealth is a poor man; indeed, let those few and courageous ones who seek it through self expression, creativity, justice, and truth, be inscribed in the annals of history. Those are the ones I want our progeny to hear about.