“Money” by Atisha Paulson,

topic: MONEY medium: TEXT

Mexican busboys scamper around placating women with French manicures, tattoos and fake tits. The juxtaposition is beyond comprehension and, therefore somehow works. BMWs, Mercedes, Range Rovers come and go as the valets try and look cool in the 88 degree September sun. I want and write for something more, for a life I can be proud of. My life.

Everyone else I know seems to have it so together. Alan and Randi. Todd and Darby and their 1.6 million dollar house and their M5 and Thea, their fucking adorable cockatoo. Dr. Aimee Anderson and her thriving autism practice and husband John, a software engineer at Yahoo! going to law school at night. Even Shyam graduated from USC Film School and has made a short film shot on 35mm, which has won numerous awards on the festival circuit.

Mike Schwab, net worth over $300 million, house in the hills. Range rover. Ferrari. More money than God. His dad is worth the upwards of $7 billion, one of the 10 richest men in the US.

And me? Fucking me. And I realize it’s petty and trite to compare myself to other people, but these are my peers. The people I grew up with and went to school with. Here they are and here I am, taking the fucking bus from LAX to Todd’s because he was too hung-over to pick me up and I was too broke to spend $50 on a taxi. Only I couldn’t tell him that so he got out of bed and met me on the corner of Sepulveda and Santa Monica in his BMW M5. I felt jealous. I had loved that car for a such long time and he had one and didn’t even bother to keep it clean. He had a house and a wife and a never ending trust fund. He was off Heroin and looked handsome and seemed happy. His house was big and beautiful, with hardwood floors and a Viking range and Subzero refrigerator. The pool in the backyard was heated to 90° year round and the hot tub looked lonely with nobody in it. I wanted a home. Suddenly, I wanted a house with a wife and a dog and a yard and a flat screen TV with the Opera on in the morning. I wanted to wake up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee, clean air and a dog licking my face. But I was a long ways away from that. 5,000 miles and a 2 bedroom, 6th floor walk up with a psychotic redheaded roommate who fucked guys she met on Craigslist.