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I never knew that I was poor until high school, when I began to notice the direct correlation between the outward appearance of a boy and his popularity. Always neat and presentable and wearing the latest fashion, these guys always had a cadre of equally well dressed rich friends following them, smiling and clinging to every word that he,the glowing richest of the rich kids, spoke. Among that small crowd of hanger on's were invariably one or two rich debutantes, consciously or unconsciously honing their considerable seduction skills on the leader of the pack to the consternation of the rest of the group. Rich kids, like poor kids, all stuck together. But they were no more or less exclusionary that their counterpoints from the other side of town. They were just a nicer looking gang of kids. In my school, like others, the handful of rich kids sprinkled among the progeny of the huddled masses stuck out diamonds in a mud puddle.

I learned that rich people always wear expensive clothes. Even when they dress casually. The clothes could be worn or tattered, but one could still tell by the cut and fabric that these were not clothes that could be bought anywhere. Clearly, they did not shop at Sears. On several occasions, out of sheer curiosity, I tried to find a particular shoe or sweater that I had admired on one rich kid or another, but those articles were nowhere to be found except in the small exclusive men's store downtown.

The store could best be described as a masculine boutique. Small and narrow, quietly placed in between two nondescript gift stores, the tastefully lettered sign above it promised "Fine Clothing for Gentlemen". One summer day I gathered enough courage to actually go in. I opened the door and was pushed inside the dimly lit small store by the bright sunlight on my back. The salesman greeted me with a polite hello, but said nothing else. He was to let the magic of the store do the work for him.

To the right, rows of sports coats and suits stood sideways at attention against the wall, waiting in line. At the far end of this line was a tall 3 paneled mahogany framed looking glass, tall enough to cast the reflection of an entire man from head to toe. Each mirror was angled in such a way so that the customer could glance straight ahead or sideways in any direction and see how the prospective new piece of clothing looked. This arrangement was set upon a red velvet pedestal and lit dramatically from the top. The customer, with the help of the salesperson, now turned into trusted dresser to the King, would be helped into his new clothing before marching regally up the 2 stairs to see himself in the mirrors and receive his crowds.

On the back wall were shoes displayed on long narrow shelves covering the entire width of the wall. All one had to do was take a leisurely stroll from one end of the shelves to the other and he would be treated to every type of shoe imaginable, each cut from thick, soft, luxurious leather and each made by native hands in such far away places as Spain, Italy, Portugal. One was allowed to pick one up and then, feigning the manner of an expert in such arcane matters as fine footwear, secretly caress it like small girls do with cute puppies in the pet store. Each set had a discreet small round sticker stuck to the soles softly whispering the price of the footwear, should the admirer decide to bring this set of twins home.

The wall to the left had cubby holed shelves protecting neat stacks of colorful shirts each carefully folded, pinned, bagged in plastic and then catalogued according to size. Each one was at a price that I had once paid for a solid winter coat at Sears across the street. No matter, I spent a few hurried minutes finding a shirt that fit my particular fancy, then brought it up to the clerk and proudly paid for it.

From then on, whatever money I had was spent on clothes in that store, mostly shirts, ironically making myself even poorer than I was before. Mostly I bought shirts, one after another, my closet was soon filled to bursting with them. For me that closet was an oasis in the desert. Shirts were the most accessible given my cycle of delivering papers, saving and buying. Otherwise, pants, sport coats, suits and shoes were ordinarily too expensive even to save up for. I found that long before I had saved enough to buy a coat or a pair of shoes, I would succumb to the desire to get another shirt thereby putting my savings further away from it's goal once again.

But at least I was no longer a poor kid from the other side of the tracks. I was now a well dressed poor kid from the other side of the tracks and certain that those who didn't know me would be fooled into thinking that I was rich by my expensive disguise. This was enough to make me actually feel rich, and feeling rich was better than knowing I was poor, even though inside I was no more confident or assertive than I was before, but willing to fit my outward personality to the shirt I choose to wear that day and all that the shirt, to me, stood for. Now the pretence of being confident and assertive had some basis in reality- the expensive shirt on my back.

I've since come to believe that if there is one single justification for people being rich while the rest of the world goes mad with desire, it is this and only this. Money can, and will, buy at least a measure of health and happiness, genuine or otherwise, if only in that the minority of people, the rich, at least do not have to worry about where their next meal is coming from. After all, why should the whole world suffer to such degree as the poor do and what good would it do if it were possible or desirable? It's true that riches entail worry about preserving the same, but this worry is of a different tone and timbre than daily worry's that begin with not what's on the menu today, but is there anything on the menu today?

Apply that notion to the multitude of casual agents for mental distress, for the rich or the poor, and the same conclusion is apparent. Being rich is better than being poor. Duh. Everyone knows this, but most people, particularly those with a pot firmly established, are reluctant to say it plain and simple particularly if in the company of "less fortunate's", for fear of appearing callous or greedy or insensitive to the plights of the poor. Rather than say anything meaningful about poverty, wretched excess for example, they turn their, and your, attention to poverty and with as serious a humanitarian attitude as they can muster make some comment about poor people sprinkled with inspiring words about nobility, strength, admiration, etc.

This clever ruse makes any sort of logical self evident (critical) response from the listener sound as if the hearer favors having more than less (Good Heavens!) and, by inference, is unconcerned with those who have less of everything that makes life civilized, if not tolerable. In rarefied air, usually a silent beat occurs immediately after the "Poor Is Good" lecture points are exhausted, followed by another beat accompanied by a knowing nod from the listener, followed by another beat from both, then an abrupt change of subject by one or the other, sometimes both simultaneously. After a respectable lapse of time filled with idle chit chat, probably to get as far away from the aforementioned topic as they can, the conversation returns to some variation of the gathering and preservation of wealth.