The Shirt

Economic Discrimination

 

 

The Shirt

 

Back before I lost my construction business, and suffered the humiliation of a bankruptcy I held up this image of myself as a well-rounded individual and pretty forward-thinking guy. My wealthy clients were just people after all no better, no worse, than I. 

 

Back before I experienced the ravages of a hideous arthritic gout, and my stomach was shot full of holes due to stress and worry, I presented a pretty good physical image although a gut had appeared.

 

Being born short, small, and not particularly good looking, I knew first-hand that the theory of all men being created equal, while a good concept, fell considerably short of the mark when one left the womb.

 

I was blessed with muscular athletic legs and had built myself up to weight-lifter arms. I would vainly display these arms by cutting off the sleeves of my tee shirts, which incidentally, gave me more freedom of movement. At least that’s what I told myself. I was wearing one of these tee shirts when a client who I liked very much unexpectedly dropped by the job site. He wanted to show me a house in an exclusive country club that he belonged to and said that afterward that, “we could grab some lunch.” Although its ramifications are frequently manifested in a variety of ways, the saying is true; there is no such thing as a free lunch.

 

The golf course at the country club he was taking me to was designed by a golf course architect that I have a great admiration for. Although I don’t play golf, I can recognize a good lay of land when I see one, and can assure you that no two courses are created equal. This particular course was an undulating, free flowing, mass of visual perfection. The house my client wished to show me was still under construction. A 7000 square foot sprawling “estate” that dwarfed its half-acre lot, it was indeed an impressive architectural achievement but I was left with the feeling that the term “estate” should encompass the land the house sits on. The site of this home, on a postage stamp size lot, left me cold, but I wasn’t too particularly surprised because I routinely design and build on similar projects at a wide array of country clubs about this valley. The valley of the rich. The valley of the flake.

 

For lunch my client took me to the club’s temporary clubhouse that was not an impressive architectural achievement, but he assumed me, “they” would build a more grandiose facility just as soon as the club acquired more members. Before going into the dining room (restaurants don’t exist in exclusive country clubs such as this) we swung into the pro shop where my client generously bought me a golf shirt that prominently displayed the club’s logo on the front pocket. We went out on a deck overlooking the course’s famed 18^th hole, and as I marveled at the layout, our conversation somehow drifted to the fact that the club maintained a dress code. I took the hint, and switch into the shirt he had bought me, and we went into the dining room to grab lunch. 

 

Besides the staff, there were only three other people in the dining room. Their conversation immediately fell silent as if someone had just rolled a hand grenade into the center of the room. My client said, “hello,” to them. They said, “hello,” to him. I said, “hello,” to them. They looked away. One of them got up, I assumed to go to the bathroom, and I didn’t see him again.

 

A manager came up and spoke in hushed tones to my client. I listened intently as the conversation turned once again to the dress code. I looked down at my jeans, which were clean, my work boots that were beat up, and fingered the all-mighty logo on my new shirt. “What’s the big problem?” my client asked. More hushed tones. We were whisked away to the outdoor patio, seated for lunch, and given menus.

 

I wasn’t too worse for wear. This all happened very quickly, and it was a nice day, and we were about to grab what was certain to be a sumptuous lunch. As the waiter approached I had all but put the incident out of my mind. As my client prepared to order the waiter informed him that we would have to leave immediately. Then the waiter shot a short disparaging glance at me and left. I shot up and cast a long disparaging glance back through the window of the dining room towards the table where the three were seated wondering what sounds their heads would make when I banged them together, but they were gone. My client was visibly upset, and had difficulty keeping up with me as I rushed to the parking lot hoping to run into them and settle the matter face-to-face. They weren’t there. They had vanished. 

 

I sat silently in his expensive SUV as we rolled out of the exclusive, exquisitely maintained country club. I told him of a place nearby in town where we could eat because I was now determined to have my free lunch. He was embarrassed for me. I was embarrassed for him being embarrassed for me because there was nothing embarrassing about this. Three royal asses had simply acted like royal asses. I wondered if their snobbery was so deeply ingrained that this was such a commonplace occurrence that they would never say another word about it. Or were they fed some lower-middle class meat with which to savor victory that could be bragged about at dinner party’s and other gala events?

 

My client tried to console me not knowing that I felt no need to be consoled. “It’s not like we were trying to crash a discotheque knowing full well that they had a dress code,” he said. “It’s not like we gave them a hard time when they put us outside. I wonder what they would have done if someone like Willie Nelson would have shown up in jeans? How would they have treated somebody famous like that?” I didn’t respond as I turned my head to look out the window which he mercifully took as a signal to shut up.

 

In silence I thought about all the times my laborers had referred to our clients as those, “rich b******s.” Thought about all the times I had corrected them by saying, “Good people are where you find them – rich or poor.” Thought about all the times I had berated myself for not being more successful, and lamenting the fact that, no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t capable of making more money. Thought about Paul’s advice in Hebrews:

 

Stay away from the love of money; be satisfied with what you have. For God has said, “I will never, never fail you nor forsake you.” That is why we can say without any doubt or fear, “The Lord is my helper and I am not afraid of anything that mere man can do to me.” 

 

I thought that I should forget about those three because they would get their just desserts.  And then I thought about dessert.

 

At the restaurant in town we had a good lunch, chit-chatted about nothing in particular, and I regained my composure as I told myself to remember that this was an important client who paid well and couldn’t have possibly known how the recent events would have unfolded. He wasn’t like those three. In fact, we had broken bread together at a dinner I had hosted in my modest home in my lower-middle class town. This slight had nothing to do with him. I had all but put the incident out of my mind by the conclusion of the free lunch when he said, “Well at least you got a nice shirt out of the deal.” The shirt, my God, the shirt. I had forgotten that I still had it on. It now felt uncomfortable against my skin. I looked around the restaurant as I numbly fingered the all-mighty logo. I was certain none of the patrons had ever seen me in a shirt like this before. I was happy to leave. Happy to part ways with my well-meaning client. Happy to switch back into my regular shirt.

 

As soon as I could, I gave that shirt away.