Sunday, September 9, 2018

Taken to the Cleaners

Yesterday, while sitting in my favorite chair as I was attempting to unveil the identity of the murderer in The Poisoned Chocolates Case, I found myself starting to nod off. Declaring lethargy the victor over ideation, I repaired to my bed for a nap. The time, according to the LED read-out on the night table clock, was 6:01 PM. There was, unfortunately, to be no repose for me. At 6:23 PM I conceded defeat to the two words that had floated through my head for the previous twenty-two minutes, and abandoned my bed and my attempt at sleep. The two words were “dry cleaning.” 

I must explain how such a seemingly innocent—even banal— phrase could haunt my brain for years and undermine the fortress of sleep.

I don’t remember exactly when it was, but I do remember the occasion. I was doing the most unlikely thing: reading the executive compensation report of a company in which I, at the time, owned a few shares. What moved me to read it is a mystery (not on The Poisoned Chocolates Case level, though), because my usual practice was to toss such mailings straightaway into the trash. Nevertheless, in this instance I deigned to read about the salary, travel allowance, office expenses, and so on and so forth that would fall that financial period to the chief honcho. All well and good, I imagined; after all, he needed to receive an income; he was going to be traveling to the distant outposts where the company had a presence; and he needed, when not mobilizing the far-off troops, some furniture for his head office suite, including a desk to look imperious behind. 

But then I discovered, tucked in after the gelt allotted for limousine service, this item: “Dry Cleaning—$xxx” (pardon me for neglecting to input into my head the exact amount—which, of course, didn’t matter).

What did matter was that this giant of industry, this plutocrat of plutocrats, this capo di tutti capi, with stock options upon stock options, in addition to the humongous basic salary, was somehow incapable of paying for his own dry cleaning! 

No, that was put wrong; it wasn’t that he was incapable of that, but that he was capable of squeezing every last cent out of the company that he could. 

His receptionist, his secretary, the shlub of an assistant accountant on the floor below—all had to pay for their dry cleaning out of their own pockets. But just as the capo could jump into a company limo and speed away to his house in the Hamptons without digging into his pocket for gasoline money, much less subway fare to Penn Station and the Long Island Rail Road, he could have freshly-laundered clothes without scrounging around in his pockets for the odd coin or two to square the price of the service. 

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Some days, it is not the big bone of economic inequality, but the little bone of a grasping meanness that sticks in one’s craw.




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