LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS ... A FOOTNOTE

　
　
　
　

　
　
　
     How about a bon-bon for the Holiday Season?
   
    When I was growing up in an isolated New England mill town, I had no concept of ’rich’ other than the abstract rich in fairy tales, But as I grew a little older I became conscious of another ‘rich’ who lived on the high ground in big houses under big trees on the other side of town. They were mythical and mysterious and separate, but I was able to glimpse them occasionally driving by in their shiny Buicks and Pontiacs. They seemed to drive fast through our neighborhood and their eyes always looked straight ahead.
     Then, in my first month of high school, I got an inkling that we might just share the same planet. Kids I didn’t know -- but who seemed nice enough from a distance --were described to me as ‘His old man’s a big shot at the mill.’ or ‘Her old man’s really rich’. Rich is what defined them at first .. that and they wore nicer shoes.
     And finally, at seventeen, I fell in love with a banker’s daughter from the high ground, and she with me. I found out her family had fights just like everybody else, but they were nonetheless worlds apart from anything I‘d known. Instead of ‘supper’ they called it ‘dinner’, and instead of ‘dinner’ they ate ‘lunch‘. They also ate in a dining room, not in the kitchen, and used cloth napkins. And their garage could fit two cars! But most baffling of all, there was no clothesline in their back yard.
     I was in awe of them.
     Less than a decade later, and long after my heart was broken by that first love, I migrated to New York City with a guitar, a sleeping bag and thirty-five dollars. By that time, my attitude toward the rich had become ambivalent. I sang anti-capitalist folk songs in Washington Square, but secretly lusted after the good life which I defined as an apartment with an elevator. After a further ten years of many ‘ups’ and a some deep ‘downs’, my career as a writer and consultant began to blossom. I embraced capitalism and became -- for want of a better description -- reasonably affluent. But if I were no longer in awe of the rich, I still carried a lingering and deep-seated envy of them.
     That is, until one memorable night in London.

     In the early Seventies, London was the hottest (or ‘coolest‘, depending on how old you are) city in the world. It basked in the excitement of the Beatles and the Stones, John Osborne’s plays, John Schlesinger’s wonderful movies, and the madness of ’Monty Python’s Flying Circus’; not to speak of Twiggy’s antics and Mary Quant’s miniskirts and hot pants. It was also enjoying an explosion of new clubs, and restaurants like Mr. Chow‘s, San Lorenzo, and a very fashionable spot called ‘Menage a Trois’ which served dinner in portions of three: three carrots, three fingers of veal, three cookies for dessert. (Peas, thank heavens, were not on the menu.)
      Among the private clubs, the ultimate in chic, snobbery and exclusivity was Annabel’s in Berkeley Square. With a superb kitchen and after-dinner dancing, it had a dress code as precise as a military manual and prices (cash only) that would make your eyes water. It was so upper-echelon that whatever happened there not only stayed there, it was entombed there. I became a member after being nominated by the chairman of the Rank Organization, for whom I’d done a serious favor, and seconded by the titled granddaughter of a British prime minister. Yeah, me .. the hick kid from a mill town!
     But having a big expense account is not, of course, being rich.
    
     In any case, I decided one night to invite my favorite client, Herb Schmertz of Mobil, to dinner at Annabel’s. I also invited a German model, Heidi Keine, whom I’d known in New York and who’d recently moved to London. Heidi was bright, beautiful and had an acerbic wit that I thought would add spice to the evening. Neither she nor Schmertz had ever been to Annabel’s and each was excited by the opportunity to see what it was all about.
     We were seated near the dance floor in the elegant, dimly-lit dining room; low-ceilinged with mirrored columns and bouquets of orchids at each table. The room was nearly full with ’the beautiful people’; although there was an subtle space at one end separating a table of five: an old man, a middle-aged woman, two very attractive thirty-something girls and a guy who I assumed was a husband or boyfriend.
     Over dinner, Herb and Heidi got along famously, leaving me to drink more wine than was wise and to ponder what to do with the remainder of the night. Finally, when the dancing began, I said:
     Do you think anybody’s ever picked up a bird in Annabel’s? (That’s what girls were called in those days.)
     I was looking at what I now considered ‘The Gang of Five’.
     My friends knew exactly what I had in mind.
     Don’t do it, they said simultaneously. And Herb added: They’ll throw us out.
     So I brooded until he and Heidi got up to dance, and then made my way across the room. One of the girls saw me approaching and gave me a tentative ‘Do I know you?’ look. It was less than a smile, but more than simple curiosity.
     The best I could do was: Is a fifth permitted to dance with a third?
     Then she did smile, glancing at her table mates, and said: Why not?
    
     What followed was the most uncomfortable ten minutes I’d ever spent. Everyone in the room -- including the maitre d’ and the sommelier -- was staring at us as we danced to the Bee Gees. And when I say they stared, I mean they stared unashamedly and openly. It was apparent that I’d trampled on British protocol and would probably be hanged at dawn. When I looked at Herb and Heidi, they were shaking their heads in dismay. Yet, oddly, my dancing partner seemed oblivious to it all.
     Finally, readying myself to face whatever punishment was coming, I escorted the girl back to her table. We’d only spoken a few words, so I was surprised when she said:
     Why don’t you join us? I’m sure your friends won’t mind.
     I’d like that, I replied. But I should tell you my name. Which I did.
     Hello. she said, offering me her hand. I’m Ann Getty. And turning to introduce me, she added: This is my father-in-law, Jean Paul .. this is …
     The other names sailed past me. I couldn’t absorb that I was being introduced to the richest man in the world -- the famous and infamous miser/founder of Getty Oil -- and that I’d crashed his table. Like an ill-mannered lout, I’d walked right through the invisible barrier that separated the mythical Gettys from the madding crowd. And people were still looking at me as if I were about to be struck by lightning.
     The next few minutes are lost in the haze of memory. But I did manage to register that the older woman was a nurse/companion and that the other girl was another Getty daughter-in-law. The guy with them was obviously well-connected, but just the girls’ escort. He was clearly furious that I‘d joined the party and couldn’t resist throwing me dirty, surreptitious looks. As to the patriarch, I don’t remember him saying a word to anyone.
     Eventually, after the usual chatter about who you are and where you’re going (The girls were on their way to Gstaad for a month’s skiing.), Ann said to me:
     Why don’t you ask your friends to pay their check and join us?
     Puzzled by the conjunction, I said: What does paying their check have to do with them joining us?
     I’m sorry, she told me, but you don’t know how people try to take advantage of us.
    That was the second memorable moment of the night; and I wondered whether the mega-rich might be mildly afflicted with paranoia.
     I said: Doesn’t that happen mostly with people you know .. rather than people you don’t?
     She looked uncomfortable with the question; and since it was more a statement than a question anyway, I changed the subject .. kind of.
     Is it true that your father-in-law took all the phones out of his castle and put in a coin-operated pay phone?
     Well, first of all, it’s not a castle, she answered. It’s a Tudor manor .. and yes he did. Everybody was using the phones to call long distance and the bills were getting huge.
     So how many bedrooms does it have? I asked.
     I don’t really know. she answered. I’ve never tried to count them.
     I wanted to inquire whether the ’Tudor manor’ had a moat, but thought better of it.

     Moments later, after quietly briefing Herb and Heidi and paying our check, I led them over for the appropriate introductions Everyone was in a festive mood (except the escort who was still sulking and surly) and conversation flowed easily. Heidi told a few anecdotes about her modeling career, Herb chatted about our relationship with the BBC. Only the old man, who seemed barely awake, remained silent.
     Then at one point, Ann Getty leaned toward Schmertz and said: I understand you’re with Mobil.
     Yes, I am. Schmertz said.
     Ummm … that‘s nice. she cooed. We have an oil company too.
     To this day, I’ve never heard a more patronizing or more condescending remark. But Schmertz, who’d helped elect JFK to the presidency and who, if called upon, could name-drop with the best of them, took it in stride. I, however, did not .. and eventually coined a new word to describe what I’d encountered that night. The word was ‘arronoia’: a combination of arrogance and paranoia. It managed to destroy whatever residual envy I had for the rich, whether they were billionaires counting pennies or small town bankers with well-brought-up daughters.
      It was a final lesson well worth learning.
     Although, as an old friend of mine has always said: Rich or poor .. it’s still nice to have money.
　
　
　
                                       HOLIDAY CHOCOLATES: SOME BITTERSWEET
　
Ann Getty and her husband became prominent public figures and philanthropists in San Francisco. I believe she still lives in the Bay area.

The surly escort eventually revealed himself to be a rising executive in the British subsidiary of Armco Steel, a large American company. When I delightedly informed him that Armco’s CEO was not only a close friend but in many respects my mentor, his attitude changed as if by magic. I promised, of course, to mention our meeting.

Heidi Keine and I stayed in touch until 1982 when she disappeared off the stern of a sailing yacht in the Caribbean. Her remains were never found.

When he died, Jean Paul Getty left over $625 million to establish an art museum in Los Angeles. Yet in 1973 when his youngest grandson was kidnapped, he refused to pay a $3 million ransom, relenting only when the boy’s severed ear arrived in the mail. Then, agreeing to pay $2.2 million because that was the tax-deductible maximum, he lent his son -- the boy’s father -- the remaining $800,000 … at four percent interest. Go figure.

Much to my surprise, the staff at Annabel’s treated me with deference and great respect after the Getty ’incident’; obviously confusing my ignorance with bravery. The club, by the way, is still going strong; and -- man or woman -- one must still be properly dressed: tie and jacket, tailored trousers, no casual footwear, no suede or leather clothing, and for women, no ‘undergarments’ showing. Some things never change.
                                                               ********

Please feel free to send this posting to anyone who might be interested. The link is http://keywestwind.blogspot.com.