Clean and Paid For

         “Blue collar baby,” Samantha Doyle whispered as I filed past.  I ignored the jeer and continued on, proudly receiving my diploma from the high school principal and returning to my seat.  “Nothing but a blue collar baby,” she hissed haughtily.

         Almost twenty-five years later, I couldn’t believe her name topped my portion of the list of alumni I was to call about the class reunion. She had teased and bullied me through every day of high school.  I dialed the number and waited, recalling some of Samantha’s more hurtful slights:

         “You look like a fashion model,” she’d said on picture day.  “A fashion model from a decade ago!”

         Not wanting to allow her remark to pass without a reply I retorted, “My clothes are clean and paid for so I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

         She’d turned her back, then whirled and flattened her dirty cafeteria tray against the front of my best dress.  “Ooops,” she giggled with her cohorts, “so much for ‘clean and paid for’.”

         A few days later she sat across from me and apologized.  She looked from her tray of steaming food to my peanut butter sandwich and overripe banana.  “Aww, didn’t your parents even bring you a doggie bag?”  She shoved her tray across the table as hard as she could, spilling the colorful assortment of food into my lap.

         A heavily accented voice finally answered.  “Doyle-Princeton residence; may I ask the reason for your call?”

         Taken aback by the formal, business-like greeting I paused for a moment.  “Um, my name is Caroline and I’m calling to speak with Samantha Doyle-Princeton on behalf of the Trent Faron High School Alumni Association.”

         “I’m sorry.  Ms. Doyle-Princeton is not available at the moment.  If you leave your name and number I will convey your message to her as soon as she returns.”

         I breathed a sigh of relief, left my contact information and moved on down the list.

         The Alumni Association met in my dining room the next afternoon to plan everything we would be needed for the reunion.  Our discussion about invitations was interrupted by the phone.  “Mom, it’s for you,” my 17-year old announced, handing me the phone.  “Samantha something or other.”

         “Hello,” I began.

         The curt voice on the other end of the line took over the conversation.  “Hello.  This is Samantha Doyle-Princeton returning your call for the Alumni Association.  To whom am I speaking?”

         “Hello, Samantha.  This is Caroline Galonos, uh, used to be Meyer.”

         A disappointed grunt filtered through the phone before she continued.  After explaining why I had called she surprised me by asking what she could do to help.  “I’d like to get started as soon as possible,” she said. 

         “We’re having our first meeting right now.”  I smiled at the others; we could use all the help we could get, even if it was from Samantha.

         “Do I need a password to get through the gates?” Samantha asked, receiving directions to my home.

         “Oh, my, no.  There are no gates here,” I answered.

         The long pause at the other end of the line said more than words could express.  “Well, is it safe for me to park my car or should I have my driver drop me off?” her apprehensive voice probed.

         “It’s perfectly safe, but what you do is up to you.”

         Forty-five minutes later I was standing face to face with my high school nemesis.  “Is my car okay there?” she asked, pointing to the shiny blue Jaguar in the middle of my yard.  Compared to that, the other cars looked like beat up old rust buckets.

         “You could have just parked in the driveway,” I sighed.

         “What a quaint little hut you have here,” Samantha cooed, dropping her expensive designer bag to the floor and stepping out of the matching pumps.  "It's like a vacation cottage."  She drew a pair of suede, plush-lined slippers from her bag and slid her carefully pedicured feet inside.  “Who are these little urchins?” she inquired, pointing to photos lining the wall.

         I named off my five children as she casually tossed a mink-collared sweater to the sofa.  “Where do you keep them all?” she asked, looking around.

         “Oh, they’re here somewhere,” I shrugged, anxious to return to the others.  “Do you have any children?” I asked, trying to show polite interest.

         “Yes.”  She smoothed her hands over her unbelievably flat abdomen and whined, “They nearly ruined my figure!  Now they’re away at boarding school.”  She admired her manicure and checked her hair in the mirror before joining the group.

         As talk turned from planning to fundraising, Samantha cleared her throat and interrupted.  “Please, let me cover everything.”

         While the others applauded her generosity, Samantha leaned over and whispered, “It’s nothing, really.  I can write it off as a charitable donation.”

         So much for generosity, I thought.

         The meeting wound down and I set out light refreshments.  “Could I get you something to drink, Samantha?” I asked, offering coffee, hot or iced tea, and lemonade.

         She looked at the tray and bit her plump lower lip as she twisted the strand of pearls adorning her neck.  “Could I just have a water?  Bottled water?” As I headed back to the kitchen she called after me, “Oh, Caroline?  Could I get a glass, too?  A glass glass?  I simply can’t drink out of plastic.”

         Arrangements were being made for the next meeting when Samantha spoke up again.  “Please, use my house from now on.  We can soak in the hot tub or sit in the steam room and I can have the chef whip up some real refreshments.”  She smiled at the reaction her offer received.

         “Oh, one last thing.  “I’ll send my driver for all of you.  If the collection of vehicles outside is any representation, you won’t get past the guard shack coming to my neighborhood.”

         Clean and paid for, I thought as Samantha left.  I may not have much, but it’s clean and paid for.

999 words

Challenge:  Write a story contrasting the life of a wealthy person with a minimum-wage earner.