On Another Planet

My name is Ashton Throckmorton, IV. All my chums at the Yale Club call me Ash. I made my money the old-fashioned way—I inherited it from my daddy, which is exactly how he came by his money. My great, great grandfather started the family business, and my great-grandfather grew it into the money mill it is today. Now it’s up to me to enjoy the profits—a tough job, but someone has to do it.

In the past, I escaped the dreadful New England winters by retreating to the Caribbean from late fall to late spring. Cruising has increased in popularity because of more affordable fares, so now the islands are overrun with the world’s riffraff. A new winter refuge would be required.

Naples, Florida, was my first choice; the city is picturesque, for Florida that is, and there is a convenient little airport to park my Gulfstream II. Best of all, I found a spacious penthouse condo with a spectacular ocean view for a reduced price of $2,000,000. This bargain basement price came as the result of a collapsing real estate market in 2012.

I already own several vehicles, but for my Florida car, I thought a new Rolls-Royce would be most appropriate. The “Roller,” as it’s referred to in England, is a bright blue soft-top with all the latest bells and whistles. Driving such a fine machine says to the world, “I have arrived, and I’ve done it in style.” After all, appearance is everything.

Regrettably, Naples is a magnet for high-end vehicles. Ferrari, Aston Martin, Lamborghini, and Rolls Royce are as common in Naples as Kia and Ford are in Cape Coral. With such a plethora of high-end vehicles on the city streets, my social status has decreased somewhat since residing here. Not as many heads turn when I drive by. It is definitely disconcerting. I’m sure it’s the result of all this new tech money. Unfortunately, there isn’t much I can do about it.

A perfect example of my diminished standing is how I was treated two days ago by a Naples Police Officer. I’m still trying to recover from this exceptionally traumatic experience. I will file a formal complaint later on in the day.

Parking on 5th Avenue is challenging on a good day. It becomes intolerable when the weather is perfect and tourists from surrounding communities invade our town. That’s when the interlopers jam our streets and occupy all the parking spaces. With no other expedient options available to me, I opted to park the Roller on a pedestrian crosswalk. Maybe people were forced to walk around my car, but I had business to attend to. What I needed to do was obviously more important than their minor inconvenience.

Exiting the building, I saw my beautiful new Roller hooked to the back of a tow truck. I approached the officer who was orchestrating this travesty and protested in the strongest of terms.

Exhibiting the precise amount of indignation in my voice to emphasize the gravitas of her mistake, I asked, “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton. I do! You’re the inconsiderate ass who parked on a crosswalk blocking a pedestrian's right of way. You also have six outstanding parking tickets. Your vehicle will be available at the impound lot after you pay the fines. Have a nice day, Sir.”

As the officer walked away and the Roller disappeared from sight, I took time to ponder my current predicament. After a great deal of deliberation, I concluded that social status has no value in a town where everybody has money. It is time for me to move!