Old Money

Urgency, that is the spirit our society worships. To be the center of the flipping universe, there is pressure on the importance of urgency. “I need my money now!” Shrieking at the top of your lungs when your rent is due is your problem, not mine. That is what one perceives in a human transaction with customer service: the disrespect, the lack of empathy. One would think that, but they are wrong. We do care on the other side, but your money is my money too. I got bills just like you, and if the man says these are the rules. Your money is mine. Mine to purchase my future children’s healthcare. Mine to put food on the table. Mine. If you want your money, read the terms and conditions. It does not matter the transaction. Whether commerce, travel, or luxury. Find the print that keeps your money your money before it becomes mine.

I was so happy when Amazon came along with their membership to include shipping, fewer customer service transactions, less yelling. Hell, I even jumped on board and became a fanatic. Every other day you will see a package on my doorstep. Therefore, I had no reason to question and became highly confused when I opened a package and unearthed a small black notebook, Moleskine brand. I did not order it. I verified the label, “Rebecca Tash” that is me. I flipped through the blank pages and hidden in the middle, a page with a six-character code, an Amazon logo, and the word “locker” in yellow print. Somebody was messing with me. First suspicions, then intrigue, finally paranoia surfaced. Screw it; I went for it. Found the nearest Hub and stepped inside. There was doubt filled with full belief that this was going to turn into some bull crap.

As I approached, I thought the locker was going to detach from the wall and start walking towards me like the support beams in the subway station from the film “The Wiz.” I knew I had no initiated reason to be at this place but knowing and doing are two different things. I entered the code on a digital touch screen and stepped back.

“Code accepted.” Ahhh shhhhhh, for a moment, I stopped breathing. The door to a locker the size of a shoebox swung open like a slow breeze. Maybe that was my paranoia again, emphasizing the trepidation. I unhurriedly lowered my head to view its contents, terrified a rabid demon was going to jump out. Inside laid a small black address book, Moleskine brand. I looked around me; no one seemed to care I was there. I flipped through the blank pages, and again a middle page revealed this time an address along Lakeshore Drive in Chicago’s Northside neighborhood, Rogers Park. The melting pot of the city. I was all the way in the suburbs. Now, this was getting preposterous. That was a forty-five-minute drive, and I tried to talk myself out of every mile of it but kept my focus on the smokey idea of dinner at Da Jerk Pit in the next town over. Worst-case scenario, I was going home with a full belly of Oxtails and fried plantains.

I pulled up to a picturesque brownstone building along the lake. After double-checking the address, dread set in, “What am I supposed to do now?” I got out my beat-up sedan and stepped up to the front door, clutching both the small black notebook and address book with the palm of my hands and tapping fingers. Before I could knock, the door opened. “Come in,” said a rickety voice unseen behind the solid wood door. From the outside, I could see inside was just as immaculate. Deep, dark, bright royal blue drapery hung from the high ceiling all the way to the floor in every direction, plush furnishings strategically placed. I was in a trance with the scent of a baby powder fragrance that alone whispered, “Enter.”

The rickety voice behind the door was a little old lady dressed in a flowing abaya. “Wait here.” I watched her disappear down the hall lined with medieval portraits. I guess this is what one would call “old money.” An upper-class inheritance that continues from generation to generation within the same family. All the portraits were women, I found that odd. The little old lady returned to me with a manila envelope. “Here…” as she handed it to me, “…You can go now.” The envelope was thick but blank. “What is this?” I searched her eyes for an answer. “It is yours, girl; open it.” A stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills was inside. “I shook my head, “I don’t understand.” The little old lady directed me out the door as she stood in its entrance. “Twenty of these black notebooks were mailed out to girls such as yourself.” She spoke so softly I had to strain to hear her say, “You were the first or only one this time to follow through.” She pointed to the manila envelope, “That is yours to keep.” I looked at the money again with my jaw wide open and bad breath escaping. “You must like an adventure!” I shrugged my shoulders, still confused. “It is the ones who take chances that experience life. I was you once, and there was one before me and so on and so on. Each of us took that $20,000 and invested in ourselves to do something with ourselves. One day you will pay it back to another girl who will do the same. Water the seeds, and they will grow.” She winked at me as she closed the door.

I was stuck on the outside staring at the same wood door that I had entered but now $20,000 richer. I did not know what I was going to invest in, but I understood the opportunity to build wealth. This felt like some direct-to-consumer non-profit charity type shenanigans I had got myself in. I ordered my oxtails for dinner and savored every bite on the ride home through the sunset, dreaming about who I was to become with this old money.