One Pauper, Broke-ass Jew

20 years ago, when Paul and I founded the firm, I had an epiphany about the absurdity of measuring yourself by money. We had decided that I needed to upgrade my ride, in order to impress clients and opposing counsel. It was a good idea. So I turned over the most luxurious car I had driven to that point, a Mitsubishi Diamonte, to Paul's son Alex, who was a high school senior, and I headed to the Collection to lease a Jaguar. A Jaguar. Growing up in middle class Long Island, I never even drove in one. Driving a Jaguar meant more to me than having money -- it meant I was James Bond, with all the sophistication and class Levittown certainly did NOT represent. I cut the deal (I think it was about $600 per month for the 2 year lease) and went to the pick up area to await my new sign of amazing success. I was feeling like I was IT -- 33, no mortgage, starting a Downtown law firm -- rich! A kid sat next to me, and I tried to mask my excitement -- but surely told him I was picking up my JAGUAR. He smiled, and answered in South American accented English, that he, too, was there to pick up a new car. He must have been 21 or so. And then I heard a rumbling -- his ride was delivered first. He got up and waved and smiled as he got into his FERRARI. But it wasn't a regular Ferrari -- I asked the salesman who told me it was a Gallardo -- a limited edition, and the kid (or his Dad) has paid over $200k for it! Compared to his car, mine was a Chevy...and a cheap Chevy at that! I got into my new Jag, drove off, and laughed -- at myself. It was like the Big Man was shoving my face in my hubris -- comparing oneself to others based on bucks is so inherently stupid. Plus, that Jag was a piece of crap -- stalled out everytime I drove through a deep puddle. But still, I went about making money as a lawyer, and have enjoyed the fruits of that labor -- big house -- spending more on a single family vacation than my first year's salary, etc... And I guess I do compare myself to my peers, despite my epiphany of 20 years past. And then came yesterday. Wifey and I were invited to a memorial service for our friend Allison's mother, Sally. Sally died like a queen -- aboard a Crystal Cruise ship, during an elegant dinner. She and her husband Cy, a retired Urologist, were long time members of the Surf Club. I guess they have some deal with the Indian Creek Country Club, as the service was held there. We had never been to Indian Creek before. It's on the west side of Miami Beach, on the Bay, with stunning views of Miami. It's a guarded village -- of billionaires. Julio Iglesias lives there, as does corporate raider Carl Icahn. Don Shula lives there, but only because he married a fabulously rich widow. I've been to Palm Beach and Fisher Island many times, but there was something different about this place. The Club itself, built in 1930, seemed northern, somehow, like a Vanderbilt estate in Providence. The service was lovely, and beautifully catered. It was terrific to catch up with Allison and her family. After all the guests had left, Allison, her husband Steve, and Paul and Stuart and I and our ladies sat for awhile, talking about the glory days of our law firm. We recalled how, after a big settlement, PAul and I treated 9 people to a firm retreat in Vegas -- where we paid for all the guests to live like rockstars for the weekend. We thought we were Donald Trumps then. In the late afternoon, Wifey and I left. Our car was the last one in the grassy lot --with the stunnig view of the Bay. We drove past the houses -- one apparently just sold to a Russian oligarch for $50M. It was great to visit. It was nicely humbling. Sally lived her wife well and fully. And her service, and its location, reinforced a critical lesson.