FILTHY RICH

Miami Herald, The (FL)
March 19, 1989
Author: TOM SHRODER Herald Tropic Editor

A few weeks back, Berke Breathed, creator of the Bloom County cartoon strip and a winter resident of Fort Lauderdale, was having a little fun with another part-time South Floridian, name of Donald Trump. In the strip, Trump got into a serious medical difficulty and the only way to save him was to transplant his brain into a donor body. The only body available: Bill the Cat.

For those of you who don't follow Bloom County, Bill the Cat is a mangy, cock-eyed, blown-out critter who looks kind of like Garfield if Garfield had been run-over twice and was on his ten-thousandth acid trip. Although Bill has campaigned for president, he never said a word (unless "Ack!" is a word) until he became Donald Trump. Now he can't shut up. And he wears a tie.

The episode reached its zenith when Trump the Cat had a little chat with an impoverished child about what a "quality country" this is. "My Palm Beach cottage has 118 rooms," Trump enthuses. "I have a $100 million boat. Do you have a boat?"

The little girl responds brightly, "When the plumbing breaks, our sofa floats."

"Imagine," says Trump the Cat, "in this great, quality nation, folks like you haven't strung folks like me up by our intestines!"

The super-rich are such fat targets. The opulent wealth of the few appears so ridiculous beside the grim evidence of mass poverty. Consider: the upkeep on Mar-a-Lago, Trump's $10 million estate, costs $1 million a year. For maintenance. Nearly one of every three children in this country is born into a family whose total annual income could not keep Mar-a-Lago in fertilizer and pool chemicals for two weeks.

Those comparisons are inevitable and painful. To anyone with a conscience, the very rich cannot help but seem as absurd as their trappings.

Sometimes, as you will read in today's cover story, the rich tend to aggravate the situation. It's bad enough to watch people enjoy a pampered luxury you'll never know. To hear them complain about how unfairly they're being treated is virtually an incitement to riot.

Donald Trump is a man who owns his own private cruise ship even though he doesn't enjoy boating. When the roar of a few jets passing overhead disturbed the repose in his weekend getaway mansion by the ocean, he suggested that local officials move the airport. I don't know whether to hate or love the man for it.

It made me think about my relationship with the world in an entirely new way. I have some pet peeves, too. But I obviously haven't been thinking about them creatively enough. For instance: long supermarket lines. This infuriates me to the point of plucking my eyes out and throwing them at the bag boys, but until now my only response has been to read The Weekly World News for free while I'm waiting.

But that was before. This is now. Hereinafter I intend to demand that, just as they have a "10 items only" checkout line, my grocery store build, maintain and staff a checkout line with the following sign: "Tom Shroder Only."

And that's just the beginning. To the right of the Car Pool Only Lane on I-95 I will urge the state to build the Tom Shroder Only Lane, Toll Exempt. And of course there's Tom Shroder Only Beachfront Park. Trespassers will be prosecuted. I will recommend that the fine for parking in a dedicated Tom Shroder parking space shall be not less than $200 -- for the first offense.

The difference between Donald Trump and myself, aside from the fact that my net worth is roughly equal to the net worth of the stuff that falls between the cushions of Trump's sofa, is that I'm just kidding.

At least I think I am. I've always wanted to believe that if I were obscenely rich I would be the picture of humility and good taste. I would continue to live modestly, work every day, and still hang out with all the same geeks and losers I hang out with now. Most of my income would be channeled into projects to help rebuild the inner city or save the environment. I would not install gold plumbing fixtures in my skybox at Joe Robbie Stadium.

I was going on righteously about this the other day when a colleague told me about his brother, who earns $25,000 a year -- the only income in a family of four in one of the most expensive parts of the country: "My brother would look at you and your wife's combined income, the house you just bought, the car you drive, and simply conclude that you already were filthy rich."

I stopped short. I am, by almost any measure, incredibly lucky. I don't have to bother with 20 cent-off coupons anymore, I have a nice house, and when South Florida's miserable summer comes along in a few months I'll be able to afford (barely) to run the AC at night. Even so, with each incremental raise I find an incremental increase in my necessary expenses. I have not yet managed to donate big money to my favorite unselfish causes.

But being able to afford all the basic needs, and a few precious luxuries doesn't make me rich. Maybe if a sudden windfall came my way -- if the IRS suddenly realized they'd been taxing me at too high a rate for 15 years and shot me a check for 20 thou -- maybe then I'd feel borderline rich.

And when I thought real hard about what I'd do with that first 20 grand of riches, $20,000 I could put to any noble use I wanted and not miss it, it came to me with stunning certainty what I would do.

Buy a pool.

Memo: FROM THE EDITOR
Section: TROPIC
Copyright (c) 1989 The Miami Herald