Either through a cloudy drug haze, revenge, or infatuation, I was able to experience the trappings of the lifestyle of the mega-wealthy in my youth.
Of course none of this happened because the Domestic Despot will tell you, without blinking, that there was no one else before she appeared in my life.
So in the summer before I attended Notre Dame for my freshman year, I went to visit my mom and stepfather in western Massachusetts. I was playing guitar with a very good friend of mine and we got a gig at a small, but crazy-busy club in West Yarmouth on Cape Cod. Since the commute was too far, we moved into a small cabin which the club owner provided musicians who played in one of his six clubs on the Cape.
Eighteen-years old, good-looking, in the best shape of my life, and I am playing and singing my ass off every Friday and Saturday night in front of bikini-clad drunk girls.
Exactly what you would think.
24/7.
I think I aged five years in the month we stayed there.
But the good news is I was able to save about thirteen hundred bucks from our eight gigs that month. This was at a time when a hundred bucks apiece a night for a duo was a good payday. Hell, it’s still an OK payday for some.
We made mad tips.
When we returned back to Holyoke, I saw a girl, in a Catholic uniform from a local school and I am not the type to be drooling over schoolgirls, but what was fitted into that uniform was a body that looked like it didn’t belong in high school, that’s for sure (down Maddogg!).
Long story short, her father was a big tycoon in industry in Boston from old money, and his daughter was shrewd and knew exactly what she wanted.
“Your eyes were immediately drawn to my body, and I could tell by the way you took your time, you more than like what you see.”
I was speechless.
No way in hell of looking cool at this juncture.
“I could play coy and string you along for a while before breaking with it, but I say we go to this very cool café I know in the art district of Montreal.”
Still speechless with a dumb-ass deer-in-the-headlights fifty-yard stare.
I learned a couple things from Monique.
One, live life at warp speed. Life never slows down.
Two, love hotly and often.
The third thing was obvious: you don’t have to be a rude asshole if you are super-rich. She was the most down to earth girl you ever met.
Her life was already pre-planned.
Yale.
Sit on Boards of fathers’ companies.
Spit out heirs.
We stayed a week at Le Ste. Laurent, a five-star resort on the river where we would take “floating massages” in the shallows in the chilly waters.
I actually thought about it.
I mean, yes it was all planned out in advance, no surprises, no worries, certainly no financial worries, and this girl certainly had the brains and beauty and a body that was meant to spit out heirs.
But I saw no spontaneity, no fizzle.
What if I ever wanted to zig instead of zag?
I’m not a Brooks Brothers guy anyway.
I left for school and I never saw Monique again, but something tells me she’s had a good life.
Stay well.
