Trickle-Down Econ in Action
July 28, 2016 at 4:25 p.m.
By -
H. Thurston Jameson III pulled up to his favorite restaurant just before noon in his late model silver Cadillac. His home, a palace overlooking one of the many lakes in the area, was just a few miles away.
Jameson was rich, very rich. He came by his wealth the old-fashioned way – he inherited it. Two generations previous his grandfather had started a company that made some parts for industrial machines and he had made a fortune.
Thurston III served as executive vice president of the company which meant, in truth, that he showed up for several hours a month usually around the time he received his monthly stipend of $100,000.
Belle Jones was a 30-something mother of an 11-year-old boy and a 9-year-old girl. She had fallen in love with a boy when she was 18. She had no way of knowing that within a few years his affair with meth would break up the family. In the years since the divorce, he paid no support and could most often be found shacked up in some rathole with his latest girlfriend or in a local jail. Belle was on her own.
She had a dream. She wanted to be a nurse and she was taking a full load at the local community college. Grant money had long since dried up in the Bush years, what with funding two wars and giving the Jamesons of the country tax breaks. So Belle worked two jobs to put food on the table and pay her way through school. One of the jobs was a part-time one waiting at Jameson’s favorite restaurant.
Jameson sidled up to the bar and ordered his first of three bloody marys and his usual corned beef on rye and cottage cheese.
“Hi Belle, how are you doing?” Belle was young enough that she still had her figure, a fact that did not miss Jameson’s squinted glances as she passed by. She was pretty but she was tired. She had her hair pulled back but some of the bangs fell loosely on her forehead and blew around as she hurried by. She had dark circles under her eyes.
“Fine, Mr. Jameson. I have been very busy with school and the kids. And we have been so busy here at work with the holidays coming up.”
“That’ll put a jingle in your pocket, won’t it, Belle?” he asked.
Said Belle as she rushed off to another table, “Every little bit helps.”
Jameson finished his lunch and drowned it in a few more bloody marys.
Jameson looked at his watch and declared, “I’ve got to get out of here. Almost forgot we’ve got a poker game at the country club. Don’t tell anybody but we’ve got a minimum hundred bucks per bet. Smith took me for a couple thousand last week. I’m gonna get that back and then some.”
And off he went. As he got to the door he realized he hadn’t left Belle her usual tip. He hurried back and left four quarters by his plate. On the way out he shouted back, “Merry Christmas, Belle.”
“You too, Mr. Jameson.”
As Belle hurried past she slid the quarters into her apron pocket. The coins clinked with the other tip change and indeed added to Belle’s jingle.
David C. Kolbe
Warsaw, via e-mail
Editor’s Note: This letter was edited to conform more closely to the 500-word limit stated in our Letters Policy.[[In-content Ad]]
H. Thurston Jameson III pulled up to his favorite restaurant just before noon in his late model silver Cadillac. His home, a palace overlooking one of the many lakes in the area, was just a few miles away.
Jameson was rich, very rich. He came by his wealth the old-fashioned way – he inherited it. Two generations previous his grandfather had started a company that made some parts for industrial machines and he had made a fortune.
Thurston III served as executive vice president of the company which meant, in truth, that he showed up for several hours a month usually around the time he received his monthly stipend of $100,000.
Belle Jones was a 30-something mother of an 11-year-old boy and a 9-year-old girl. She had fallen in love with a boy when she was 18. She had no way of knowing that within a few years his affair with meth would break up the family. In the years since the divorce, he paid no support and could most often be found shacked up in some rathole with his latest girlfriend or in a local jail. Belle was on her own.
She had a dream. She wanted to be a nurse and she was taking a full load at the local community college. Grant money had long since dried up in the Bush years, what with funding two wars and giving the Jamesons of the country tax breaks. So Belle worked two jobs to put food on the table and pay her way through school. One of the jobs was a part-time one waiting at Jameson’s favorite restaurant.
Jameson sidled up to the bar and ordered his first of three bloody marys and his usual corned beef on rye and cottage cheese.
“Hi Belle, how are you doing?” Belle was young enough that she still had her figure, a fact that did not miss Jameson’s squinted glances as she passed by. She was pretty but she was tired. She had her hair pulled back but some of the bangs fell loosely on her forehead and blew around as she hurried by. She had dark circles under her eyes.
“Fine, Mr. Jameson. I have been very busy with school and the kids. And we have been so busy here at work with the holidays coming up.”
“That’ll put a jingle in your pocket, won’t it, Belle?” he asked.
Said Belle as she rushed off to another table, “Every little bit helps.”
Jameson finished his lunch and drowned it in a few more bloody marys.
Jameson looked at his watch and declared, “I’ve got to get out of here. Almost forgot we’ve got a poker game at the country club. Don’t tell anybody but we’ve got a minimum hundred bucks per bet. Smith took me for a couple thousand last week. I’m gonna get that back and then some.”
And off he went. As he got to the door he realized he hadn’t left Belle her usual tip. He hurried back and left four quarters by his plate. On the way out he shouted back, “Merry Christmas, Belle.”
“You too, Mr. Jameson.”
As Belle hurried past she slid the quarters into her apron pocket. The coins clinked with the other tip change and indeed added to Belle’s jingle.
David C. Kolbe
Warsaw, via e-mail
Editor’s Note: This letter was edited to conform more closely to the 500-word limit stated in our Letters Policy.[[In-content Ad]]
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