I’m an incurable bleeding heart. Always have been. Almost anybody having a bad day short of Charlie Manson gets at least some measure of sympathy from me. (And I even managed a wince for
him when I heard he’d been set on fire.)
There are times, however, when my sympathy contends with – what is the word I’m looking for? Not schadenfreude, because there’s no element of pleasure in it.
It’s something more akin to amazement and best summed up by me withdrawing the hand I’ve been using to pat the other person comfortingly on the shoulder, sitting back, opening my eyes wide and asking “You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding.”
That’s my reaction to Alexandra Penney’s two recent pieces, one at
The Sunday Times Online, the other at
The Daily Beast about her savings being wiped out in the Madoff scandal.
It’s not that I blame her for being unhappy, for feeling violated, bewildered, bereft. Her savings have been taken away, savings she earned through her own hard work. All her assumptions about her future have now been seriously shaken.
But self-pity and hyperbole among the very rich – even among the very rich who’ve been cruelly bilked of their savings – is a sure-fire empathy killer. I depend on San Francisco’s transit system to get me where I want to go, and if I want an ironed shirt, I iron it myself, and have had to since I left for college more than thirty years ago. So naturally, when the indignities being brokenly imparted to me include having to ride the
subway, and giving up the freshly ironed shirts provided by her soon-to-be-fired maid, I have a hard time relating.
When someone declares that she has “nowhere to turn” and then adds “At least I have the offer of my son’s adorable back house in Santa Monica,” a certain sense of alienation sets in. When that someone goes on to say she has “nothing” and to prove it cites the fact that “The cottage in West Palm Beach is already on the market, my little country house is being appraised, and I can’t even think what will happen to my apartment…” I have to wonder about her definition of “nothing.” That sounds like a hefty chunk of equity to me, even in today’s real estate market.
And the sense that I’m listening to someone from another planet entirely is made complete when she is driven by desperation to “call my good friend Ed Victor, the literary agent, and say I need to write something, anything.”
Golly. As a freelance writer, I sure wish I had the option of calling my pal, one of the worlds leading literary agents, and asking him to rustle up an assignment for me.
In short, Alexandra Penney has nothing, absolutely
nothing but a well-off son willing to offer her a cottage in Santa Monica, the money from the sale of at least two high end properties, and wealthy, influential friends willing to offer her a helping hand. Not to mention the royalties from her bestselling book,
How To Make Love to a Man.
And the no doubt hefty advance for her next book, which hopefully, will be written in a calmer frame of mind, and with a better sense of perspective.