"You don't have to be rich to own a Rolex. Everybody has a Rolex. You see guys in Barstool walking around… Francis, he walks around with a Rolex every day." - Jersey Jerry
Honest questions guys: What more do I need to do? How much more do I need to spend? How many more ski trips to Aspen and golf rounds at Pine Valley before we've solved the riddle of my socioeconomic standing?
How many more 16-year-old landscaping apprentice boys do I need to separate from their team to "take a quick look" at my "termite problem," only to lock them in the maintenance closet when they're checking the "infestation," then tell the landscaping team their boy got a call and had to run to check on his grandmother, so they leave, and now it's just me and the boy, and he needs me; he needs me more than I need him. So he does what I say so the food keeps coming through the cat door I had installed by the last boy. He wears what I pick out for him and, most importantly, he learns English.
You guys, the readers and commenters, have done your part. You dug into my family history. You stole a follicle of my hair and 23-and-me'd me back to the Mayflower, figuratively placing the canoe paddle in the hands of some ancient Francestor as he stroked his way towards that rocky Plymouth shore, excited to dole out some gym bag of perfectly clean blankets.
In short, you connected the dots and sleuthed your way to a conclusion I wasn't exactly hiding: Francis is no poor.
So, what happened to my pal Jersey Jerry? What earthquake shook loose an entire hillside of boulders abutting Jerry's home, thus pinning him down so that—LITERALLY—he's been living under a rock? HOW could he think I am a non-rich guy, walking around Barstool, wearing a Rolex like I plucked it playing the claw game at a fucking truckstop?
The mind reels. Jerry, I am drawn to you. You make me laugh and you are a great man. But good golly miss Molly, do not dump me in that Costco bargain bin with the rest of these overproduced socks. I am the $15 sock you buy for skiing the Alps. I am the sock you cum in for your make-a-wish. I didn't keep my life together this long, I didn't fall prey to the myriad thorns that snag so many trust fund kids—idleness, drugs, social climbing, internships at art galleries, weekly Soho House lunches where they sketch startup ideas on napkins to make ergonomic chairs from plastic foraged by slumdog children in dumps around Newark… I didn't run that gauntlet of privilege and distraction, emerging with my work ethic intact, only to be mistaken for some middle-class Rolex owner.
I am no common man. And you can set your Brick Watch to that.