Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
it was a whole heap o' exotic shit they was packing into the heads of college boys back then,
maybe some of it not so evil, but a Yale Law degree just felt wrong, what with him poking
his nose into medium and low-priced real estate that way. Why, a man with a Yale law degree
ought to aim a might higher. Shouldn't he? They thought Billy was tricky, what with his low
approach and uppity manners, but no matter what anyone thought, Billy P was not your run
of the mill redneck.
I found the Sans Souci Apartments that afternoon, for sale in the classifieds. The agent
wanted to know who, what and
wherefrom
in a process known as qualifying—but the process
felt like a stickler, so removed from the brotherhood so recently lived in another place that
didn't seem so far away but was. Most importantly, the agent honed in on what he'd clearly
established: that the
wherefrom
was not from around here.
Not so long ago that brand of exclusionary superiority would have been grounds for a
demonstration. Times had changed, but with the will of a proven independent I responded to
authority like a knee-jerk. he agent plainly heard an outlander on the line. He chuckled into
the phone to indicate that some things could not be changed by any force of nature, and place
of birth
was one o' them thangs
, meaning that the property would not be shown without clear
demonstration of the means to buy the property.
Well, if a seller felt uncomfortable with money derived from, let's say, yonder, then a po-
tential buyer could pursue other property or maybe contact the owner . . . “
Whoa, whoa, whoa
bubba. Get offa yo high horse and get on down a my office and we talk.
”
The talking phase was meant to qualify the . . . er . . . uh . . . ability of . . . uh . . . you to . . .
uh . . . put a deal of this magnitude together. The kid's name was Chester A. Arthur—
I shitchu
not
—but it should have been Chester A. Riley by the time we got done.
What a revoltin' devel-
opment this is.
The Life of Riley was a gem of the 50s, what the 60s loved most for the amazing goofs.
That is, young Chester didn't have much to be proud of but his birthplace and the idiom
he'd learned there. Chester knew the advantages of superiority and how to be superior in the
scheme of things. Unfortunately for Chester, he had yet to romp with Br'er Rabbit in the bri-
ar patch. He may still be out there, by this time more seasoned in humility and judgment.
Maybe not. Chester was old family, a youth ensconced in a time warp, meaning a King Street
office way too big for anything but show. Chester wasn't only from around here, the Arthurs
were 17
th
Century, ready for the wax museum. Huguenots and Tories peppered the place with
family graves out back of the house from 16 ought 9 or 1714—or the Johnnie-come-latelies of
only a century ago.
Young Chester A. Arthur sat in an old executive leather chair under an oversized coat
of arms in the blue oxford cloth/button-down shirt/khaki pants/Weejuns uniform to demon-
strate uniformity—or abject sameness. And a rep tie, because he was on the job. “How you
do-een?” Beyond the rote greeting of the flatlands, young Chester awaited reverence, or at