Dear Dirty America


In Heaven They Give Out Rolls Royces for Free

In Heaven They Give Out Rolls Royces for Free
November 17
23:04 2011

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE, NATL Correspondent, Los Angeles, California

I have written three times about Bristol Farms. The recent third time has been the most significant, and the article created ripples of excitement and anger throughout the world. It is called the Thoroughness of a Good Whore: buying into what’s left of the American Dream

It’s not a great article, but it’s about a homeless man I met a few weeks ago. Yesterday, I met him again outside the storefront of Bristol Farms. I gave him a dollar bill, and he smiled at me again with those wet, grateful eyes. He had a true love inside him.

We stood before a Rolls Royce. It was the biggest vehicle in the lot, making the other parked cars look diminutive and meaningless. Its tires were larger, its hood extended farther in front of its perfectly sculpted cab. If you don’t drive an RR, then you aren’t living life. I’ve always felt that way about Rolls Royces, and I told the homeless man so.

“Beautiful vee-hickle,” he said, “but what do you do that you could ever afford such a car?”

I was dressed in professional slacks and wearing faux-expensive sunglasses that complicated my flaxen hair. I run a blog, I told him, that affects hundreds of thousands of people around the world. I’m the national correspondent. It’s called Dear Dirty America. You might have heard of it, I said, and then paused.

My homeless friend scratched his cheeks and thought about it. “Nope,” he said, “never heard of it. Does it make a lot of money?” he asked, and then pointed at the glorious car with its tall and wide metal grill and gothic-looking black curves.

I gross about five bucks a month, I said.

He shook his head, feeling my sadness. “I’ve always heard,” he said, “that in Heaven they give away Rolls Royces for free. Boy, if they gave me one when I died, I’d love to drive that car around the streets of Paradise.”

Those streets are guarded by Marines, I told him, just to ensure they stay safe. I imagined my scruffy, short homeless friend sticking his head out of the window of that luxurious automobile parked before us. I pictured him timidly tapping the blinker before making a wide turn.

“When I got done driving it,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “I’d give it back. Nothing should be for keeps in this world. Everybody should get a chance to have something nice, and when they’re done, they give it back, and try out something else.”

The Goldman Sachs CEO would probably agree with that philosophy, now that he admitted he really is an asshole. But really, you only say you would give back your goods because you’re homeless, I said, and people like Peter King think you’re a loser. Hell, I said, King thinks I’m a loser too. But not everybody has the advanced mind that King has. Not everybody is a genius like him, to work their way to the top. He’s a wizard, and only a little overweight.

“That shouldn’t matter,” my friend said, “his weight.”

I only mention it, I said, because it’s important to know the man has a problem with moderation. Otherwise I wouldn’t comment on someone’s weight. I’m a professional.

We parted ways after that.

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