Upscale

Downtown bustles with young, attractive people in suits chatting on cell phones. A sentinel stands at his post near the door of the Louis Vutton boutique, staring out the smudge-less glass window at them as they go by. I feel underdressed, like the sidewalk isn't even good enough for me in my K-mart jeans. The sentinel catches my eye as I glance in the boutique. He seems to understand my curiosity about shoes and purses that would cost me a month's rent to pay for. His eyes say it all to me: You don’t wear shoes and purses, and you don't belong in this store. Don't even pause here.

Blocks and blocks of the city are like that. My girlfish works for a fancy Belgian chocolatier and my roommate, K, is a barista in one of two Starbuck's in an upscale mall. As we wait for the girlfish's shift to end, K and I relax and talk about the day. The counter tops gleam brightly as new money, and a small box of chocolate is eight dollars. Tourists and girls with Louis Vutton purses peruse the chocolate and pay on credit.

Girlfish says the sentinel is always there. I stare out the window at the lavish hotel courtyard across the street and lines of cabs. "It's just so weird. All these people, how do they have so much money? I mean, I took the bus here."

"I took the bus here, too," says the girlfish, and K agrees. Girlfish looks at the clock. "Only one more hour of serving the cranky public."

"Then it's time to become part of the cranky public," I say with a chuckle.

"Yes, thank god."

I watch the sharply dressed designer people hurry by to whatever goals they have. Their numbers seem endless, the hassled business folk K serves and the mothers with foreign accents that spend hours picking out chocolate. Statistically, they upper class is a very small percentage of the population, and that's not counting people who live expensively and beyond their means. Yet upscale places seemed flooded, the baristas and cashiers and other service people only footnotes to their flurry of sharp-edged, shining consumerism.

We bussed in. We're not part of their world. We're only extras to their drama of glamour. I can't help but wonder if the sentinel has ridden the bus. I wonder if he can afford Louis Vutton. If that's his only suit.

All of these people have lives. Surely all of them aren't as self-absorbed as their financial standing would have me believe. Many of them are nice; many of them tip well, many of them worked hard for their money. Many of them were probably just as broke and idealistic when they were 21.

I wonder when the change happens, if it happens. When does dropping what was once a month's rent money on a handbag seem acceptable?

When do you stop seeing everyone else around you as anything but accessories?