“Working’s for suckers. Playing, that’s the secret to life.” Minnesota Fats said that to a friend of mine once. It was said hustler to hustler, with a knowing wink and a conspiratorial chuckle. It’s not like you want everyone to know the Fats secret. Because if everyone was playing right now there’d be no one left to do the work. So don’t tell anyone.
I was crossing Main Street in Aspen when a very sweet Porsche stopped at the crosswalk. I whistled my appreciation, like a construction worker watching the office girl in the mini with long legs confidently strutting past.
“I want one of those,” I mused to the fat cat behind the wheel. He was literally puffing a fragrant Cuban cigar with a delightedly smug expression.
“You’re going to have to learn to steal first,” he laughed, gunning the powerful motor.
“Teach me, teach me!” I called out as he passed.
I already know it. I’d make a content, happy rich person. It’s too late for me to learn to steal, so I’ll never really get that test drive. It was a conscious decision. I don’t feel ashamed. I could have sold real estate with the best of them. Writing enticing ads and showing off Aspen is second nature to me. I saw the golden carrot and I swatted it out of my face like so many rutabagas.
“I’ve been rich. And I’ve been poor … rich is better,” my dad would tell me in the old days. He grew up on tough streets of Boston. But he used his brain and his hustle and rode the silicon valley wave. He went up and down a couple of times, flirting with success and failure. When my dad had the dough, he enjoyed it. And when he retired with enough to chill out in relative luxury, he appreciated it.
He’d get together with his WWII pilot neighbor and have an iced martini almost every afternoon.
“This will set you free,” he’d tell his old buddy and they’d yuck it up.
My dad worked real hard for his station in life and I’m not sure he understood at first why I moved to Aspen straight out of college. The Skinners were salesmen. Hustlers. Both of my brothers had followed in dad’s footsteps working in electronics in Silicon Valley. What they didn’t realize at the time is that I essentially skipped all the main drudgery and swung into the leisure mode.
Oh yes, I compromised. And toiled. I worked as a dishwasher, rug merchant, ad salesman, pool boy and cart attendant at the golf course. Hey, if I couldn’t own the pool, at least I could clean it and maybe even occasionally pop in for a dip. It’s hard to swim with money in your pockets. And the water feels good no matter who you are, right?
I never owned the mansion, but I catered in them or was even a guest sometimes. I’ll tell you right now, the best way to enjoy a mansion is to visit it, enjoy the view, the pool and the food and then walk away back to the trailer court.
It always surprised me that people with dough and sophistication want these cavernous, echoing ballrooms. Who needs to marshal another maid service on top of all the other worries they already have? Too much work! The way to enjoy Aspen is to rent a space, enjoy the view, the pool, the servants and the food and go on to the next hot spot. Leave no trace, only cash. No real good reason to own a chunk. Leave that to the suckers while you go off and play.
“If a little is good, a lot is better,” my dad used to say. I quote him a lot on that one, but he knew and I know that he was just kidding. The absurdity is what makes it funny.
I miss my dad. But I think he saw that, like him, I too am a hustler. And that my diversion to the mountains was more than dropping out. It was dropping in, enjoying the view, the service and the food and then moving on. My measure of success was pleasure, not palaces, and my dad saw and appreciated that. But what he might have never known is that he taught me to appreciate the pleasures that the richness of life can impart. Thanks, Dad.
Steve Skinner hopes you stop and smell the roses. Reach him at nigel@sopris.net.
