Wilyem Clark
11-19-2015, 11:50 AM
The sons of Croesus, however, spent the ruler’s legacy with abandon.
—Herodotus, Histories, Book I, Chapter 217.
Not even those who knew Vincent Clementine from boyhood could answer the question, “How could it happen?” How, at age fifty-three, was he still living with his parents at home, up to his ears (and then some) in debt? It was an insidious and widespread issue within his generation, a disease with origins in ignorance: no one ever taught these innocents the realities of life.
He was a typical Millennial, that is, over-educated but underlearned. He sweated out a diploma from a prestigious university: a bachelor’s degree in “Life Science,” a course of study that guaranteed him a career in . . . nothing. Thrust into the workforce without proper guidance, he became successively and in short order: a theater concession stand operator, a masseur, a hotel desk clerk, a stockboy, a municipal parking ticket writer, a restaurant valet, a temporary assistant to an assistant of an Assistant Something-or-Other, and (of course) a pizza delivery guy.
As he fluttered from position to position—flower to flower—he balanced on his back the illusion of usefulness. He once took an aptitude test, and it told him his most compatible fields of endeavor were drama, coulrology, backdrop-painting, stand-up comedy, and klaberjassing . . . not one of which was a pragmatic path to a sturdy and long-lasting trade.
His student loans were monumental. Although he excelled in his algebra classes, he seemed downright obtuse when confronted with calculations of principal and interest that he owed. Consider this word problem: Ingrid has borrowed $200,000 from her friend Jill. If Jill holds a promissory note that guarantees compound interest at the rate of 3.5% per annum, and Ingrid only pays half the interest and no principal throughout the life of the loan, how many years will elapse before Ingrid doubles her obligation to Jill? For some reason, when presented with this kind of fictitious stumper, Vincent could pick up a pencil and work through it with ease; but substitute his name for Ingrid’s and he became as discombobulated as a compass at the magnetic North Pole.
To make matters worse, he had the temperament of a thirteen year old. Emotional and psychological development had stalled in his teens; not an admirable attribute for a middle-aged man. His mood vacillated between extremes of petulance and exuberance, with rarely a pause in the neutral zone. He chased after conceptual fireflies; he neglected advice; he reverted to bad habits immediately after adopting better ones. He went through bankruptcy, but that did not shake the nemesis on his tail, for bankruptcy only cleared arrears amassed as a consumer—student loans were sacrosanct.
His parents were itching to move into an “active” retirement community, which had no room for Baby. It wasn’t clear if Vincent could make it on his own in a rental apartment. The two elder Clementines debated the pros and cons. “He makes a handy errand boy,” his mother said, “and when I need something from the top closet shelf, he can reach it while I strain. But he should not be trapped with us for eternity.” “A convicted bachelor,” his father sagely observed, “carries with him many unseen burdens. Is that the flip side of spinsterhood, d’you think?” On their own they could not coerce an outcome, and so the whole family waits for a crisis to force a decision upon them—cancer, a stroke, or maybe dementia. Vincent lingers, like a retrograde ghost, the death of his spirit foreshadowing his physical decline, and a profusion of lost opportunities.
Kings may go bust with impunity; commoners may not.
—Herodotus, Histories, Book I, Chapter 217.
Not even those who knew Vincent Clementine from boyhood could answer the question, “How could it happen?” How, at age fifty-three, was he still living with his parents at home, up to his ears (and then some) in debt? It was an insidious and widespread issue within his generation, a disease with origins in ignorance: no one ever taught these innocents the realities of life.
He was a typical Millennial, that is, over-educated but underlearned. He sweated out a diploma from a prestigious university: a bachelor’s degree in “Life Science,” a course of study that guaranteed him a career in . . . nothing. Thrust into the workforce without proper guidance, he became successively and in short order: a theater concession stand operator, a masseur, a hotel desk clerk, a stockboy, a municipal parking ticket writer, a restaurant valet, a temporary assistant to an assistant of an Assistant Something-or-Other, and (of course) a pizza delivery guy.
As he fluttered from position to position—flower to flower—he balanced on his back the illusion of usefulness. He once took an aptitude test, and it told him his most compatible fields of endeavor were drama, coulrology, backdrop-painting, stand-up comedy, and klaberjassing . . . not one of which was a pragmatic path to a sturdy and long-lasting trade.
His student loans were monumental. Although he excelled in his algebra classes, he seemed downright obtuse when confronted with calculations of principal and interest that he owed. Consider this word problem: Ingrid has borrowed $200,000 from her friend Jill. If Jill holds a promissory note that guarantees compound interest at the rate of 3.5% per annum, and Ingrid only pays half the interest and no principal throughout the life of the loan, how many years will elapse before Ingrid doubles her obligation to Jill? For some reason, when presented with this kind of fictitious stumper, Vincent could pick up a pencil and work through it with ease; but substitute his name for Ingrid’s and he became as discombobulated as a compass at the magnetic North Pole.
To make matters worse, he had the temperament of a thirteen year old. Emotional and psychological development had stalled in his teens; not an admirable attribute for a middle-aged man. His mood vacillated between extremes of petulance and exuberance, with rarely a pause in the neutral zone. He chased after conceptual fireflies; he neglected advice; he reverted to bad habits immediately after adopting better ones. He went through bankruptcy, but that did not shake the nemesis on his tail, for bankruptcy only cleared arrears amassed as a consumer—student loans were sacrosanct.
His parents were itching to move into an “active” retirement community, which had no room for Baby. It wasn’t clear if Vincent could make it on his own in a rental apartment. The two elder Clementines debated the pros and cons. “He makes a handy errand boy,” his mother said, “and when I need something from the top closet shelf, he can reach it while I strain. But he should not be trapped with us for eternity.” “A convicted bachelor,” his father sagely observed, “carries with him many unseen burdens. Is that the flip side of spinsterhood, d’you think?” On their own they could not coerce an outcome, and so the whole family waits for a crisis to force a decision upon them—cancer, a stroke, or maybe dementia. Vincent lingers, like a retrograde ghost, the death of his spirit foreshadowing his physical decline, and a profusion of lost opportunities.
Kings may go bust with impunity; commoners may not.