I’m Special by Ryan O’Connell

here, just like it does everywhere else in the world, but the people who often identify as being poor in the city are usually, in fact, not poor at all. They’re just living in New York.
    I’ve always been obsessed with rich people who have a tenuous grasp on reality. Luckily for me, delusional trustafarians seem to be everywhere these days. They’re at your dry cleaner getting their designer dresses tailored or standing in the corner of a grungy house party plotting to steal your boyfriend. The rich often live among us in disguise so as not to give their class away, but don’t be fooled by their ratty flannels and scuffed boots. That outfit costs $3,000. The stains on their faded jeans? Those were imported from France, you plebeian.
    Here’s how you can tell if someone is rich. Number one: they live in Manhattan, Paris, San Francisco, or any other swinging metropolitan city. I know rich is a relative term, but if you can afford to pay sky-high rents, you’re already richer than most third world countries. Secondly, you have to understand that the rich have their own language, especially when speaking to each other. They say strange things like, “My parents bought me this apartment as an investment . . .” which, okay, yes—I get it. Real estate is certainly a wise investment, but you do realize that makes you a twentysomething homeowner, right? You know what’s considered a good investment at the age of twenty-four? Condoms. A nice pair of winter boots. Not lucrative property.
    Rich people also like to say things like, “I left that at my summer house,” “My horse is acting out!” and “Dubai is actually kind of cool, you guys . . .” Someone who is well traveled is usually wealthy. Name a country in front of them and they’ll be like, “OMG, I love [insert weird place here]. If you go, you have to visit this amazing restaurant on the river that serves the best chimichangas. Ask for Mambo! He’s an old family friend!” The old family friend is another important signifier of class. Rich families like to travel in packs so that wherever they go they have a filial connection, a place to crash, and a job waiting for them. They look out for their own. Meanwhile, the only place I have connections is Costco, where my dad is considered to be a very important customer.
    Other ways to tell if someone is rich: they have nice shampoo, conditioner, and face cream. Rich people don’t like to be too grandiose anymore, so most of their money goes into the small details. Visit a rich person’s bathroom and all their secrets will be revealed to you. Their couch may say recession, but their medicine cabinet is still living high on the hog. Lastly, someone is rich if they have a name like Scoop, Muffy, Mitsy, or Scooter. The more made-up a name is, the richer they are. Nothing says “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK BECAUSE I’M RICH, BITCH!” like naming your daughter Acorn.
    Even though I technically grew up middle class, I’ve been around rich people since I attended St. Paul’s on financial aid. While all the other mothers dropped their kids off at school wearing their tennis outfits and stopped in the parking lot afterward to leisurely chat and gossip, mine was always like, “Get the fuck out of the car, sweetie. If I’m late to work, I get fired and we lose everything!”
    My family did have occasional glimmers of wealth. For a few years, we lived in a nice house in the hills, and at one point my father even owned a BMW (which he later couldn’t afford, so he traded it in for a piece-of-shit Buick that eventually broke down in a Taco Bell drive-thru). But as soon as we’d start to feel cozy, as soon as things would get comfortable, we’d lose it all. When my parents divorced and filed for bankruptcy, my mother had to buy a much smaller house in a less desirable part of town. My father moved into a