but from all the men we know, even the ones we see in movies. We make a pact that we’ll never do drugs or drink alcohol. And when we’re rich, we vow, we’ll do what we can to help the world. We shake on it. A secret handshake.
Perry has a long way to go to get rich. He never has a dime. Everything we do is my treat. I don’t have much—a modest allowance, plus what I hustle from guests at the casinos and hotels. But I don’t care; what’s mine is Perry’s, because I’ve decided that Perry is my new
best
friend. My father gives me five dollars every day for food, and I freely spend half on Perry.
We meet every afternoon at Cambridge. After goofing off, hitting a few balls around, we go for a snack. We slip out the back door, hop the wall, and race across the vacant lot to 7-Eleven, where we play video games and eat Chipwiches, paid for by me, until it’s time to go home.
A Chipwich is a new ice cream sandwich Perry recently discovered. Vanilla ice cream pressed between two doughy chocolate chip cookies—it’s the greatest food in the world, according to Perry, who’s a raging addict. He loves Chipwiches more than talking. He can talk for an hour about the beauty of the Chipwich—and yet a Chipwich is one of the few things that can get him to stop talking. I buy him Chipwiches by the dozens, and I feel sorry for him that he doesn’t have enough money to feed his habit.
We’re at 7-Eleven one day when Perry stops chewing his Chipwich and looks up at the wall clock.
Shit, Andre, we better get back to Cambridge, my mother’s coming early to get me.
Your mother?
Yeah. She said to be ready and waiting out front.
We haul ass across the vacant lot.
Uh-oh, Perry shouts, there she is!
I look up the street and see two cars cruising toward Cambridge—a Volkswagen bug and a convertible Rolls-Royce. I see the bug keep going past Cambridge, and I tell Perry to relax, we have time. She missed the turn.
No, Perry says, come on, come on.
He turns on the jets, sprinting after the Rolls.
Hey! What the—? Perry, are you kidding? Your mom drives a Rolls? Are you
—rich?
I guess so.
Why didn’t you tell me?
You never asked.
For me, that’s the definition of being rich: it doesn’t cross your mind to mention it to your best friend. And money is such a given you don’t care how you come by it.
Perry, however, is more than rich. Perry is super-rich. Perry is Richie Rich. His father, a senior partner at a major law firm, owns a local TV station. He sells
air
, Perry says. Imagine.
Selling air
. When you can sell air, man, you’ve got it made. (Presumably his father gives him air for an allowance.)
My father finally lets me visit Perry’s house, and I discover that he doesn’t live in a house, in fact, but a mega-mansion. His mother drives us there in the Rolls, and my eyes get big as we pass slowly up a massive front drive, around green rolling hills, then under enormous shade trees. We stop outside a place that looks like Bruce Wayne’s stately manor. Oneentire wing is set aside for Perry, including a teenager’s dream room, featuring a ping-pong table, pool table, poker table, big-screen TV, mini fridge, and drum set. Down a long hallway lies Perry’s bedroom, the walls of which are covered with dozens and dozens of
Sports Illustrated
covers.
My head rotating on a swivel, I look at all the portraits of great athletes and I can only say one word: Whoa.
Did this all myself, Perry says.
The next time I’m at the dentist I tear off the covers of all the
Sports Illustrateds
in the waiting room and stash them under my jacket. When I hand them to Perry, he shakes his head.
No, I have this one. And this one. I have them all, Andre. I have a subscription.
Oh. OK. Sorry.
It’s not just that I’ve never met a rich kid. I’ve also never met a kid with a subscription.
I F WE ’ RE NOT HANGING OUT AT C AMBRIDGE , or at his mansion, Perry and I are talking on the phone. We’re inseparable. He’s
Perry has a long way to go to get rich. He never has a dime. Everything we do is my treat. I don’t have much—a modest allowance, plus what I hustle from guests at the casinos and hotels. But I don’t care; what’s mine is Perry’s, because I’ve decided that Perry is my new
best
friend. My father gives me five dollars every day for food, and I freely spend half on Perry.
We meet every afternoon at Cambridge. After goofing off, hitting a few balls around, we go for a snack. We slip out the back door, hop the wall, and race across the vacant lot to 7-Eleven, where we play video games and eat Chipwiches, paid for by me, until it’s time to go home.
A Chipwich is a new ice cream sandwich Perry recently discovered. Vanilla ice cream pressed between two doughy chocolate chip cookies—it’s the greatest food in the world, according to Perry, who’s a raging addict. He loves Chipwiches more than talking. He can talk for an hour about the beauty of the Chipwich—and yet a Chipwich is one of the few things that can get him to stop talking. I buy him Chipwiches by the dozens, and I feel sorry for him that he doesn’t have enough money to feed his habit.
We’re at 7-Eleven one day when Perry stops chewing his Chipwich and looks up at the wall clock.
Shit, Andre, we better get back to Cambridge, my mother’s coming early to get me.
Your mother?
Yeah. She said to be ready and waiting out front.
We haul ass across the vacant lot.
Uh-oh, Perry shouts, there she is!
I look up the street and see two cars cruising toward Cambridge—a Volkswagen bug and a convertible Rolls-Royce. I see the bug keep going past Cambridge, and I tell Perry to relax, we have time. She missed the turn.
No, Perry says, come on, come on.
He turns on the jets, sprinting after the Rolls.
Hey! What the—? Perry, are you kidding? Your mom drives a Rolls? Are you
—rich?
I guess so.
Why didn’t you tell me?
You never asked.
For me, that’s the definition of being rich: it doesn’t cross your mind to mention it to your best friend. And money is such a given you don’t care how you come by it.
Perry, however, is more than rich. Perry is super-rich. Perry is Richie Rich. His father, a senior partner at a major law firm, owns a local TV station. He sells
air
, Perry says. Imagine.
Selling air
. When you can sell air, man, you’ve got it made. (Presumably his father gives him air for an allowance.)
My father finally lets me visit Perry’s house, and I discover that he doesn’t live in a house, in fact, but a mega-mansion. His mother drives us there in the Rolls, and my eyes get big as we pass slowly up a massive front drive, around green rolling hills, then under enormous shade trees. We stop outside a place that looks like Bruce Wayne’s stately manor. Oneentire wing is set aside for Perry, including a teenager’s dream room, featuring a ping-pong table, pool table, poker table, big-screen TV, mini fridge, and drum set. Down a long hallway lies Perry’s bedroom, the walls of which are covered with dozens and dozens of
Sports Illustrated
covers.
My head rotating on a swivel, I look at all the portraits of great athletes and I can only say one word: Whoa.
Did this all myself, Perry says.
The next time I’m at the dentist I tear off the covers of all the
Sports Illustrateds
in the waiting room and stash them under my jacket. When I hand them to Perry, he shakes his head.
No, I have this one. And this one. I have them all, Andre. I have a subscription.
Oh. OK. Sorry.
It’s not just that I’ve never met a rich kid. I’ve also never met a kid with a subscription.
I F WE ’ RE NOT HANGING OUT AT C AMBRIDGE , or at his mansion, Perry and I are talking on the phone. We’re inseparable. He’s
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