Poosey Digest: Among the hoity-toity, filthy-rich

Warren Buffet told us last week that he should be paying more taxes. He said, “While the poor and middle class fight for us in Afghanistan, and while most Americans struggle to make ends meet, we mega-rich continue to get our extraordinary tax breaks.”

It was good of him to notice.

Frankly, I’ve never known much about the lives of the mega-rich. Where I live, if you don’t owe money on your car then you’re either wealthy or you’re walking to work. But Warren’s confession of affluence did strike a memory of a time several years ago where I was indeed among the hoity-toity of filthy-rich.

A tour company in Boston had heard that I’d been around a bit so they invited 12 seasoned travelers to their Massachusetts digs for a long weekend where they’d wine us, dine us, and pick our brains about how to beat the other tour companies. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse so I packed my new bag (Samsonite), and my old bag (Herb), and off we flew to Boston.

We were whisked up at Logan airport with a special courier sent to retrieve our luggage and somehow the little rascal made it to the hotel before we did. And baby, was this a palace. The term in the business is “boutique” hotel. Not one of those mega-Las Vegas-monsters with enough rooms to house a Third World country, this hotel had exactly 22 rooms. Our floor had but four opulent, over-the-moon suites, and Herb and I were smoothly escorted (without the bother of check-in) to room six. That was it. Just “6.”

A maid was arranging our fresh flowers as we entered, then before we’d had time to take off our coats (gently removed and hung up by the maid), Fredrick walked in. I still don’t know Fredrick’s title so I just call him God.

Fredrick welcomed us to Boston then gave a quick run-down of the services he’d be providing for us. He would knock on our door to awake us at our chosen hour, he would personally call us a cab at any hour, he’d draw our bath water when we rang, iron our clothing once he’d unpacked it, pack our suitcase upon departure… and get this… I’m not kidding!… Tuck us in at night.

I was flabbergasted. No one wearing a tuxedo like his could possibly be kidding. He offered to tuck us in at night! Flummoxed, I was about to mumble something like “Thanks, but I think I can do all those things,” when big-mouth Herb whooped “Sure thing, Fred!” Then he whooped again. Herb is intolerable at his best moments, but when he starts whooping… well… there are times when I soften my stand against the death penalty.

Frederick did not leave our floor of the hotel. Each time I’d open our door he’d be standing out there guarding his four rooms, wearing tails and white gloves. He’d look at me standing in my doorway, smile and say, “Yes, Mrs. Crump?” I was embarrassed to leave the room.

And he ironed our morning newspaper. If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. Each morning of our stay we’d have a freshly creased and ironed copy of the Boston Globe on our breakfast tray. I’d never read a newspaper that actually crackled.

I’ll be honest, I was spooked. There are things in life that I shall forever wish to do myself, and drawing my bath water and tucking myself in are two of them. Plus there’s the insanity of a grown man entering your room to tuck in your covers, then you getting up and untuck the covers to lock the door. Herb jokingly asked if he’d read us a bedtime story. Frederick asked our choice of book. I slammed an elbow into Herb’s chest. He whooped.

What followed was a weekend of Fredrick trying to pamper and me trying to do things myself, Herb whooping all the way. I quick came to the conclusion that a lifetime of this sort of pampering would make me both soft and stupid. Okay, I’ll admit that since it was a wintertime trip, I had our suitcases crammed to the hilt and for the life of me I could not get my case closed. I reluctantly went out to Fredrick-of-the-Hallway and asked for some help. Bad move. He (still wearing his gloves) proceeded to take every item out of my suitcase (washed and needing washed) and refolded the entire conglomeration with god-like precision. Maybe that’s why he wore gloves.

I don’t know if anyone folds Warren Buffet’s shorts. Maybe he does his own. In either case, it’s… well… taxing.

You ever in Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.