The story of 'K Marty
When I was a little kid, I played a lot of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons. Being a player of AD and D, one is required to hang out with other AD and D players…no matter what. You need six players ideally; that doesn’t leave much room for picking and choosing playmates. Enter Marty Caplin.
Being a year younger than Marty, I had to constantly prove myself. I hadn’t played Champion. I didn’t collect “Secret Wars.” Mine was an Atari 2600, not a 400 or an 800. I couldn’t trade video games. I hadn’t read “Baba Yaga’s Dancing Hut.” I didn’t play Gamma World. In Marty’s eyes, I was less than worthwhile.
Eventually, I met a friend who was a year older than Marty, Barry, and we hit off, much to Marty’s chagrin. Such continued to be the case over the next few years. Marty would meet people. He would invite me along because Dungeons and Dragons players are always needed and although I was supposed to be the young dumb kid, I’d win over the crowd, ever leaving Marty as the outsider (which only made him dislike me more).
I want to point out that it was never my purpose to alienate Marty—quite the contrary. I craved his acceptance, though I never got it. The first time we hung out together, he called his parents to come pick him up; he went home because I wasn’t entertaining enough. What was worse was that Marty’s haughty, I’m better than you attitude was that it contantly drove people away from him, and as he always he felt the need to bring me along as someone to laught at, they woud turn away from Marty and become great friends with me—which would, of course, make Marty feel more separated from everyone else, which he would translate into a reason for his sense of superiority, which would give even more reason to haul around a laughing stock.
Upon entering High School, Marty’s parents should go to a private school in order to distinguish him from the dunces he knew. I remember it well because Marty’s summer was cut short by a week so that he could go on a retreat with the rest of the incoming freshman class.
The next time I saw Marty, he had on deer sking boots, had tied a braid in his hair, and was learning Japanese by watching anime. He was still playing D and D, but with his new friends instead of us, and he assured us all that they played better games. We were never invited along unless Marty wanted to rub our noses in his new clique. The other students of his school were the super rich denizens of Blackhawk, and when we mixed it was always necessary to do so in such a way as to point out the plebian vagrants that we were. They, of course, wanted nothing to do with us—one middle class friend was slumming it enough.
At one such function, I met Barrett, but as we hit it off, Marty stopped asking him over. Barrett had a lot to say he said it FAST. We covered Paladins, Warhammer 40k, Guns and Roses, etc., all in one car ride from SF to Pleasanton, but Marty dropped him as a friend because he wasn’t super rich (only relatively wealthy) and…well…because he developed a bit of cocaine problem.
When Marty could no longer pay for private school, he came back to public school. He looked like a half assed raconteur from a Ren Fair. Most people remembered him; few cared. Our friend’s little brother, seeing him finally fiace to face and having served as the whipping boy of the whipping boys clung to him and was invited to the parties in Blackhawk. He also developed Marty’s “better than you” attitude. As a result of his partying, he became the black sheep of his Mormon family who were simply trying to make ends meet and could not keep up with Marty’s friends—the multi-million dollar Joneses.
It wasn’t until much later that someone off handedly filled me in on the details concerning Marty’s school. True, it was a playground for the children of the rich, but not the good children, not the children with any promise. It was a wasteland for the rich wasted youth, ages 14-18, to spend their time snorting their trust funds. Rich kids have to go somewhere, don’t they? It was the prep school for the rich and pointless who couldn’t get in anywhere decent and who wouldn’t go public.
And Marty?
Marty wasn’t rich. Marty’s father taught physical education at UC Berkeley, but he lived in the same neighborhood as me—at the cheap end of it, actually. Why did they send Marty to that school?
So here’s what I’ve got, and it seems like the only answer possible:
Marty’s father knew. As an educator in the area, he could not have been ignorant of the fact that he was sending his kid to cokehead high. While this information wasn’t readily available to me at 14, I have learned since that the school’s reputation is pretty much common knowledge. My mother in law, who lives a few miles from the school, filled me in as to its nature.
That means that Marty’s parents chose to risk their son’s health, future, and life in order to give him three years of rubbing elbows with the wealthy, and not the productive wealthy mind you, but the burn outs. Marty’s parents effectively said that it was worth risking drug addiction and spending three years as the poor kid among the rich. Just so long as he was among the rich, all other dangers were acceptable. Hell, they drove him to the party’s week after week, de him through the gates and past houses that they, themselves, would never be able to afford. Drove him to party’s sponsored by Columbia, whed him at home become a cross between a Native American and a Goth, all the while knowing full well that many of his friends were in rehab, and still they paid, year after year, tens of thousands of dollars so that he could stay in that company.
Being a year younger than Marty, I had to constantly prove myself. I hadn’t played Champion. I didn’t collect “Secret Wars.” Mine was an Atari 2600, not a 400 or an 800. I couldn’t trade video games. I hadn’t read “Baba Yaga’s Dancing Hut.” I didn’t play Gamma World. In Marty’s eyes, I was less than worthwhile.
Eventually, I met a friend who was a year older than Marty, Barry, and we hit off, much to Marty’s chagrin. Such continued to be the case over the next few years. Marty would meet people. He would invite me along because Dungeons and Dragons players are always needed and although I was supposed to be the young dumb kid, I’d win over the crowd, ever leaving Marty as the outsider (which only made him dislike me more).
I want to point out that it was never my purpose to alienate Marty—quite the contrary. I craved his acceptance, though I never got it. The first time we hung out together, he called his parents to come pick him up; he went home because I wasn’t entertaining enough. What was worse was that Marty’s haughty, I’m better than you attitude was that it contantly drove people away from him, and as he always he felt the need to bring me along as someone to laught at, they woud turn away from Marty and become great friends with me—which would, of course, make Marty feel more separated from everyone else, which he would translate into a reason for his sense of superiority, which would give even more reason to haul around a laughing stock.
Upon entering High School, Marty’s parents should go to a private school in order to distinguish him from the dunces he knew. I remember it well because Marty’s summer was cut short by a week so that he could go on a retreat with the rest of the incoming freshman class.
The next time I saw Marty, he had on deer sking boots, had tied a braid in his hair, and was learning Japanese by watching anime. He was still playing D and D, but with his new friends instead of us, and he assured us all that they played better games. We were never invited along unless Marty wanted to rub our noses in his new clique. The other students of his school were the super rich denizens of Blackhawk, and when we mixed it was always necessary to do so in such a way as to point out the plebian vagrants that we were. They, of course, wanted nothing to do with us—one middle class friend was slumming it enough.
At one such function, I met Barrett, but as we hit it off, Marty stopped asking him over. Barrett had a lot to say he said it FAST. We covered Paladins, Warhammer 40k, Guns and Roses, etc., all in one car ride from SF to Pleasanton, but Marty dropped him as a friend because he wasn’t super rich (only relatively wealthy) and…well…because he developed a bit of cocaine problem.
When Marty could no longer pay for private school, he came back to public school. He looked like a half assed raconteur from a Ren Fair. Most people remembered him; few cared. Our friend’s little brother, seeing him finally fiace to face and having served as the whipping boy of the whipping boys clung to him and was invited to the parties in Blackhawk. He also developed Marty’s “better than you” attitude. As a result of his partying, he became the black sheep of his Mormon family who were simply trying to make ends meet and could not keep up with Marty’s friends—the multi-million dollar Joneses.
It wasn’t until much later that someone off handedly filled me in on the details concerning Marty’s school. True, it was a playground for the children of the rich, but not the good children, not the children with any promise. It was a wasteland for the rich wasted youth, ages 14-18, to spend their time snorting their trust funds. Rich kids have to go somewhere, don’t they? It was the prep school for the rich and pointless who couldn’t get in anywhere decent and who wouldn’t go public.
And Marty?
Marty wasn’t rich. Marty’s father taught physical education at UC Berkeley, but he lived in the same neighborhood as me—at the cheap end of it, actually. Why did they send Marty to that school?
So here’s what I’ve got, and it seems like the only answer possible:
Marty’s father knew. As an educator in the area, he could not have been ignorant of the fact that he was sending his kid to cokehead high. While this information wasn’t readily available to me at 14, I have learned since that the school’s reputation is pretty much common knowledge. My mother in law, who lives a few miles from the school, filled me in as to its nature.
That means that Marty’s parents chose to risk their son’s health, future, and life in order to give him three years of rubbing elbows with the wealthy, and not the productive wealthy mind you, but the burn outs. Marty’s parents effectively said that it was worth risking drug addiction and spending three years as the poor kid among the rich. Just so long as he was among the rich, all other dangers were acceptable. Hell, they drove him to the party’s week after week, de him through the gates and past houses that they, themselves, would never be able to afford. Drove him to party’s sponsored by Columbia, whed him at home become a cross between a Native American and a Goth, all the while knowing full well that many of his friends were in rehab, and still they paid, year after year, tens of thousands of dollars so that he could stay in that company.
posted by Monstro D. Whale at
12:08 PM
3 Comments:
Jeez, what a f-ed up story. I'm sure that school will be in business for a long, long, time, too -- as long as there are uber-wealthy families with dumb-ass kids, anyway (which seems likely into the forseeable future).
This is perhaps the quintessential example of a northeastern "tale" counterpart to all of the midwestern tales I've tried to distill into my book. Only, no one in the midwest (where I lived, anyway) actually bordered the upper-class. So, economically speaking, our environment never produced a true Marty. But, I've now spent a lot of time in the northeast. Most (but not all) of the kids in my college dorm were rich kids from Jersey. And, since Wilkes wasn't exactly a competitive school (I think a C average would get you in, at least probationally), a lot of families treated it as basically a service to occupy their less-than-ambitious offspring for four-to-six years. (Still, it wasn't a cokehead high, but I've been shown a few of those places, driving by with friends, etc.)
Of all the ways to climb the social ladder... I suppose that this makes as much sense as some of the other ways.
Rub your son's nose in stuff he'll never have... what kind of hollow shell did Marty become? Or did he respond positively and seek to earn those things himself by working hard?
But man, with that kind of money, they could have blown it all in much more effective ways. They could have gotten him music lessons on his instrument of choice. They could have had him tutored in two more languages. They could have paid to have him trained in any number of useful skills.
So... I guess my question is, 'was it all a waste?'
Shell? Oh no. No. See that's the lie we tell each other. I tell you what I'm sure happenned to Marty, not that I know, but here's my best guess:
Marty went to college with those guys. He managed to hang out with them for four more years. When those kids graduated and were put in charge of their parents "who cares" company, they hired Marty on. No, I imagine that Marty's parents got Marty a fairly high paying job with a lot of security....
I think a lot of people would wonder what Marty's parents even did that was questionable. After all, I'll bet the Marty is a very successful business consultant at this point.
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