For those unpoor genuinely dedicated to good works it should come as no surprise that the dilemma of the poor extends far beyond that of the material. Lest you jump to conclusions, I should like to make immediately clear that I am not about to expound on the universal human need for love and affection. As far as I can tell, the poor get all the love and affection they can possibly handle. The concept of an unsuitable marriage obviously started somewhere.
No, I am not speaking here of emotional needs, but rather of those of a social nature. Needs of a social nature are perhaps the most complex and painful to discuss; yet they must be dealt with.
In order that you might gain a better understanding of this matter, I offer by way of illustration an imaginary dinner party (the very best kind) given by a member of the unpoor for his peers, you among them. You choose to accompany you a needy friend. He lacks the proper attire. You accommodate him from your own wardrobe. Your host provides ample food and drink. Your friend is momentarily happy. He feels unpoor, you feel generous, your host feels gracious, good will abounds. For just an instant, you toy with the notion that poverty could be completely eradicated by the simple act of including the poor in the dinner plans of the unpoor. Coffee is served. The talk becomes earnest. The conversation, as is its wont, turns to tax problems.
It is at this point, I assure you, that as far as the poor on your left is concerned, the party is over. Suddenly he feels poor again. Worse than poor—left out. He has no tax problems. He is, as they say, disenfranchised, dispossessed, an outcast, not in the mainstream. And under the present system he will remain in this degrading position for the life of his poverty. The double whammy. As long as he is poor he will be without tax problems, and as long as he is without tax problems he will, let us not forget, also be without tax benefits. And they call this a democracy. A democracy, when one man is in a fifty percent bracket and his dinner companion is in no bracket at all. It isn’t enough that a man has no food, no clothing, no roof over his head. No, he also has no accountant, no investment lawyer, no deductions, no loopholes. And very likely no receipts.
This is, of course, unconscionable, and now that you have been apprised of the situation, it is unthinkable that it go on one minute longer—certainly not if we are to call our society an equitable one. Fortunately, there is a solution to this problem, startling in its simplicity, and one that should be implemented immediately.
Tax the poor. Heavily. No halfway measures. No crumbs from the rich man’s table. I mean tax. Fifty percent bracket, property, capital gains, inheritance—the works.
Now, it has probably occurred to the careful (or even slovenly) reader that somehow this doesn’t quite jibe. Something is amiss, you may say. The point you will be quick to raise is that the poor lack the means to be taxed. They cannot afford it. But I am ready for you, and will counter by saying that your inability to accept my solution is a matter of scale, of relativity. Let us examine each point separately.
FIFTY PERCENT
This is, naturally, the easiest to grasp, for it should be quite apparent to all that everyone has half, the poor included. If someone makes even as little as $1,000 a year, this still leaves him $500 for income taxes. Not a fortune, certainly, but still nothing to sneeze at.
PROPERTY
Your difficulty here is undoubtedly conceptual. That is, your conception of property very likely tends toward that fallow acreage, midtown real estate, principal residence sort of thing. It is true, of course, that these are all fine examples of property, but in a democracy who among us would deep down consider it really quite cricket to limit the definition of property to just the fine examples? After all, property merely means ownership; that which one owns is one’s property. Therefore property taxes could—and should—easily be levied against the property of the poor. Equal freedom, equal responsibility. So no more free rides for hot plates, vinyl outerwear or electric space heaters.
CAPITAL GAINS
Now, this one is tricky but not insurmountable. And not surprisingly, the dictionary comes in handy. Webster’s Unabridged Second Edition. The definition of “capital”: This accumulated stock of the product of former labor is termed capital. And for “capital gains”: Profit resulting from the sale of capital investments, as stock, etc. There, see? Another instance of relativity. Now. Uh. Yes. Um. Uh. Oh, all right, I admit it: it probably won’t come up that often. But the poor would be well advised not to try selling off any leftover Spam Bake without reporting it.
INHERITANCE
Being creatures of habit, we ordinarily associate inheritance with death. Strictly speaking, we need not do so. Once again the dictionary proves most useful when it yields as a definition of “inherit”: To come into possession as an heir or successor. Successor is, of course, they key word here. Thus, we can plainly see that while to some the word “inherit” may conjure up images of venerable country estates and square-cut emeralds, to others—i.e., the poor—quite different visions spring to mind. A hand-me-down pair of Dacron slacks is, of course, no square-cut emerald, but then again, five hundred dollars is, as I believe I mentioned in point number one, not a fortune, certainly.
An Alphabet
of New Year’s Resolutions
for Others
As an answering-service operator, I will make every effort when answering a subscriber’s telephone to avoid sighing in a manner which suggests that in order to answer said telephone I have been compelled to interrupt extremely complicated neurological surgery, which is, after all, my real profession.
Being on the short side and no spring chicken to boot, I shall refrain in perpetuity from anything even roughly akin to leather jodhpurs.
Chocolate chip cookies have perhaps been recently overvalued. I will not aggravate the situation further by opening yet another cunningly named store selling these items at prices more appropriate to a semester’s tuition at Harvard Law School.
Despite whatever touch of color and caprice they might indeed impart, I will never, never, never embellish my personal written correspondence with droll little crayoned drawings.
Even though I am breathtakingly bilingual, I will not attempt ever again to curry favor with waiters by asking for the wine list in a studiously insinuating tone of French.
Four inches is not a little trim; my job as a hairdresser makes it imperative that I keep this in mind.
Gifted though I might be with a flair for international politics, I will renounce the practice of exhibiting this facility to my passengers.
However ardently I am implored, I pledge never to divulge whatever privileged information I have been able to acquire from my very close friend who stretches canvas for a famous artist.
In light of the fact that I am a frequent, not to say permanent, fixture at even the most obscure of public events, I hereby vow to stop once and for all telling people that I never go out.
Just because I own my own restaurant does not mean that I can include on the menu a dish entitled Veal Jeffrey.
Kitchens are not suitable places in which to install wall-to-wall carpeting, no matter how industrial, how highly technical, how very dark gray. I realize this now.
Large pillows, no matter how opulently covered or engagingly and generously scattered about, are not, alas, furniture. I will buy a sofa.
May lightning strike me dead on the spot should I ever again entertain the notion that anyone is interested in hearing what a fabulously warm and beautiful people I found the Brazilians to be when I went to Rio for Carnival last year.
No hats.
Overeating in expensive restaurants and then writing about it with undue enthusiasm is not at all becoming. I will get a real job.
Polite conversation does not include within its peripheries questions concerning the whereabouts of that very sweet mulatto dancer he was with the last time you saw him.
Quite soon I will absolutely stop using the word “brilliant” in reference to the accessories editors of European fashion magazines.
Raspberries
, even out of season, are not a controlled substance. As a restaurant proprietor I have easy, legal access. I will be more generous.
Success is something I will dress for when I get there, and not until. Cross my heart and hope to die.
Ties, even really, really narrow ones, are just not enough. I will try to stop relying on them quite so heavily.
Unless specifically requested to do so, I will not discuss Japanese science-fiction movies from the artistic point of view.
Violet will be a good color for hair at just about the same time that brunette becomes a good color for flowers. I will not forget this.
When approached for advice on the subject of antique furniture, I will respond to all queries with reason and decorum so as not to ally myself with the sort of overbred collector who knows the value of everything and the price of nothing.
X is not a letter of the alphabet that lends itself easily, or even with great difficulty, to this type of thing. I promise not to even try.
Youth, at least in New York City, is hardly wasted on the young. They make more than sufficient use of it. I cannot afford to overlook this.
Zelda Fitzgerald, fascinating as she undoubtedly appears to have been, I promise to cease emulating immediately.
To Have and Do Not
Not too long ago a literary agent of my close acquaintance negotiated a book deal on behalf of a writer of very successful commercial fiction. The book in question has not yet been written. At all. Not one page. On the basis, however, of the reputation of the author and the expertise of the agent, the book-to-be was sold for the gratifying sum of one million dollars. The following week the same agent sold the same book manqué for the exact same figure to, as they say, the movies.
Soon thereafter I found myself seated at dinner beside the fellow who had purchased the movie rights to the book in question. I smiled at him politely. He smiled back. I broached the subject.
“I understand,” said I, “that you have purchased A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s next book for one million dollars?”
“Yes,” he said. “Why don’t you write a movie for us?”
I explained that my schedule could not, at this time, accommodate such a task, seeing as how I was up to my ears in oversleeping, unfounded rumors and superficial friendships. We were silent for a moment. We ate. We drank. I had an idea.
“You just bought A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s unwritten book for one million dollars, right?”
His reply was in the affirmative.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll tell you what. My next book is also unwritten. And my unwritten book is exactly the same as A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s unwritten book. I know I have an agent and I’m not supposed to discuss business but I am willing to sell you my unwritten book for precisely the same price that you paid for A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s unwritten book.”
My dinner companion declined courteously and then offered me, for my unwritten book, a sum in six figures.
“Call my agent,” I replied, and turned to my right.
The next morning I was awakened by a telephone call from said agent, informing me that she had just received and rejected the offer of a sum in six figures for the movie rights to my unwritten book.
“I think we can get more,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I mulled this over and called her back. “Look,” I said, “last year I earned four thousand dollars for the things that I wrote. This year I’ve been offered two sums in six figures for the things that I have not written. Obviously I’ve been going about this whole business in the wrong way. Not writing, it turns out, is not only fun but also, it would appear, enormously profitable. Call that movie fellow and tell him that I have several unwritten books—maybe as many as twenty.” I lit another cigarette, coughed deeply and accepted reality. “Well, at least ten, anyway. We’ll clean up.”
We chatted a bit more and I hung up reluctantly, being well aware of how important talking on the telephone was to my newly lucrative career of not writing. I forged ahead, though, and am pleased to report that by careful application and absolute imposition of will, I spent the entire day not writing a single word.
That evening I attended an exhibit of the work of a well-known artist. I inquired as to the prices of the attractively displayed pictures, stalwartly registered only mild surprise and spent the remainder of the evening filled with an uneasy greed.
The next day, immediately upon awakening, I telephoned my agent and announced that I wanted to diversify—become more visual. Not writing was fine for the acquisition of a little capital but the real money was, it seemed to me, in not painting. No longer was I going to allow myself to be confined to one form. I was now not going to work in two mediums.
I spent the next few days in happy contemplation of my impending wealth. While it was true that no actual checks were rolling in, I was not born yesterday and know that these things take time. Inspired by my discovery, I began to look at things in an entirely new light. One weekend while driving through the countryside, I was struck by the thought that among the things that I cultivate, land is not one of them.
First thing Monday morning, I called my agent. “Listen,” I said, “I know this is a little outside your field, but I would appreciate it if you would contact the Department of Agriculture and notify them that I am presently, and have been for quite some time, not growing any wheat. I know that the acreage in my apartment is small, but let’s see what we can get. And while you’re at it, why don’t you try the Welfare Department? I don’t have a job, either. That ought to be worth a few bucks.”
She said she’d see what she could do and hung up, leaving me to fend for myself.
I didn’t paint—a piece of cake. I grew no wheat—a snap. I remained unemployed—nothing to it. And as for not writing, well, when it comes to not writing, I’m the real thing, the genuine article, an old pro. Except, I must admit, when it comes to a deadline. A deadline is really out of my hands. There are others to consider, obligations to be met. In the case of a deadline I almost invariably falter, and as you can see, this time was no exception. This piece was due. I did it. But as the more observant among you may note, I exercised at least a modicum of restraint. This piece is too short—much too short. Forgive me, but I needed the money. If you’re going to do something, do it halfway. Business is business.
The Fran Lebowitz Reader Page 22