Had there been a fourth panel, it probably would have shown the cabbie beating us to death while street people cheer him on. And rightly so.
Most of the time, I consider myself to be a very wealthy man. Partly because I remember the week we couldn't afford food after the store told my mother her credit was no good the hunger was nothing compared to the shame of putting all our groceries back on the shelves. Partly because I've since seen real poverty and realized anyone in a country with clean drinking water and socialized health care was born rich. The fact that several of the people closest to me work minimum wage jobs they hate also reminds me how lucky I am on a daily basis.
House-hunting for a better school district, I recently realized I'm not nearly as affluent as I'd thought. Touring a shabby little townhome priced $100,000 over my budget, the real estate agent assured me the area is popular with "new immigrants who want a good school but can't afford anything better." Nice closing technique. Nothing against new Canadians, but shouldn't I be a little better established after a decade in advertising? Isn't that the whole point of selling out?
Eventually, we simply drove around looking for sale signs. The first house we found was a decent size and only two blocks from the school. The owner was playing with her daughter in the front yard and we chatted a bit about our children and how much hers had loved the nearby school. I'm so pathetic that I continued the charade a good 5-10 minutes after she told me the asking price was $1.3 million. I kept smiling and asked about the roof; she kept smiling and invited me to Saturday's open house, both of us politely pretending a man in Nevada jeans has any business shopping for a millionaire's home.
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