The Problem With Money
and there come the troubles
I was with a man the other day. It became clear, as he spoke to me on the park bench that he did not think he was rich enough for me. He never made it explicit. He never told me that he did not make enough money for me. He merely alluded to the things he cannot do. The machines he will never build. The projects that will never start. It was not meant in a condescending way, and there was no arrogance. He said it sadly—the way that only somebody acutely aware that his life is now measured not in years since birth, but years until death can say it. I did not like seeing him sad—I cut him short to remind him that he has plenty of money, and he reminded me that the things he wants happen to be very expensive. He laughed, and we looked at the browning leaves and his husky that ran through the park, and I felt him near me (his breathing, his composure, his well-executed attempt at a lifetime of decency) and he felt me, a woman with restless hope. But even in this circumstance, we both looked out into air and tried as hard as possible to avoid seeing each other.
If I did look at him, what would he see? He would not see naivety. He respects me too much. But the look would make him sad. It is a look more of wonder than expectation and he is old enough and smart enough to know that whatever I see in him is not true. Whatever I am hoping for is not something he can give, and he has lived long enough to know what is worth trying and what is not.
He does not want to look at me because he does not see the way I see him. At some point something in his mind determined that as he does not have enough money for his own endeavors, he does not have enough money for me or mine. He has not lived the life he should have and because he sees himself as a failure, I will too.
He does not look at me for long enough to see what I see. He does not see that all I ever wanted was for him to try. I wanted love. I wanted care.
The money had become an abstract concept. The trouble with men with money is when money gets in the way. It becomes a status symbol of their worth. They are worth more than some men, but not as much as other men. They can unlock certain kinds of women—women talk to them now, instead of mocking them—but not every woman. They can provide mentorship. They are managers. They create jobs. They not only have money, but they move money around for other people. They not only have a livelihood, but they create livelihood.
And there comes the trouble. A man with money can provide me with a life with him—if he wanted to. A man with money can send me lilacs and lilies and lavish me with love—if he thought that this kind of lavishing was a kind of love he wanted. A man with money can bring me joys large and small.
This man with money wants to be loved for himself—for the strength of his integrity and his capacity to control chaos—and I want to love him for this. I already do love him for this. He knows it, and he is surprised, but if I already am capable of this kind of love that he had thought impossible, what other kinds of impossible loves might I want?
He tries to keep me at a distance, but in the end, he finds himself wanting more and more from me without giving me anything—because he knows he can give me everything—and deciding he does not want to be the man to do it. Let another man do it. A richer man can do it. And he does not see that I do not want a richer man—I want this man in front of me, who refuses to look me in the eye.