Privileged

I have ear buds in, in a fruitless attempt to drown out the noise of my roommates. One of their fathers, a very rich man who thinks I am a complete loser, is up at 4:30 AM with his son and the rest of my roommates, all having been drinking since about 6 PM. The son has also been doing cocaine with his friends since midnight. They are discussing his illustrious career-to-come and why he and his other little rich friends are total shoe-ins to the world stage of rock and roll.

“You guys are privileged kids, so­­–” The father begins.

“ What do you mean, we’re privileged?!” his son fires back, clearly incensed at the insinuation that he and his friends are not slumming it and hard-up like true artists.

“You guys have good parents, and talent and support. Some guys only have the talent. But you’re privileged. So the trick is to use that to your advantage.”

“Oh, right. I mean, I guess some guys from bad homes could be in a band and get, like, on heroin or something.” The son says, stumbling over his own idiocy and coke-numbed tongue. “We’re all lucky, ‘cause we’re, like, all the same and from good homes and stuff.”

At some point later the son is remarking to nobody in particular how they are way ahead of those kids in the business from broken homes (like me) by their keen sense of moderation. They’re not like those drunk losers who do drugs all the time.

But man, I sure do feel bad for those guys who only have the talent, and lack parents with money. It must really be terrible to know, like they do, that their dreams are destined for destruction. And it’s just really sad that they’re all junkies, too; like me: lying here, totally sober, trying to shut out the noise of the privileged kids on coke.