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January 1, 1800
hater’s leap
Originally published April 4, 2004
A friend of mine has a rather unattractive need to degrade others' acquisitions. It doesn't really hurt, as engendering others' approval is pretty much the stupidest reason I can think of to spend sweet, precious money, but it is a singularly repugnant quality to be around—especially when you're a couple decades removed from middle school. And it does repel me from my friend. Its manifestations have run from the trivial (sunglasses, attire) to the big-ticket (my car), all of which, I am steadily reminded, are in some way inferior choices.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, this all sometimes seems like a childhood reminiscence to me, too.
Nothing has triggered the ugly quite like my buying a house. I put off showing it to him just because I didn't want to hear whatever would surely be wrong with it. But eventually out he came, purportedly to borrow a trailer the likes of which he could have rented for less than the cost of the ferry. He and his girlfriend arrived, surveyed the place, left, and have not returned. There's no need to: they got what they came for.
It took me a while to notice the pattern emerge. I mentioned last year that my friends and their kids came over. "Can those kids," he interrupted incredulously, "even make it up those stairs?" My house is atop an 80 foot bluff, you see, and you have to use stairs to get to the beach.
"When I awoke this morning," I emailed him a few months later, "I opened my eyes and there was a bald eagle looking back at me, not 20 feet away."
"Wow, a beautiful view like that must make you want to go suicidal and just throw your body off the cliff, huh?" he replied with typical skill and subtlety.
And so on. This weekend, I hanged (hung?) out with him and family. His dad is considering retiring to the peninsula, and he sought my advice. I showed him on a map where I bought my house. In making conversation, he brought up what was clearly the only thing he'd been told: "You're up on top of a cliff, right?"
Even though I have little idea why being 80 feet above sea level is a bad thing, I now know that it's most desperately supposed to be. People who never even saw the stairs, let alone used them, have decided that their existence is the defining, fatal characteristic of the home that has brought into their "friend's" life so much beauty and joy. And when the friend is so foolish as to be happy, why, it's their moral imperative to remind him that really, he shouldn't be.
It takes its toll. I'd be lying if I said that all this didn't all have the desired cumulative effect. But there's no doubt about it: I do enjoy my house less for their efforts. In fact, I can no longer descend the beach stairs without feeling a great swell of shame and contempt.
For my continued friendship with these people.
My love of the ocean and beach and the 80 glorious feet that connect me to both continues undiminished.
"So you wanna give me a tour of your new place?" my buddy asks of my modest Redmond flop.
No sir. No, I don't.
Postscript: when I towed my trailer back home from his place, I had to pay the extra ferry fee myself.
posted by john at 12:00 AM • permalink