Monsieur Moneybags

Let us stay in the international field - because I did. (Preparation, perhaps, during the last few years in California before I moved abroad.)

Monsieur Moneybags carried himself with a royal air. A bit aloof, he stood above the crowd, figuratively and literally, at over six feet of handsome European stock. The soft tones in which he spoke hid a booming deep voice, but I always imagined he lowered the "boom" when necessary.

One morning, absorbed in the daily ritual of devouring the New York Times between sips of café au lait, my concentration was rattled loose with, "May I share this table?" from over my left shoulder. I looked around. As was true every morning in this local hot spot, the place was packed.

"Of course," I said, and immediately returned to my paper. Attempts to continue reading proved futile as this new table mate hammered me with chit chat. Grunted responses and lack of eye contact did not dissuade him, so I surrendered and engaged in a bit of back-and-forth to be polite. Although he managed to keep his coffee in his cup, he spilled his life story in less time than it would have taken me to complete the A-section of my newspaper. On the other hand, his Chatty Cathy style of disclosure provided an ocean of information about himself when we parted ways, but he knew not a drop about me.

A Belgian businessman who owned and ran an enterprise in Southern California, he wore the pride of his current villa project (under construction in one of the region's swankiest 'hoods in Southern California) like an ascot; his recently-submitted application for residency in Monaco (some sort of haven it would seem...if you know what I mean) served as his silver-tipped walking stick. Both equally out of place in the lazy beachside community where he rolled out his sense of worth upon our first meeting.

Of course, with no particular interest in his wealth, I found his kinder, gentler, intellectual side quite seductive. The next morning, at the same café, the flirting began. Nothing new existed about him, it seemed. And he either lacked interest or social skills to even try to discover more about me. Although we managed one date - brunch at a lovely resort restaurant - we simply weren't suited for anything more. Not even a second date. He thought my language was too coarse and I thought he talked about his money too much. A fizzle before any sizzle.

We continued to see one another at the coffeehouse and a few months later, I set him up with a girlfriend of mine whom I thought a better match. Before they went out, he called me for some tips to impress her. I gave him just one: "Don't talk about the fact that you have more fucking money than God, okay?"

They didn't really hit it off. But honestly, I only heard her side of the story.

Next.

photo courtesy of CreativeCommons ©AlanCleaver