I’m in the development office of a tiny city that’s an enclave for the super-rich.
It’s a different world. We’re talking houses with 4 bedrooms but a dozen bathrooms because of all the space taken up by the art galleries, wine cellars, catering kitchens, libraries, etc.
Our city development code has a section on servant’s quarters.
I’m reviewing plans for a guest house that’s 4,000 square feet and has a rooftop tennis pavilion.
Another one bought the 4 mansions down the street and leveled them to build a private soccer field for the kids.
These people literally don’t understand what the rest of the world is like. I’ll get angry phone calls demanding that road work be stopped the next city over because they don’t want guests to see the construction workers from the north tower’s terrace, and they don’t understand why that’s an unusual request and why I can’t fix it.
I used to date a woman whose parents were multi-millionaires. They had a giant mansion in Hollywood hills, with a heated pool, tennis court, basketball court, and private garden in the backyard. I went there for dinner once when they had some friends over. You know how we’ll sit around after dinner with friends and maybe talk about a new car we’re interested in? They were talking about which new private jet they want to buy to replace their current private jets. I thought they were joking at first and then realized they were serious. I just kept my mouth shut. I don’t have anything to contribute to that sort of conversation. I was only making something like $2,300 per month at the time, drove a $4500 car, and had roommates.
I had a rich kid move into my building in LA. He was genuinely angry that he could only get 3 parking spots because it meant he had to choose which sports cars to bring out from New York. He cracked up the Maserati the first month he was there so there was room for the McClaren. I have no idea why he was in the building. I was driving a Ford Taurus.
The cheapest house for sale in this city is over 3 million dollars, and it’s considered a tear-down. People buy 5 million dollar houses to scrape the land and build a 20 million dollar house.
It’s an enclave for the mega-elite. Having a 9-figure net worth would make someone lower class.
The citizens absolutely would not allow torches to be sold, and the police wouldn’t allow them to be lit. We have a police force the size of one for a city 6 times as big, and they’re here to keep out the homeless from the major city next door.
I hate what this place represents. But they also pay me well (not that I could afford to live here of course), and I make them follow rules. They get mad at me, but they hate each other too, so Council usually backs me up.
And there is great satisfaction in being able to say “no” to a billionaire.
I’m in the development office of a tiny city that’s an enclave for the super-rich.
It’s a different world. We’re talking houses with 4 bedrooms but a dozen bathrooms because of all the space taken up by the art galleries, wine cellars, catering kitchens, libraries, etc.
Our city development code has a section on servant’s quarters.
I’m reviewing plans for a guest house that’s 4,000 square feet and has a rooftop tennis pavilion.
Another one bought the 4 mansions down the street and leveled them to build a private soccer field for the kids.
These people literally don’t understand what the rest of the world is like. I’ll get angry phone calls demanding that road work be stopped the next city over because they don’t want guests to see the construction workers from the north tower’s terrace, and they don’t understand why that’s an unusual request and why I can’t fix it.
I used to date a woman whose parents were multi-millionaires. They had a giant mansion in Hollywood hills, with a heated pool, tennis court, basketball court, and private garden in the backyard. I went there for dinner once when they had some friends over. You know how we’ll sit around after dinner with friends and maybe talk about a new car we’re interested in? They were talking about which new private jet they want to buy to replace their current private jets. I thought they were joking at first and then realized they were serious. I just kept my mouth shut. I don’t have anything to contribute to that sort of conversation. I was only making something like $2,300 per month at the time, drove a $4500 car, and had roommates.
I had a rich kid move into my building in LA. He was genuinely angry that he could only get 3 parking spots because it meant he had to choose which sports cars to bring out from New York. He cracked up the Maserati the first month he was there so there was room for the McClaren. I have no idea why he was in the building. I was driving a Ford Taurus.
I hope they choke.
Fairfield County somewhere? Or maybe Sonoma or Bakersfield?
Sorry.
It’s a very small city with an even smaller staff. Any more details would peg precisely who I am.
Interesting. I take it, then, that there are no places in your town that sell torches in reasonable quantities.
The cheapest house for sale in this city is over 3 million dollars, and it’s considered a tear-down. People buy 5 million dollar houses to scrape the land and build a 20 million dollar house.
It’s an enclave for the mega-elite. Having a 9-figure net worth would make someone lower class.
The citizens absolutely would not allow torches to be sold, and the police wouldn’t allow them to be lit. We have a police force the size of one for a city 6 times as big, and they’re here to keep out the homeless from the major city next door.
I hate what this place represents. But they also pay me well (not that I could afford to live here of course), and I make them follow rules. They get mad at me, but they hate each other too, so Council usually backs me up.
And there is great satisfaction in being able to say “no” to a billionaire.