Spoiled?

 Spoiled...

     Close friends know that button they can push that really elicits a red hot response of anger. Mostly they do not use the button because it normally will cause a rift that might put such a friendship on hiatus for some time. Yet, my good pal Paul knew the spot on my hide that when touched it stung. Paul and brother Johnny were restrained by their place in a large family with little excess of cash. They made do when I had things they could not afford. I remember one baseball season when Paul could not play because they did not have the dough to pay for "insurance" which was a bullshit thing to protect the city from law-suits.  The city never got sued but someone somewhere said it might happen. Anyway, when my Dad started his ticket business the Creasons had an influx of money, evidenced by a swimming pool, new cars and nights out to restaurants. While Johnny and Paul never complained the secret weapon was kept in the vault that I could be called spoiled which was a terrible insult in my hypersensitive tween world. Paul tried it on me once and the word got translated into a full-out kid fist-fight. I would not call them "poor" but that kind of stuff was just not considered fair fighting. I might call them asshole or prick or compare them to a monkey but that was just typical boy exchanges. So, the focus here is to think back to the time when Paul pulled out the deadly epithet and think of the truth in his statement. I took everything we had for granted and it  never occurred to me that someone had to work hard or take big chances to get pools dug or provide new car smell transportation around South Gate. By the time we came back to Annetta avenue we had a swimming pool, a full two car garage, a car for each kid of driving age, and a road trip across the Western U.S. in recent memory. Yet, my gauge of being spoiled goes back a ways to La Habra in the three flush years after my Dad made a pile on Dodger baseball. I had learned a little about golf playing with family and friends at the South Gate Pitch and Putt but when we joined Hacienda Country Club up in the hills above our new home it was the best part of being yanked out of our previous life. I was given a set of junior golf clubs and when my Mom took her golfing lady friends out I could jump on the back of their cart and play several days a week. I happily played bare-footed in the lush bermuda grass.  Now, at that time I am a privileged white kid, member of a Country Club where we could say or sign our number (C-34) and cokes or sandwiches or rounds of golf were at our command. There were very few kids out on the course and those I saw intimidated me since they seemed like rich kids who looked down on a LA punk like me. One day I played with my Mom and Dad, then strolled through the starters area where equipment was sold. My Mom had suggested I get some golf shoes siince I seemed to be taking the sport seriously and I excitedly  picked out a pair of faux aligator skin Joyce golf shoes that would indentify me as "a player." BC came in and saw the $23 price tag on the prized shoes and then reached over to a completely lame pair of $9 canvas golf shoes that reeked of children's golf attire. The shoes fit my small child's foot and were  appropriate for golf played by a kid my size but I was horrified to be seen by any other golfers of my age wearing such abominations. There were like deck shoes with cleats on the soles.  Instead of glorifying over membership in a Country Club and unlimited golf privilege I sulked and  pouted for the rest of the Summer. Spoiled?