Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Green envy consumed me like leprechauns in a field of Lucky Charms, gentle reader, as I took in the tantalizing details about the black American Express card. The NPR host insisted on talking in an infuriatingly calm and collected tone, when in fact the topic demanded far more respect, maybe even fear. Here was a prime example of Captain Capitalism dispensing all the love and attention us rich folks require. The VIP lounges, the personal concierge, the lightning quick service–you might call these amenities, but they’re actually necessities, and don’t you forget that.

We were sitting at the dinner table, Muse and I, and out came the AMEX.

“Mine doesn’t look black at all,” I said in between bites of catered Burger King. “Does it look black to you?”

She very gamely took the card, gave it the once over, and furrowed her brows.

“Nope, it looks pretty clear. Wait, I think I saw some black. Oh, just some lint,” she said, brushing the lint off and handing me the card.

I smacked the table and roared, surprising Muse and launching some dinner rolls into the adjoining room.

“Damn it!” I shouted, “Damn it all to hell! I’m a CEO! Don’t I deserve an elite credit card?”

“Here,” she said as she reached for the card. “I’ve got three words for you: black magic marker.”

After spending five minutes improving my card, Muse handed me the finished product. It looked pretty good, actually, right down to the pretentious centurion.

“I don’t know if anyone will take this,” she began, “but it’ll always be good with me.”

“That’s sweet,” I replied. I had other plans for the card, though.

Later in the evening, I decided to give the card a whirl. I stepped through the front door with my card in hand, only to find a taciturn sky pouring out big, gray, silent drops of rain. I looked down at the card and found my delusions, my Muse, and my uncertainties all faded.