Tom Davern stumbled into the Teacher’s Center br no hair left, not sure br if the curls fell out, or he yanked every strand br when his wife left him for George Chatfield, br a CEO of some software company br but more importantly, a millionaire br many times over. br On the couch he said, “I’m fucked, Bernstein. br Can’t live without her, tried, impossible.” br “Tom, ” I said softly, br “every so often I contemplate br the Rich: br Movie stars, rock stars, Supermodels br whose beauty hurts the heart br while countless busted faces struggle to smile.” br “Like this, ” said Tom, managing only twisted lips. br “This injustice of physical beauty br is the famous Capitalist tool br to mangle money from the forlorn.” br “I gave her all I had, br even maxed out eighteen credit cards br but she laughed br calling my cash Peanut Money br compared to Chatfield’s stuff br fifteen grand for a fucking watch, Bernstein br I swear to Christ.” br “The most I ever plunked down br was nineteen dollars for a Casio, military time.” br “I guess I ain’t smart, ” moaned Tom, br suddenly all too much br as he reached for his once golden tresses, none left br then slapping his skull, hard br without mercy, so I grabbed his hand saying, br “Buck up, lad.