ju st o u t ▼
M Y
,
Q U E E R
L IF E
Extra credit
f* b ra a ry 21. 1907 ▼
Depression-Drugs-Anxiety
Now, There's Light at the End of the Tunnel
Green gold, platinum: as you step up the Amex ladder
the mounting price tag may make you dizzy
*
▼
by Michael Thomas Ford
I
read the other day that the average person
in the United States owes $3,450 in credit
card bills. Not me. I’ve learned my lesson
the hard way.
For years I had only one credit card—
American Express. The plain old green card. It
worked just fine. But then others began wooing
me. All of a sudden, a plain old credit card wasn’t
good enough. The really cool cards didn’t just pay
for things, they gave you stuff, too: free flight miles
for every dollar spent, “bonus credits” that could be
traded in for gifts, even cash back at the end of the
year. In the face of such temptations, my little green
Amex card seemed pale and weak indeed.
I called American Express. “Why can’t my
card earn me free car rentals?” I demanded.
The operator was cheerful. “What you need,”
she said, “is the Gold Card.”
A Gold Card. It sounded so regal. So chic. Why,
it was even capitalized, while the green card, like
some obscure East Village
poet, had to be content with
going about lower cased. I
signed up on the spot.
My Gold Card came a
few days later. I couldn’ t wait
to use it, so I took my friend
Katherine out to dinner.
When it came time to pay, I
whipped out my shiny new
card and placed it gently on if.
the table. “Where’d you getjj
that?” Katherine asked.
*
“They gave it to me,” I
said. “All I had to do was
ask. Isn’t it pretty?”
“But you’re poor,” she
said, shocked. “I thought the P
Gold Card was for all of those business majors we
hated in college, the ones with jobs on Wall Street
now.”
“They said my credit rating was superb,” I
answered proudly.
Now, Katherine wasn’t as off the mark as you
might think. It used to be that things like Gold
Cards and $ 15,000 credit limits were reserved for
people who actually made enough money to buy
things worth $15,000. Not anymore. These days,
a mere child can get a $15,000 limit simply by
asking for it.
I happily used my Gold Card for everything. I
even took advantage of my “membership privi
leges,” purchasing tickets to an Indigo Girls con
cert, where I was assured that I would have the
absolute best seats at Radio City Music Hall.
They were very good indeed. Very near the
stage. But they weren’t the best. In front of me, a
herd of teenage girls sat chatting, waiting for the
show to begin. Certain that they couldn’t possibly
have Gold Cards of their own, I casually tapped
one on the shoulder and asked where she had
gotten her tickets.
“Oh,” she said, “my father has an American
Express Platinum Card.”
I felt as though I’d been slapped. A Platinum
Card? I’d assumed that a Gold Card was the
pinnacle of success. I thought I’d arrived. Now, if
the girl was to be believed, I discovered that I still
had a ways to go. Distressed, I was completely
unable to enjoy the show, even when Amy and
Emily encouraged the audience to sing along on
the chorus of “Least Complicated.”
For weeks I was disconsolate. Then, out of the
blue, a large vellum envelope arrived. Inside was
an engraved invitation of the sort generally re
served for weddings. “Because you are in the top
1 percent of the financial elite,” it read, “we are
extending to you our greatest honor.”
It was an invitation to accept the Platinum
Card. Along with the invitation was a book, an
actual book, outlining all of the pleasures the
Platinum Card could bring me should I “choose to
accept this wonderful distinction.” The whole
package was more extensive than any of the
college prospectuses I’d received in high school.
“You, a Platinum Card?” my roommate said,
looking over my shoulder as I read. “What did you
make last year, like $20,000 or something?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, caressing the soft
leather cover of the Guidebook. “I’m one of the
financial elite.”
Ignoring the small print about the $300-a-year
membership fee, I returned my RSVP card and
waited. The card arrived a week later, ensconced
in a blue velvet box. After washing my hands, I
carefully pried the lid off and beheld my new card
in all of its glory. Surely
Mary herself had not beheld
, the baby Jesus with quite the
(same awe. It was lovely,
bearing a gentle silver finish
with my own name stamped
in sharp relief. I cradled it in
my hands and sighed.
If I’d been excited about
using my Gold Card, I was
orgasmic over the Platinum
Card. Once again I took
Katherine to dinner. This
time we went to a restaurant
with a two-month wait for
’dyou getreserva-
she asked, examin-
ingifiereal silver place settings. “Have you been
sleeping with a waiter again?”
“No,” I said casually, sliding the Platinum
Card out of my wallet. “I just used this.”
Katherine’s eyes went wide. "Good lord,” she
whispered. “Is it real?”
“Yup,” I said. “Want to touch it?”
Over the next month, I used my Platinum Card
often and well. Whenever I handed it to a sales
clerk or waiter, I beamed with pride. Then the bill
came. All $2,326.78 of it. I opened the envelope
(which disappointingly was not vellum, but the
same plain old paper they sent the green card bills
in) and nearly fainted. I couldn’t believe things
had gotten so out of control.
That one bill was enough to knock some sense
into me. After taking out a cash advance from
another card (at 19.8 percent interest) to pay off
Amex, I called and canceled my Platinum ac
count.
“Just give me back the green card,” I said
sadly.
“The green card?” the operator replied incredu
lously. “But we’re offering Platinum members box
seats for the Rangers’ games for only $4,000.”
For a moment I was tempted. Then I remem
bered my 19.8 percent interest. “No, thanks,” I
said, trying not to cry.
It took me two years to finally pay off the cash
advance. With interest, my little Platinum Card
party ended up costing me $3,342.18. Now I’m
back to the green card, which is fine with me. I’m
still so shaken I can barely take it out of my wallet
without weeping. But I still have that Platinum
Card, resting in its little blue velvet box. And
sometimes, when I’m feeling down, I take it out
and remember a time when I was one of the
financial elite.
Pride and Solutions is the
nation's leading provider of
mental health and addictions
treatment to the lesbian, gay
and bisexual communities.
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depression and grief treatment
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