by Rob Perez

Costco Rich

I recently smuggled a drink into a country club. Some may wonder, Why, man, why? Isn’t a country club more than capable of meeting such demands? Normally, yes.

But I was going to the pool. The pool doesn’t have a full bar. They’ll sell you a hard seltzer for eight bucks. I wouldn’t drink a hard seltzer if you paid me eight bucks. So I poured bourbon and grapefruit in the correct proportions into a tumbler and parked poolside.

The pool was hopping. Summer in full bloom. Children splashed. Parents lounged. Lifeguards kept a watchful eye. As I surveyed the scene, it became clear there were two types of people at the pool. The first group was perfectly content to pay eight dollars for a drink in a can. God bless them.

The second group carried tumblers. Yes, tumblers. Plural. Now, those tumblers may have contained only water. Or tea. Or coffee. But time told a different story. The group with tumblers seemed quietly committed to the spirit of summer. They were there for a good time. And whatever was in those tumblers sure seemed to help.

These were people with means. After all, membership at a country club is not a choice you make if you’re on a budget. And yet, here they were, spending a beautiful afternoon by the pool with a tumbler. That got me thinking.

Every rich person I know shops at Costco.

I know this because I’ve seen them there. In the flesh. Shopping. Their carts overfloweth with goods. Not luxury goods. Consumables. Groceries. Household goods. Cleaning supplies.

These are people with multiple houses. Luxury cars. Boats. They vacation in exotic lands. And yet, at Costco, they buy their Kleenex, twenty boxes at a time. Apparently, these are people who can afford anything except paying retail for toilet paper.

To be fair, I’ve never seen a billionaire at Costco. Maybe once your net worth reaches nine figures, someone else shops at Costco for you. Or maybe you’re perfectly happy to overpay for household goods.

I have too many T-shirts. My rich friends have too many houses. Billionaires have too many sports teams. It’s a question of scale.

I suppose there are different kinds of rich. White pants rich. Country club rich. I fly first class rich. I fly private rich. I own an island rich. And then there is Costco Rich.

Finding a bargain isn’t about the money anymore. It’s the sport. The principle of the thing.

A person who is truly wealthy can still become emotionally invested in saving three bucks on laundry detergent. I know because I am one of them.

And when things go on sale at Costco? This is exactly the sort of thing that drives Costco Rich crazy. Costco Rich will buy things they don’t need simply because they’re on sale.

A vat of non-dairy coffee creamer. A year’s supply of ketchup. Enough paper towels to survive the apocalypse. This isn’t about need. It’s all about getting something on sale! You’ll hear people say things like, “You can’t afford not to buy this.”

Which brings me back to the pool. There I sat, sipping discreetly from my tumbler and congratulating myself on my ingenuity. That’s when I saw him. Across the pool. My distance vision remains exceptional. The chosen one. Lounging. Enlightened.

His tumbler was… more. A larger vessel. Possibly seaworthy. With my eyes hidden behind sunglasses, I observed him discreetly adding ingredients. Tequila. A mysterious yellow elixir. Ice.

He pressed a button. His tumbler whirred to life. A moment later, he was holding a frozen margarita. Poolside. It was a modern miracle.

Here I was feeling clever because I’d smuggled in a drink. Meanwhile, this man brought an appliance. I had a cocktail. He had the means of production.