BORN TO LIVE ON GOLD

THE BABY WITH THE SILVER TONGUE BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT Our baby's new born cry suddenly punctuated my wife's labor screams. “Congratulations,” said the doctor. “You have a strong baby boy.” “What's that in his mouth?” I asked, alarmed. The doctor looked. “A silver spoon. Shall I detach it, MR. Goldhead?” I thought a moment. “No,” I said at last. “A silver spoon in his mouth is appropriate for the privileged life he is to lead. After all, both Penny and I had to work hard to become the richest couple in the world. There's no reason he should ever have to work a day in his life.” “What's his name?” was the next question that Penny and I had to answer. “Mitus,” I suggested. “Yes,” said Penney. “Mitus Solomon Goldhead.” A few days later, as we were leaving the hospital with Mitus Solomon Goldhead, a man approached us. “Sir?” he asked. “Can you spare a little change?” “Stay away from our baby, Bum,” I shouted, taking a defensive posture between my wife, carrying Mitus, and the man. “I have no interest in harming your child,” he claimed. “And, by the way, if you'd noticed, I am the one who has been changing his diapers since he was born. But I just got laid off from the hospital due to cut backs from the sequestration, and MY babies haven't eaten in five days. I just want a little change to get them the basics.” “Maybe they should work for it themselves,” I suggest. “They're Six and Three Years old,” he cries. “Old enough to learn the value of a dollar,” I say. “Get out of my face and out of my way or I'll run you over once we're inside my SUV TANK.” Cowed, he ducks away and leaves. Turns tail and runs more like, as a bum like him should. Bothering nice, respectable people like us. He should just get another job. “Cash,watch the road,” says Penney. I see at once that she is right. Our 2015 Cadillac almost collided with with a 2001 Pick-Up Truck, what make or even company has long since worn off. But at the gate to our 20,000 acre Estate, we have another surprise. “Can you spare me some change,” says a very well dressed old woman who hardly looks like she should need to beg. “My Social Security Check is two months late with the cuts,” she explains, seeing me eying her attire. “If it was just me, I wouldn't care. But I'm raising my grandchildren since both of their parents were killed in the wars over seas.” “Catch,” I say, throwing a penny far out of her reach. “Driver.” The gates open and close the moment we are inside, ensuring that no riffraff actually approach our mansion, set well back from the gate, in a forest of money trees (OK, they're artificial,but that's all right). “Both Nurseries are ready,” announces our newly hired Nanny. “I see the baby is a boy, so I'll take him to the blue one.” She pauses, looking. “How am I supposed to nurse him with that spoon in his mouth?” “You'll find a way,” says Penney, dismissing her and the baby with a wave. “It stays. He's a child of privilege, he should look like it.” Then we sit down to eat our evening feast and watch our favorite program, The Rich Get Everything Saga, on our 2,000 inch TV.