The Oyster Thief

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Growing up, I seemed almost earmarked for the financial world, as I was both studious and materialistic. I was a small mass of seriousness—a little librarian—completing my assignments early and happily. I preferred class to recess, homework to hopscotch. In middle school, I would for hours paint still lifes—a bowl of apples or a vase of flowers—feeling that my own life was a still life—a cantaloupe compressed into a teacup. My core longed for more, mentally, materially.

My wallet was wide enough to fill the well of my needs—food, school, shoes—but not the valley of my whims and wishes. I craved more clothes, more books, more boxes—dainty little tins in which to cherish my dainty little things. My mother occasionally said, “You like having things for the sake of having them; you have the joy of possession.” I interpreted her comments as compliments: how sophisticated I was, I thought, to be possessed with the joy of possession.

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