My step-dad, Mike, was a devoted golfer and a long-standing member of an incredibly prestigious club—the kind of place where a crooked tie is a minor scandal. One afternoon, the Club President pulled him aside, looking deeply pained.
"Mike," he whispered, "several members have reported seeing you... sifting through the bins for discarded food. We’re concerned. Is everything alright at home? Do you need a—well, a small advance?"
Mike felt the eyes of the entire clubhouse on him. He looked sheepish, then cleared his throat.
"Everything’s fine," he explained. "I’ve started a worm farm for my garden, and it turns out they have a very refined palate for banana peels. I was just—well, I was just retrieving the leftovers."
The President stared at him, caught between relief and pure aristocratic confusion.
The President was relieved to hear Mike wasn't broke, though he did suggest that next time, Mike should try to look a little less "homeless" while catering for his compost.
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