June 11, 2000
BACKSLASH
Well, Rich People Need Help, Too
By MATT RICHTEL
SAN FRANCISCO -- What Lorna Hudson has against the rich is unclear, but when they come into the Ford showroom she manages, she goes right ahead and sells them new cars, never pausing for a second to consider the emotional damage she may thereby inflict.
To be fair, Ms. Hudson said she was unaware that some of her newly fabulously rich clients might be racked with the pain and uncertainty of S.W.S., or Sudden Wealth Syndrome, a condition labeled by two local psychologists. They treat freshly minted Internet millionaires who, shortly after getting rich, go out and buy new cars, houses, gadgets, clothes, art, cosmetic surgery and other indulgences, only to feel a burning emptiness after they realize that there's more to life than work, money and stuff.
On the mean streets of Silicon Valley, this doesn't exactly elicit sympathy, especially from people whose own dreams of instant wealth cratered with the Nasdaq. But it does elicit laughter, followed by some virulent cases of S.W.R.O.R.N.S. -- Suddenly Wanting to Run Over the Rich in Their New Saabs.
Being a journalist, and therefore steeped in the art of quelling controversy, I gently tried bridging the chasm between S.W.S. sufferers and skeptics like Ms. Hudson, who is the new-vehicle operations manager at Serramonte Ford.
Me: "You're an enabler!"
She: "I don't see."
Me: "Tell an S.W.S. sufferer: 'Step away from the sport utility vehicle, sir. You've had one too many already.' "
She: "Well, if they came in for an Expedition, and it wasn't right for them, I might steer them to a less expensive car like a two-door Explorer."
My conversation with Stephen Goldbart, one of the psychologists who named the syndrome and started the Money, Meaning and Choices Institute in San Francisco, didn't go much better.
Mr. Goldbart said he sensed skepticism, which, as a psychologist trained in picking up subtle emotional signals, he inferred from my giggling into the phone. "If this is going to be a sneer piece, it won't help with our mission," he said. "You'll only contribute to the problem by alienating people."
That mission entails helping the newly rich to find balance in their lives, to "invest" in themselves, their families and their communities, not just the office and the stock market. Mr. Goldbart said that people were so obsessed with getting rich that they fell into a void when wealth arrived, and that it was not just the overnight billionaires who were susceptible.
"The country has become overly focused on money, money, money," he observed. If only I had a dollar for every time he said that.
I carried this perspective back onto the pavement, where I met Del McFarlane, 27, who works behind the counter at a local hardware store and whose body appears to be a walking showcase for the local tattooers' guild. I explained the syndrome to him. "Oh, I've had that," he said. "Of course, I got it a different way than most of these guys. I had to get in a motorcycle accident."
In 1994, an insurance company paid him $100,000 and knocked his priorities out of whack. "I figured I could buy anything I ever wanted, and I'd be happy," he said. He said he blew the money on speed and parties, then became depressed when the money and drugs ran out and the ink dried on the tattoos.
Call it great reporting, but I was sure I'd found the quintessential Silicon Valley story.
And with a happy ending: Mr. McFarlane climbed his way back, got a job at Crown Hardware and Lock, got into a good relationship. He said he now has "a sense of usefulness," which he gets from making keys for people who are locked out of their houses and from "lugging stock," which I presumed was not a day-trading technique. or syndrome sufferers, Mr. McFarlane may be some sort of object lesson, a cautionary tale. To wit: Be grateful for what you have, don't expect lavish spending to fill your empty heart, focus on relationships and community, and avoid getting that Wile E. Coyote tattoo unless you're really sure.
For the rest of us, maybe the psychologists are right when they say it's time to show a little compassion. There but for fortune go you or I: the Lotto or the Nasdaq or Regis Philbin might at any moment fulfill our secret desires for overweening riches and make us the syndrome's next victims. So stifle that mocking giggle if you possibly can.
In the meantime, if you come across any poor suffering millionaires, please sell them only the sport utility vehicle you think they really need.
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