Hoi Polloi Direct

Arthur stood on the "correct" side of the rope, his tuxedo smelling of cedar and vintage Scotch. He looked down at the crowd gathered under the neon buzz of the city—the . They were a sea of denim and cheap polyester, a restless mass of the "many" that he usually avoided with the practiced grace of a man who never had to check his bank balance.

To Arthur, they were a blur of faces, the "great unwashed" whose only purpose was to provide the background noise to his more refined life. He watched a young woman in a faded jacket laugh as she shared a bag of chips with a friend. He felt a flicker of something—not pity, but a distant, clinical curiosity. How did they manage? he wondered, clutching his crystal flute. How did one find joy in the common horde? . hoi polloi

"Need a hand, friend?" the man asked, his voice rough but kind. Arthur stood on the "correct" side of the