Since the cost of such indulgences is a fraction of a prime-time commercial or glossy gatefold ad, such glad-handing is considered a worthwhile expense, a percentage of which can be written off. "We're the gatekeepers of the Fortune 500 companies -- no one at AT&T actually purchases the ads," says Jason Krumm, who worked as an account planner. "If at the end of a buying cycle, your budget has an extra $200,000, you'll throw it back to the person who treated you best."

Then there are the perks Poverty Elites collect just by circulating within their industry. Publicists throw parties to generate coverage for everything from new watchband links to new flavors of vodka. Even if guests don't actually write about the new product or place them in photographs, the events themselves can still generate goodwill and all-important buzz -- and provide Poverty Elites with a light dinner in the process. "They're tastemakers," explains Nikki Gerston, head of Shop PR, a fashion-and-beauty public-relations firm. "There's a benefit to getting a product into their hands: They turn to other people and tell them about it, and it keeps going." And, of course, today's Poverty Elites are tomorrow's power brokers. "It's the associates who are doing the work, looking for what's new," Gerston continues. "You have to get in with them now before they start running the show."

Some companies restrict what gifts their employees can accept, but Poverty Elites need their freebies to keep up the appearances of their professions on their paltry paychecks. "Everybody in our industry is guilty of it," says Nancy Behrman, the head of her own beauty P.R. firm, who remembers having the best highlights in town when she was 23 and making $12,000. "The young women in my office all have perfect manicures, perfect pedicures." Many of those who travel for work take their boyfriends and call it a vacation.

"I always get a kick out of the assistants," says Dan McCann, director of marketing and public relations at the clothing line A.B.S., which outfits Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. "They're wearing Fendi bags they bought at invitation-only sample sales for $100 -- the same $1,200 bag there's a three-month waiting list for at the store." By the end of a year, the trickle-down perks effectively lift the group into another tax bracket. "I started at $24,000," says Antonio Sardinas, a media planner, "but it would be more like $100,000 with what I get."

On a frosty tuesday evening, Mia Harlock, a 25-year-old editorial assistant at a fashion magazine, is walking east on 23rd Street, fingering a pack of American Spirit Lights and dodging patches of black ice in strappy heels. Harlock and her boyfriend, Tom Phillips, a graphic designer, are on their way to a benefit for the New York City Opera. "The dress is supposed to be 'Turkish' or 'opulent,' " says Harlock. "So I made my shirt last night." She pulls back her coat to reveal a white halter hung on a tiny metal wire around her neck. "I went to Kmart, got a Martha Stewart sheet, and cut it up. I just got a new sewing machine."

Black limos are stretched bumper-to-bumper in front of the City Opera Thrift Shop. Inside, Harlock and Phillips are ushered into a swirl of well-heeled committee members, including Nadja Swarovski and Eleanor Lambert. Across the room, socialites scour racks of donated couture, pausing only to nibble Turkish meatballs by Serena Bass.

Harlock crouches by a pile of Prada and Manolo heels and plucks out a $75 orange Miu Miu by the stiletto. "It's a little too orange," she pronounces, dropping it back onto the heap as Bill Cunningham snaps costumed grandes dames behind her. She orders a vodka tonic at the upstairs bar, then greets colleagues and flips through the racks some more before settling on an off-white lace blouse marked at $35. "I think this is Stella McCartney," she says.