When I was a kid, all I wanted was to be rich. I'd tell my mom all the time about how when I was rich I'd have three big houses, or 9 fast cars, or 20 computers, or a thousand CD's, or any expensive material thing that I could think of. Sure, when I was a kid, I thought that once you were rich, you had made it; you were done. Hell, if you had it all that must BE all there is. And now that I am rich...I don't want anything. Sure, I have a nice house in a nice part of town. My huge front lawn is filled with green grass and a carefully manicured landscape, the work done by a gang of Mexicans that came to my house once a week. At first, I paid them cheaply, what they asked for, what I felt they deserved. After awhile, I started to hand out small tips, as an act of contrition for my overwhelming wealth. I had it all and they had next to nothing, in my eyes, so why not give them a little something extra? Soon I was giving each one a hundred dollars every time they came. They all looked at me, bowing their heads, quickly repeating, "Thank you sir, thank you very much. Muchas gracias." The work noticably improved.
But now I do all my own gardening. The last time they came, I gave each man 10,000 dollars cash and told them to buy themselves something nice. One man actually fainted when he opened his briefcase filled with cash, The top emblazoned in gold writing his name, Manuel. Manuel still comes by to help out occasionally, but he won't let me pay him. Usually we just sit in silence as we weed, water, and plant new flowers in the garden.
I don't have a wife or kids. Hell, I'm what one could consider a swinging bachelor, the most eligible man in town. I was a multi-millionare at 22, thanks to a series of both smart and lucky real estate purchases when I was a Senior in high school. Through college I worked as hard as any other student does. I went to most of my classes, partied occasionally, got drunk a few times. On my graduation day I got a call from my investment broker, his voice shaking as he told me that I was worth 53.4 million dollars cash, after taxes. I heard the news and responded with, "Thanks, George." And then I hung up, went to dinner with my family, and broke the news. My mother started crying, and my grandfather, a wealthy man in his own right, shook my hand with his eyes gleaming with tears. I went through the motions of happiness and shock. My family wouldn't let me treat them to the dinner.
I bought my father, down in Texas, a large house in the country. It was his life-long dream to be able to live out in the near-wilderness, surviving off of his own land. I made sure he was near a large underground water reserve, from where he could pump his own water. I bought him a few windmills and a generator for electricity. I bought him a new pick-up truck, a new Macintosh computer, and a few other niceties. He quit drinking and smoking, for the most part, and is working on the next great American novel. His girlfriend, and probably wife number 6, lives with him in their countryside estate. He calls once a week, just to see how things are. We talk for 5 or ten minutes, then hang up until next time. There's never really anything new to talk about. Sure, there are the everyday life moments that we all chat about; reading a new book, seeing a great movie on HBO ("a classic, how did I miss it?" he always says), or about something that the dog I bought him did. For all intents and purposes, one could say that my aging father will live out his remaining life in happiness. At least much more happy than probably would have been in his former lifestyle. All thanks to my massive fortune.
It keeps growing, every day. Soon, thanks to lucky stockmarket options and bank interest, I may break 200 million. I don't even do my own business anymore; I have a team of investors and business analysts do it for me. I just sign the papers they send me, say "Yes, George" or "No, George" to my accountant over the phone, and let them worry about the rest.
A college friend of mine visited my house the other day, unannounced. Manuel and I were working in the garden, silently, when I heard a familiar voice say behind me in a sardonic voice, "Now that's an unexpected sight." I guess you could say it was: a multi-millionare covered in mud and working in the dirt with his Mexican help, sweat streaming down his brow. I stood up and walked with my friend, a man named Mike, to my kitchen, where I poured both of us a drink. I had water, he had scotch.
But now I do all my own gardening. The last time they came, I gave each man 10,000 dollars cash and told them to buy themselves something nice. One man actually fainted when he opened his briefcase filled with cash, The top emblazoned in gold writing his name, Manuel. Manuel still comes by to help out occasionally, but he won't let me pay him. Usually we just sit in silence as we weed, water, and plant new flowers in the garden.
I don't have a wife or kids. Hell, I'm what one could consider a swinging bachelor, the most eligible man in town. I was a multi-millionare at 22, thanks to a series of both smart and lucky real estate purchases when I was a Senior in high school. Through college I worked as hard as any other student does. I went to most of my classes, partied occasionally, got drunk a few times. On my graduation day I got a call from my investment broker, his voice shaking as he told me that I was worth 53.4 million dollars cash, after taxes. I heard the news and responded with, "Thanks, George." And then I hung up, went to dinner with my family, and broke the news. My mother started crying, and my grandfather, a wealthy man in his own right, shook my hand with his eyes gleaming with tears. I went through the motions of happiness and shock. My family wouldn't let me treat them to the dinner.
I bought my father, down in Texas, a large house in the country. It was his life-long dream to be able to live out in the near-wilderness, surviving off of his own land. I made sure he was near a large underground water reserve, from where he could pump his own water. I bought him a few windmills and a generator for electricity. I bought him a new pick-up truck, a new Macintosh computer, and a few other niceties. He quit drinking and smoking, for the most part, and is working on the next great American novel. His girlfriend, and probably wife number 6, lives with him in their countryside estate. He calls once a week, just to see how things are. We talk for 5 or ten minutes, then hang up until next time. There's never really anything new to talk about. Sure, there are the everyday life moments that we all chat about; reading a new book, seeing a great movie on HBO ("a classic, how did I miss it?" he always says), or about something that the dog I bought him did. For all intents and purposes, one could say that my aging father will live out his remaining life in happiness. At least much more happy than probably would have been in his former lifestyle. All thanks to my massive fortune.
It keeps growing, every day. Soon, thanks to lucky stockmarket options and bank interest, I may break 200 million. I don't even do my own business anymore; I have a team of investors and business analysts do it for me. I just sign the papers they send me, say "Yes, George" or "No, George" to my accountant over the phone, and let them worry about the rest.
A college friend of mine visited my house the other day, unannounced. Manuel and I were working in the garden, silently, when I heard a familiar voice say behind me in a sardonic voice, "Now that's an unexpected sight." I guess you could say it was: a multi-millionare covered in mud and working in the dirt with his Mexican help, sweat streaming down his brow. I stood up and walked with my friend, a man named Mike, to my kitchen, where I poured both of us a drink. I had water, he had scotch.
