The Good Life

How do you take your coffee? Great, here you go. Oh sure, sit anywhere you’re comfortable.

Well, the bottom line is this: I lost my ass. Can I say that? Ass? Will that offend your readers? You can clean it up before it goes to press if needed, right? Good, then I’ll just tell you my story.

I have to say I was more than a little surprised when I got your call. After all, your magazine is all about accumulating wealth, and well, I’m no longer a wealthy man.

Yes, I suppose you’re right. A lot of people lost their asses—sorry—over the past few years. All right. I assume you know my background?

A quick summary? Of course. Okay, I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version.

I didn’t start out wealthy. I wasn’t an heir to anything except a quarter-interest in a little deli that barely stayed in the black. Didn’t, some years. My oldest sister and her husband run it now and have really turned the place around. They serve pastrami sandwiches and lattes to the commuter crowd, and still have the row of penny-candy jars that were there when our parents owned it. Of course, nothing costs a penny anymore.

Anyway, I scholarshipped—basketball—my way to a university education. Business major. At the time, I assumed I’d come back home with my degree and overhaul the store to ramp up profits. In my last year of college, though, two things happened that changed my direction.

First, I found I had a good head for finance–“all balls and instinct,” one of my professors said—and was offered an internship with one of the big houses. That provided me a foot in the door and tuition reimbursement. I just needed to come up with tuition for the first semester of grad school and I’d be on my way. Of course, I didn’t have nearly enough for that first payment.

Would you like more coffee?

You’re welcome. Yeah, it really is good. There’s something about an old-fashioned percolator that really brings out the flavor of the beans. There are muffins too, if you’d like. I get them from a little bakery in town—a Mom & Pop place. It’s about the size of the deli, now that I think about it. Anyway, they’re terrific. Help yourself.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Grad School. I didn’t have the tuition, but I knew I had to find a way. I couldn’t ask my folks. I was pretty sure they’d have had to mortgage the house for it, so that was out. I wasn’t a heartless bastard—at least not at that time—but I really wanted to see where I could go with a decent education. I was hungry for it—needed it, if that makes sense. That aching, all-consuming feeling, like when you’re a kid and there’s a toy you just have to have, or a teenager, dyin’ to get laid. I thought about selling my car, but the rustbucket wasn’t worth much and besides, I needed it to get back and forth between work and school. I walked around pissed off at the world, suddenly resenting the idea that I was going to end up back at the deli, which went from where I’d planned to be to the last place I could see myself. That’s when fate stepped in the second time.

My parents got killed in a car accident. My dad had a heart attack behind the wheel and ran their wagon straight into a telephone pole. Just like that, they were both gone.

Yes, yes it was. And thank you. You’re very kind.

As it turned out, they wouldn’t have been able to borrow against the house to fund my education, even if I’d asked. The place was already mortgaged to the gills—I’m guessing to keep the store afloat. They really loved that place; it and us kids, that was their life. I’m ashamed to say that at the time, I thought that was a little pitiful.

Do you mind if we walk? I’ve taken to walking a lot since I moved out here. Early in the morning, especially. It’s quiet—although even at its most bustling, this isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. Oh hey, you might want to grab a pair of those Bogs over there—the muck gets pretty thick on the trail sometimes, especially after a rain like we had this morning.

All set?

So anyway, there I was—an angry, immature, grown-up orphan. The dust settled, medical bills and whatnot all paid, and what was left was the deli—holding its own because of the money filtered from the house—and a tiny life insurance policy. Charlotte, my sister, was the only one who wanted the store, so she used her part of the life insurance and some money she and her husband had saved, and bought out the rest of us. I had my tuition money for that first semester.

Hey, look at that! A bald eagle. He landed right in my back yard the other day. Sailed down and sat, then cocked his head around to take in the view. It’s amazing what you see out here. I had no idea. Deer, plenty of them. They scare easily, so you usually just get a glimpse of their backsides, white tails upright as they run off. We even get the occasional bear, or so they tell me in town. I’ve yet to see one and they might just be screwing with me—the re-homed city boy—but that’s the scuttlebutt.

Huh. ‘Scuttlebutt.’ Now there’s a word that’s taken on a kinder new meaning for me. Back in the day—in my old life—it represented a money-making tidbit. Some piece of information—meaningless unless you knew what to listen for—that might just make you a bundle. A rumor, a whisper, it could come from anywhere, so you had to be on the lookout everywhere, constantly. And then you had to act on it fast. People think there’s some mysterious formula, but really that’s all there is to it. Having the right instincts to sort through the rumors and whispers and then the willingness to pounce on the good stuff.

That was the secret to my success. Ha! I owe it all to scuttlebutt. Add to that the ease of available credit—it was amazing, unprecedented; if you could sign your name—and maybe even if not—you could finance pretty much anything. It felt like playing with Monopoly money.

I see your look and no, I’m not talking about anything ‘inside.’ I never did anything that would have the Feds knocking at my door—but I did keep my ear to the ground. And I had a certain style—get in, take whatever came fast and easy, then get out. It worked. It worked very, very well. Until it didn’t.

To be honest, almost nothing worked for a while. The lusty greed that’d built empires got its karmic backlash. With interest. Kind of poetic, if you like that sort of thing.

There’s a lot of finger-pointing out there. “Blame Bush,” they say, or Obama, or stubborn labor unions driving up the cost of doing business here and sending jobs straight overseas, or the media, misrepresenting the truth and making people overconfident—and then unnecessarily panicky, or nine-eleven. Something. Anything. But really, bottom line, it was greed, plain and simple. That’s what causes great rises and falls. It’s always greed.

A bunch of the biggest bellyachers are still doing all right, in the great scheme of things. Their McMansions are gone, but they still have roofs over their heads and supper on their tables, which is more than a lot of people have—more than some of their former clients have.

I lost all my stuff—the stuff I thought I couldn’t live without, but here I am. The funny thing is that while the climb was fairly fast, the descent came even quicker. Bam! There was no time, really, to rethink and regroup. Admittedly, I was a gambler—high risk, high yield and all that. I put most everything on the line. My thinking was: Hey, I’m still young. Now’s the time to take risks.

Traditionally, that’s a decent enough thought process, but then again, ‘traditional’ risk and the kind of risk associated with the manic money grabbing we experienced are two very different things. Swimming across that pond over there versus the English Channel.

There were ducks in that pond all summer, but they’ve headed south to their winter homes. Are you cold? We can go back to the house or into town. It’s about the same distance either way.

Town? Sure, we can grab a sandwich or something. Are you hungry?

Ah, it’s nice and warm in here. And homey, don’t you think? I’ve had everything on the menu at least once. You won’t be disappointed, no matter what you pick. That’s another thing that’s changed. I eat real food now. Meatloaf, smothered pork chops, pasta—and dessert. I rarely skip dessert. Really, save room for some cobbler. You won’t regret it.

It’s funny, I’ve been interviewed by your magazine a fistful of times over the years and until this time, I always rushed through the process, flattered, yet mildly annoyed at taking time away from work to talk to the interviewer. I guarantee every one of them walked away thinking arrogant asshole after we finished. And they would have been right.

Really? You’re surprised? Ah, honesty can take some getting used to, but it grows on you. This whole poorer thing is growing on me, if you want to know the truth. I sleep better, my blood pressure is perfect, and I’ve even lost a few pounds—and that’s with an almost daily dose of pie. It took me a while to get here, but now that I am, I can’t imagine going back, if ‘back’ even exists anymore.

The fall from the top came with a wicked thud. Suddenly, there I was, thirty-seven years old and stunned by what had just happened. Stunned. My friends were all scrambling—panicking, really. It was every man for himself, but to be perfectly frank, that’s how it had been all along, only with bigger bank balances and more decorum.

I use the term ‘friends,’ but I don’t think I’d had an actual friend since childhood, or at least since college. Those guys, my ‘work friends’—my associates and peers—we made up a friendly enough network, but I’d hardly say we were friends. Friends don’t scatter at the first sign of trouble like cockroaches when the Orkin guy shows up, but that’s what we all did, myself included.

We went from big-shots in expensive suits to regular guys in a blink. The problem was that none of us remembered how to be regular guys. Houses were lost, company cars and other perks vanished. Hell, a few even faced the possibility of jail time. I can’t tell you how many marriages buckled under the pressure. Mine did. Nikki was something. Gorgeous. Not just beautiful—there are lots of beautiful women out there—but drop-dead, holy shit, who is that girl, gorgeous.

When the money ran out, Nikki left. Because we—I guess I, was so sure that the good times weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, pretty much everything we had was really owned by the bank. We didn’t have any kids, so there wasn’t even anything to fight over.

Nikki said she didn’t want kids because pregnancy would ruin her figure and at the time, that sounded reasonable to me. Who knows, maybe she just didn’t want to have kids with me. And who could blame her? I wouldn’t have wanted to have kids with me. I was selfish and shallow and money-hungry. I worked all the time; even when I wasn’t actually at work, I was thinking about work. But that’s what she said—no kids because they’d ruin her body.

Don’t print any of that. She’s out there somewhere trying to build a new life for herself too, and she doesn’t need me shooting my mouth off, making her sound like some self-absorbed bimbo. Yeah, she left right after the money did, but looking back, money was all I ever really gave her anyway. And I was self-absorbed, too. Enough for the both of us.

So, at thirty-seven, I found myself no longer rich, unhappily single, and walking around in a four-thousand-dollar suit with no clue what the hell to do next. So, I did what any logical thinking person would do. I moved to a cabin so small that it would fit inside my old living room with space left over, three miles from the nearest town and a world away from the city. Yeah, that wasn’t impulsive or anything.

Do I miss that life? Honestly? No. I look back and don’t even recognize that guy. I live in jeans now—jeans and tee-shirts and lumberjack flannels. At the end of my workday, I walk away and leave the job behind; I don’t stew over much of anything anymore. I read—and not business journals—and I do a whole lot of what I would have called ‘wasting time.’ I drink decaf, for Christ’s sake.

I wish it hadn’t ended the way it did, but I’m glad it’s over. Maybe it had to go that way because let’s face it, if the cash was still flowing in a heady whitewater rush, I’d probably be in there paddling like a madman, completely oblivious to the possibility of capsizing, without the simple sense to wear helmet and life-vest, and living on nothing with more substance than a cheap adrenaline charge. So nope, no regrets. Life’s too short for that, anyway.

You’re welcome. And thank you, too. It’s been my pleasure. Did you get everything you needed?

Good, good. Perfect word, by the way: ‘plenty.’ That’s exactly right. I too, have plenty—more than enough. I’d say that I’m blessed. Life, this life, is very, very good.

~*~*~*~*~*~

GBE #65, Fiction, Prompt: “Begin or end (or both) with a question.”

NOTE: This piece was written some years back, which might be obvious in its retelling. It’s a busy week and this one met the criteria for the prompt, so win/win.