The Man Who Folded Himself. David Gerrold
I asked. Stupid question.
“In stocks, bonds, properties. Things like that.”
“I can’t touch it then, can I?
He looked at me and smiled. “I keep forgetting, Danny, How impatient you were—are.” He corrected himself, then looked across at me; his gaze wavered slightly. “You don’t need it right now, do you?
I thought about it. One hundred and forty-three million dollars. Even if they delivered it in fifties, the apartment wasn’t that big. “No, I guess not.”
“Then we’ll leave it where it is,” he said. “But it’s your money. If you need it, you can have it.”
One hundred and forty-three million dollars. What would I do with it—what couldn’t I do with it? I had known my parents had left me a little money, but—
One hundred and forty-three million—!
I was having trouble swallowing.
“I thought it was in trust until I was twenty-five,” I said.
“No,” he corrected. “It’s for me to administer for you until you’re ready for it. You can have it any time you want.”
“I’m not so sure I want it,” I said slowly. “No—I mean, of course, I want it! It’s just that—” How to explain? I had visions of myself trapped in a big mansion surrounded by butlers and bodyguards whose sole duty was to make sure that I dusted the stacks of bills every morning. One hundred and forty-three million dollars. Even in hundreds, it would fill several closets. “I’m doing okay—” I started to say, then stopped. I didn’t know what to say.
Uncle Jim frowned. “Yes, I keep forgetting. There’s been so much—Danny, I’m going to increase your allowance by an extra thousand dollars a week, but I want you to do something to earn it.”
“Sure,” I said, delighted in spite of myself. This was a sum of money I could understand. “What do I have to do?”
“Keep a diary.”
“A diary?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean write things down in a black book every day? Dear diary, today I kissed a girl, that kind of stuff?”
“Not exactly. I want you to record the things that seem important to you. Type out a few pages every day, that’s all. You can record specific incidents or just make general comments about anything worth recording. All I want is your guarantee that you’ll add something to it every day—or let’s say at least once a week. I know how you get careless sometimes.”
“And you want to read it—?” I started to ask.
“Oh, no, no, no—” he said hastily. “I just want to know that you’re keeping it up. You won’t have to show it to me. Or anyone. It’s your diary. What you do with it or make of it is up to you.”
My mind was already working—an extra thousand dollars a week. “Can I dictate it and have someone type it up for me?”
He shook his head. “It has to be a personal diary, Danny. That’s the whole purpose of it. If it has to pass through someone else’s hands, you might be inhibited. I want you to be honest.” He straightened up where he sat, and for a moment he looked like the Uncle Jim I remembered, tall and strong. “Don’t play any games, Danny. Be truthful in your diary. If you’re not, you’ll only cheat yourself. And put down everything—everything that seems important to you.”
“Everything,” I repeated dumbly.
He nodded. There was a lot of meaning in that word.
“All right,” I said. “But why?”
“‘Why?’” He looked at me. “You’ll find out when you write it.” As usual, he was right.
I’m not fooled. Uncle Jim is trying to teach me something. This isn’t the first time he’s thrown me into the deep end of the pool.
Okay, this is it. At least this is today’s answer:
There’s a point beyond which money is redundant.
This is not something I discovered just this week.
I’ve suspected it for a long time.
A thousand dollars a week “spending money” (—like what else are you going to do with it?—) gives you a lot of freedom to do whatever you want. Within limits, of course—but those limits are wide enough to be not very restricting. Increase them to two thousand dollars a week and you don’t feel them at all. The difference isn’t that much. Not really.
Okay, so I bought some new clothes and compact discs and a couple of other fancy toys I’d had my eye on—but I’d already gotten used to having as much money as I’d needed (or wanted), so having that much more in my pocket didn’t make that much more difference.
I just had to start wearing bigger pockets, that’s all.
Well—
I like to travel too. Usually, about once or twice a month I’d fly up to San Francisco for the weekend, or something like that. Palm Springs, Santa Barbara, Newport, San Diego. Follow the sun, that’s me.
Since Uncle Jim increased my allowance, I’ve been to Acapulco, New York, and the Grand Bahamas. And I’m thinking about Europe. But it’s not all that fun to travel alone—and nobody I know can afford to come along with me.
So I’m staying home almost as much as before.
I could buy things if I wanted—but I’ve never cared much about owning things. They need to be dusted. Besides, I have what I need.
Hell, I have what I want—and that’s a lot more than what I need. I have everything I want now.
Big deal.
I think it’s a bore.
So that’s what Uncle Jim wanted to teach me. Money isn’t everything. In fact, it isn’t anything. It’s just paper and metal that we trade for other things.
I knew that already, but it’s one thing to know it theoretically; it’s another thing to know it from experience.
Okay. So, if money isn’t anything, what is?
I didn’t exactly drop out of the university—I just sort of faded away.
It was a bore.
I found I had less and less to say to my classmates. I call them my classmates because I’m not sure they were ever my friends. We weren’t talking on the same levels.
Typical conversation: “—can I borrow twenty bucks, she is so hot, gotta find a job, everybody hates that instructor, you wanna get high, I couldn’t get my car running, my ten o’clock class is a bitch, you wanna hang, lend me ten willya, what’re you gonna do this weekend—”
They couldn’t sympathize with my problems either. “Problems? With two thousand dollars a week, who’s got problems?”
Me.
I think.
I know something is wrong—I’m not happy. I wish I knew why.
I wish the other shoe would drop. Okay, Uncle Jim. I got it about the money. Where’s the rest of the