A Billion to One
by
Michael Walker
A few years ago I woke up from a sleep as common as any other. After my usual
morning stretching and coffee ritual, I went for a wake-me-up jog. It was a
crisp and clear November morning and the run felt great. While leaving, I passed
my neighbor's house and waved as he got his morning paper from the sidewalk.
"Morning, Jeremy," I yelled as I had every day for nearly ten years. Jeremy
smiled and waved back.
When I returned from my run about half an hour later, there was a situation
brewing on my lawn and at my front door. And an impressive sight it was, too,
what with the mini-cams, vans, and reporters. I figured they'd finally caught on
to my cheating on the crossword puzzles.
I was wrong.
"Sir!" one man screamed into my face as he stuck a microphone up my nostril,
"What does it feel like to be a billionaire?"
Before I had a chance to respond or even gasp, another guy said, "Hold it
boys, the man doesn't even know yet."
"Know what?" I blurted.
"Just that you're the recipient of a cashier's check made out in the amount
of one billion dollars."
"Yeah, Bud," said a squeaky-voiced guy with a hat that looked like it was
made in the thirties, "tax clear!"
I stared blankly at these creatures on my lawn. I stared at the check made
out to M. Walker.
"You know," a gruff woman added, "given by an anonymous benefactor." "Never
mind all that," a surly one growled while pushing me up against my own house
like an intruder, "sign this."
"Say cheese!" bellowed another.
"Tell us in your own words -- " started a third.
Now, I like to think of myself as a level-headed guy, a serene individual.
Quiet- tempered, not easily shaken. A rock.
Under these extreme circumstances, though, I got thunderously jubilant. I had
just become a billionaire. Money to burn, baby!
So instantly I began to line up the leagues of friends, relatives, and
comrades to help with my new found wealth.
A Mittyesque sense of the true power of cash descended on me yet I did not
want this good fortune to change me in some foul or foolish way. I would become
a philanthropist, a Rockefeller among Walkers.
I would invest most of the money, of course. I'd pay off all my debt, buy my
parent's a second house, and pay them back for my college education in 1996
dollars. I'd pay back the money I'd collected when I was on unemployment, since
this great insurance plan had saved my skin. I'd notify the Internal Revenue
Service and gladly let them have their rightful share of my winnings. In fact,
during my moment of dis-clarity, I even considered sending them back the money
they'd refunded me over the years.
In addition, I'd pay all the past due bills I'd neglected or "misplaced" over
the years.
As my head swirled, I next figured I'd employ high-powered attorneys from New
York to handle my money. I'd take legal advantage of tax loopholes and buy a
truly sweet computer.
I'd throw money at strangers, buy food for neglected families, help shelter
the poor, and purchase proper headstones for those without.
From this moment on, my attitude changed -- I was different. I promised myself
that I would give generously to my church and buy lots of Girl Scout cookies. I
wasn't sure what Boy Scouts sold, but I'd by a lot from them too.
And it wasn't only the poor I'd help. When Bill Gates came knocking on my
door for help, I'd be there for him.
I'd arrange to have hearts, lungs, kidneys, and other organs sent all around
the world to people in need. I'd personally-sign cards of cheer to all people in
need of encouragement and personally answer every bit of my mail -- even the
letters from my Aunt Clara. My phone would be on day and night -- and I wouldn't
screen my calls by secretary or machine.
Finally, I'd build the great Doris Day Animal Center for our unfortunate and
needful non-human friends.
Of course, I'd do all these things with no expectation of return. My glad
heart would beat strongly with every dollar I gave, and more so when done so
anonymously.
Then, for some reason, fear set in. I suddenly remembered reading about the
ruined lives of people who had come across great sums of money. Contest winners,
lottery winners, the horse races, recipients of anonymous gifts. Each one of
them had been plagued by all sorts of problems. Distant relatives called them
day and night for loans, friends hounded them for dollars, charities solicited
them constantly, and the IRS became nasty. Like the light of the sun setting
over an amusement park, my hopes suddenly began to fade.
"Wait!" I suddenly yelled out, "You've got the wrong person!"
"WHAT?" one of the brutes called out.
"Whaddaya mean the wrong person?" another burped.
"I mean, I'm not who you think I am. I'm me. The one you mean to give that
check to," I said as I searched up and down the street, "Is there -- "
I was pointing at my friend Jeremy Caldwell who was peeking nervously from
behind the curtains in his front window.
"Let's take him!" the gruff woman cried, and in a flash the caravan was
moving across the street toward my friend's home.
Relief began for me immediately, settling down like a soft and cool sheet of
rainwater. From where I stood, slouched against the side of my house, I waited
for Jeremy to fall to his knees in gratitude.
Instead, he glared at me from where he stood, and then tossed his hands
wildly into the air. "Not me," he yelled, "he's a liar! I'm no more M. Walker
than my grandmother is. The one you're looking for is over in that house -
THERE!"
To make a long and dreary afternoon short, the motley crew dragged their
stuff from house to house. Up one end of the block they went to the next,
pounding on doors, peering in windows, and accosting innocent people left and
right.
I kept hearing snatches of sentences like, "Billionaire? Oh yeah, sure, I saw
some show like that as a kid!" "Cute idea that anonymous benefactor stuff. Now
get offa my lawn!", and "Ya Allen Funt, right? Allen Funt?" The gist is that
indignation reigned supreme.
The rueful ending to this tale is that the meddlers finally came back to my
house and got ugly. "This is ridiculous," one of them snapped at me, "you're
taking this check right now and depositing it before we leave town." "Or I'll
break ya toes!" the nasty one said.
"Yeah!!" they all chimed in together. I looked over to Jeremy for some kind
of support but he had long since closed his curtains tight.
"This has been a long day and we're sick of your shenanigans!"
Meekly, I responded by saying, "But you can't make me -"
"Oh, we'll make you son, you can bet on it," the biggest one said. Before
they left, they handcuffed me and drove me to my bank. As we sped away from the
curb in front of my house, I saw one of them handing money to the TV crew. "Beat
it," she said, "ya ain't seen any of this."
The next morning I awoke inside the bank vault where the bank manager had
agreed to stow me while I recovered from bruises and similar atrocities
sustained during the drive over. The fiends were gone, but the results of their
handiwork remained. The bank president handed me a passbook with the amount
$1,000,000,000.00 neatly typed in the amount column.
Since then, my life has been hell. To start with, there no media coverage of
any kind; no newspaper, TV, radio -- nothing. The money, the incident at the
bank - except for my bank passbook, it was all as if it never happened.
None of the honor or joy befell me that I thought would soften such a
difficult life transition. Neither did any of the horror stories. Of course,
Jeremy and my other neighbors shut me out of their lives. My uncaring attempt to
better their lives had been an insult. My selfless relatives left me alone when
I told them about my wealth, and Doris Day never returned my phone calls.
Even paying past due bills was a nuisance. My creditors told me to get lost.
"We closed those delinquent accounts years ago."
"I figured that," I told them, "but won't you take my money now?"
"No. And don't get us steamed."
My own bank was pleasant enough to me, but the other local banks were leery
of me at best. "We won't take your money," one of them told me, "no offense."
"No offense!" I cried, "But I want to deposit a quarter of a billion
dollars."
One pointed out a Savings and Loan fixture across the street; another
suggested I stuff it in my mattress.
Wanting to be charitable, I tried handing hundred dollar bills to beggars.
"Very funny," they'd say while tossing the money back to me, "you think I'm
stupid or something? Think I want to have to pay taxes on my income?"
And speaking of taxes, the IRS never bothered me either. Finally I called
them personally and said, "Listen, I've got a billion dollars."
"The taxes were paid on it in advance, you say?" the voice on the other end
of the line asked.
"Yeah," I said, "by the benefactor."
"So what's the problem?"
"Shouldn't you audit me or something?" I pleaded, "Look at my past misdeeds?"
"Mr. Walker," the dubious voice said to me, "where there any misdeeds?"
"No, but - "
"Exactly. So why should we just assume there might be? Look, you're a
billionaire, just get used to it."
I sighed.
"Besides," he added, "we don't have the people power to go chasing every
recipient of these billion dollar checks anymore." Click.
I have to admit I was pretty miffed at the time. Horrified too. However, I've
tried to do what I said what I would with the money. I invested it in the right
places, finding that I make more money now on interest than I have imagined I'd
earn during the course of my entire life.
When I told my parents about my wealth they shrank away in dismay. "Let me
buy you a new house," I told them. "What's wrong with the one we have now?" they
asked.
"Nothing, Mom," I said, "it's just that I want to show my appreciation."
"Get married," my mother said, "we'd appreciate that."
"I'll pay you back for my college education," I offered, "at today's prices."
"Get a job," snapped my father, "at today's salaries."
The crazy nightmare continued when my folks called and told me that they'd
arranged for their funeral. "But mom," I complained, "not only are you too young
to be bothering with that, but I would have liked to help you pay for it."
"Over our dead bodies," said my dad, "we didn't want any of them billion
dollar stuff besmirching our final moments."
Besmirching their final moments? I was beginning to feel like the bubonic
plague.The loneliness of being a rich guy in a town that no longer wanted me
finally got to me. I moved from my lovely small town home and relocated to
Washington, DC. There I found a crazy bank that would have me and settled into a
humble life of anonymity. Today you can see me walking the streets with my
Barneys fedora, jeans, glasses, and knapsack. I always look like I have
someplace to go, but I really don't.
I catch movies now and again, have new friends who are convinced I work a
nine-to-five job, and have managed to blend in with the crowd. Once in a great
while I'll get lucky and find someone I can help. No one, it seems, trusts a
gift over twenty dollars these days. They figure it's either a loan or drug
money.
I'm not really complaining - much. It's just that being a billionaire isn't
what I hoped it would be. I know now that if I had it to do all over again on
that crisp and clear November morning, I'd keep running right passed that camera
crew and their thugs. I'm sure that they would have found me, though, because
they meant business.
Watch out for them, I'm warning you all, watch out for them. Lest you wind up
a wretched soul like me.
-- 30 --
Michael Walker is a billionaire living the guise
of a struggling freelance writer in Washington, DC. He is also the founder
and proprietor of
DREAMWalker Group.
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Thursday December 25, 2003