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"Did you hear the
news?" asked my friend, Simpson, when I picked up the phone last
week.
"No. What?"
"Vladimir sold his business to
that big conglomerate."
I felt that familiar pang of uneasiness
deep in the pit of my stomach. "How much?" I asked.
"About $10 million."
"Noooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!! $10
million!"
"Something like that," said
Simpson, enjoying his role as shockmeister.
"$10 MILLION!" I stupidly
repeated. Then I remembered the proper routine. Simpson and I had known
Vladimir for a long time and had admired his business expertise. We also
considered him a friend.
"Good for Vladimir," I said.
"Yeah, he works hard," added
Simpson. "I’m happy for him."
"Me, too."
"He’s a lucky guy."
"Had the right concept at the
right time."
"Yeah, fell right into it, face
first."
"$10 million. You gotta be happy
for him."
"I am. Happy. Good for
Vladimir."
"Think he’ll blow it on
something stupid?"
"Hope so."
Uh, oh. Our true feelings were
creeping through. Time for a little capitalist analysis.
"You jealous?" I asked.
Simpson paused. "Maybe a little. Are you?"
"I think it’s only
natural."
"I had two reactions when I first
heard the news," said Simpson. "My initial response was total
depression. Here I am working my butt off and crazy old Vladimir goes and
sells his stinking business for $10 million. How do you catch up to
something like that? I’ll probably never reach those heights."
"Probably not," I said,
agreeing a little too quickly. "What was your second reaction?"
"The depression over my humble and
meager business situation eventually turned to hope. The whining about
Vladimir’s good fortune slowly transformed into an inspiration. If
Vladimir could do it, then, by golly, so could I."
"Tally Ho, Simpson, tally
ho," I cried. "That’s commendable. So you really are happy for
Vladimir?"
"Not in the least. It should have
been me. But I’m happy that he gave me hope it could be done."
"How brutally honest of you. I
felt the some way."
"That it gave you hope?"
"No, that it should have been
me."
"Exactly!" cried Simpson,
giddily realizing I was every bit his equal when it came to being shallow
and vindictive.
"But I agree with you about the
hope part, too," I continued. "I remembered my wise old father
talking about how much it used to bother him to feel the stares of the
street bums when he climbed into his fancy new sports car after work each
day. Then he decided the stares weren’t hateful. They were hopeful.
Those bums were saying ‘Someday I’ll be driving that car.’"
"Your father sure has a gift for
rationalizations," said Simpson.
"Hey, the car was stolen a few
months later," I said, quickly defending my family. "Maybe one
of those bums did end up driving it."
"And besides, you’re missing the
point," I added. "I’m agreeing with you, but it’s all
relative. When it comes to Vladimir, we’re the bums and we’re
self-centered enough to believe it can happen to us."
"Darn right it can," said
Simpson. "Vladimir’s got nothing on either of us. He’s no
smarter, no more hard-working, and no more ambitious."
"That’s right. He just got a
little lucky."
"Besides," added Simpson,
"he isn’t really getting $10 million. He’s going to get hit with
a huge tax bill."
"That’s right." I agreed.
"And don’t forget that some of his employees get a piece of the
action."
"He’s probably paying some huge
commissions, too."
"I bet when all is said and done
he only comes out with about $4 million in his pocket."
"Maybe even less."
"Maybe."
"Feel better?"
"A little. How about you?"
"Getting there."
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