After signing and dating both checks, Greg sat in his famished-looking bedroom, staring at his seven-year-old computer that a friend had sold him for less than a hundred dollars. He had a couple of basic programs installed and a cheap Internet service running off banners and pop-ups, but no real drive to use it. He had tried to get established once by setting up an e-mail account with some company promising him free storage but realized a month too late that free storage had essentially meant no more than ten e-mails at a time–including junk mail. After the tenth message he was charged ten cents for each additional message and twenty cents for anything that came with an attachment. The friend who had sold him the computer had warned him about the scammer e-mailing company the following month after many complaints had stacked against them, but by then it was too late and he owed them an additional fifty dollars. After that incident Greg vowed to never use e-mail again, but his friend signed him with another, more reputable company called AOL, and his problems seemed to have lessened a bit.
As he contemplated his future and the moves required for him to reach it, he thought of an option that sounded foolproof. People at school had discussed openly time and again about an online trading company called eBay, talking about how a member could buy and sell nearly anything for any price. Some students had made a living selling crap on eBay, stuff like model ships, unopened packs of Garbage Pail Kids, and old baseball gloves. One guy had even paid for his entire semester by selling his dad’s mint-condition set of encyclopedias. It made Greg curious about eBay’s mechanics and how he could make the system work to his advantage.
When he stared at his blank monitor, he envisioned before him a huge marketing empire that could rescue him from his financial nightmare. As his eyelids grew heavy and his cheeks tightened, he concentrated hard on the screen, focusing on the random shapes in his mind. He knew his eyes were playing tricks on him, but he didn’t care. He could actually see the buildings of success rising toward him. The image looked like that computer game he had seen his neighbor playing a few nights earlier when he went to borrow a bath towel, SimCity 4. Through eBay, his future rise from poverty would become like that computerized city. And he would become its mayor. What he had learned from his classmates was going to set him free. Looking to capitalize on this information he resolved to turn on his computer, find this eBay place, and transform his hard-earned assets into pure gold. The plan was foolproof.
His first inclination was to call up a search engine and type in the word ebay, but he figured the company had probably named its Web site after itself, so he typed it in the address bar instead, followed by the famed dot com. After a minute or so of page loading, the site miraculously appeared in his monitor and Greg’s hopes for financial liberation finally came true. He saw before him a homepage filled with membership requests and info about how best to navigate the sales world.
As he stared at the site specific navigational bar, Greg became tempted to scour the place for additional toys for his apartment, but stopped himself, making a gentle note that he was there only to sell. Of course, as he pondered the thought, he realized that selling anything meant owning fewer things than he already had. The fact that he had even arrived at this page was an act of desperation.
He scanned his room for anything he wouldn’t miss. As he took inventory he noted that he’d undoubtedly need his bed in the coming months. He also noted there was no way he’d abandon his television or floor lamp. Perhaps, he thought, there was something attached to the bed or the lamp he could dismiss, or maybe an additional trinket sitting on top of the television. But there wasn’t. Not the best start for a man looking to grow his online empire.
Next he figured he’d find something in his closet, but on careful observation he realized he needed his clothes and shoes. When that failed, he searched the rest of his apartment for that token to financial salvation.
At the end of his search he did find a few items worth discarding, though he wasn’t sure how much he could actually get for them: his dish detergent was among the list (he could rinse his plates clean), as was his toothbrush (he could brush his teeth with his finger), his Taco Bell cups (he had about twenty of them), his Subway cups (he had twice as many as those), his plunger (it was already in the bathroom when he’d moved in), his hairbrush (he had a plastic comb in his closet, somewhere), his oven mitts (he never cooked), his ten-year-old pair of tennis shoes (they were so beaten they no longer stuck to his feet), and a couple pairs of underwear (he could always reverse whatever he had leftover). In the end, he thought if someone was needy enough, he could earn enough to cover part of his utility bills.
Visions of economic waterfalls danced in his head as he imagined the masses pouring over the entries. Images filled his mind of short people, tall people, skinny people, fat people, each fighting over the rights to own the masterpieces that made up his stuff. In his folding chair he leaned back and placed his hands behind his neck, exhaling with relief that his financial problems were finally over.
He took a few minutes to register with the site and make entries for his items. He didn’t have the means to show pictures, but he did write intriguing descriptions for each one–his favorite being that they had been used only once. When he finished setting the parameters for each object, he sat back and waited for the auction to begin. He set the bids to close after seven days; he figured that would allow ample time for his prices to skyrocket without having to miss the deadlines for his bills.
But after seven days of frequent checking, with minimal food or bathroom breaks in between, Greg discovered, to his horror, that nobody in the world really wanted his stuff. It seemed the only thing that stood even a remote chance was the oven mitts because the pair was in relatively good condition–okay, perfect condition–but the only bid it had gotten was for a dollar.
He was crushed. As he poked around the corners of his apartment, faced with the same items he had tried pawning off to worldwide traders, he felt tears trickling from his eyes. He wanted so badly to become economically free, but that dream seemed distant now. He couldn’t get a job, no one wanted his stuff, and he still had debt up to his eyeballs from rent, traffic tickets, and college tuition. For the first time in his life he thought it was time to return home.
But then he wouldn’t know what to do. His parents were in no position to take care of him. His dad mopped a football stadium for a living–there was no support in that. And getting back? His car was a clunker, running off its last inch of rusty axle. There was no way he could run from his failure because there was nowhere to run to. As it turned out, regardless of his post-high school ambitions, he had set out on an adventure that would swallow him whole. All because no one wanted to buy his underwear on eBay.
Greg melted in bed, staring at his ceiling for three days straight. The depression over his merchandising failure pushed him to paralysis. Emotionally, his wits escaped him and physically, his health toppled into sickness. After a while he felt the underside of his skin crawl from the stress that ate away inside. He knew that if he didn’t move soon, he would disintegrate into his mattress, failing to set foot on the floor again.
And that was what he wanted now.
On the fourth day, his ten-dollar phone rang from a distant corner of his room. At first he didn’t want to move, but he figured it was rude of him to ignore the caller entirely, so he oozed his way over the edge of his bed, dropped to his belly in a soft plop, and slowly slid across the floor by swaying his knees. When he finally reached the phone and knocked it off its base with his chin, the guy on the other end spoke in a virtual shout. It was one of Greg’s friends from class.
“Greg, where’ve you been?” asked Jeff. “The cat detailing assignment was due today.”
“The what?” Greg didn’t really care.
“The cat detailing assignment…for sociology. Remember?”
“I don’t care.”
“That was half our grade.”
“Then I guess I fail. Good-bye.”
; “Dude, are you all right? This doesn’t sound like you.”
“I have to go.”
“You didn’t blow up your cat, did you?”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“Well, then why are you acting so weird?”
“I’m just depressed right now.”
“Depressed? What? Come on, you don’t get depressed.”
“I’m depressed now. Leave me alone.”
“If you’re depressed, then why don’t you hang with us tonight? We’re going to a club.”
“I can’t afford to leave my house.”
“Why, because of unemployment? Whatever. I’ll spot you the cover. Get dressed. I’m coming to pick you up. And I’m bringing a cat so you can draw it and finish your detailing assignment.”
Part 6: To Love a Gold-digger
Somehow, around ten o’clock, Greg ended up standing at the front door of the Fiddlesticks Nightclub down the clogged neon-lit arteries of the city’s downtown area. He assumed he could weasel out of it had he slipped a dummy in the passenger seat of a taxicab, but he couldn’t find one amid his sparse inventory, nor could he find a cab willing to cart one to the club for free. So he threw on his best buttoned shirt, gargled some toothpaste with some tap water, and hopped in his piece of junk station wagon. And that’s how he ended up at the front door of the nightclub. His wallet was empty, of course, but his friend Jeff made good on his promise. He stood there waiting for Greg with a five-dollar bill in hand.
“There’s a girl inside I want you to meet,” he said, as he slipped the bill into his hand.
Greg still felt darkly depressed over his eBay disaster and didn’t want to meet a girl for fear it would intensify the pain. He didn’t have much female experience to begin with, but he knew they didn’t particularly gravitate toward guys on the verge of homelessness, so the last thing he wanted was to discuss not only his empty treasury but his life without a job or shred of survival ambition.
“Tonight’s not a good night.”
“Why, because you’re broke? Nonsense. There’s no reason why you have to enlighten her on that secret.”
“But what if it comes up?”
“One word: misdirection.”
As depressed as he felt, a sense of laughter echoed from Greg’s lungs at the sound of Jeff’s response. After a moment’s thought he figured it was worth a shot.
“Fine, we’ll see what happens.”
And that’s what he did; he saw what happened:
$$$
“Greg,” said Jeff, with a smile as fake as that of a Hollywood actor’s. “This is Mandy. She’s a masseuse over at the day spa.”
“Great.”
Greg extended his hand to the blonde beauty standing next to the bar. She took it. Some flowery-scented perfume emanated from her neck while some beer-scented breath emanated from her mouth.
“Nice to meet you,” she shouted over the dance music with an eager smile. “Jeff told me a lot about you.”
“Really? Like what?”
“He says you’re studying to be the next Dr. Phil. I think that’s awesome. So many people in the world have so many problems these days that we need someone with expert advice to solve our issues with three minutes of counseling because who really has the time to sit down for more than three minutes?”
“Not I, certainly. Jeff, what about–”
Greg looked over to discover that Jeff had slipped away. He scanned the crowded room, but couldn’t locate him anywhere.
“Hmm,” he continued, “I guess he’s gone.”
“Better for us to get to know each other, right?” Mandy held her smile.
“Yeah. So you’re a masseuse, are you?”
“Yep, just got my license a couple months ago. You’d be surprised what people will pay for a backrub.”
“A lot?”
“More than is probably necessary. It’s actually a bit amusing because the same people come back every week to have a procedure done, knowing full well they’ll be out of whack within a few hours, but are willing to shell out sixty, ninety, or even a hundred dollars a session just to feel a small spurt of comfort. I mean, a good friend could give the same quality back massage I give for free, but because I’m a ‘professional,’ they think they’re getting a bargain. All they’re really doing is wasting their money. Sure, they’re lining my pockets, which is great for me, but if they knew there were better therapists out there, they wouldn’t be so quick to come to me. Not that anyone needs to know that, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So what classes have you taken to earn your Dr. Phil status?”
“Well, I’m taking sociology right now. That’s about it. Don’t yet know how to contact Oprah.”
Her smile weakened, but the upward hooks in the corners of her mouth lingered.
“That’s one of the basic courses, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, well I’m still trying to finish my prerequisites. It takes a little time to build up the reputation I’m working for.”
“Well, as long as you get there eventually, right?”
“Exactly.”
“So what do you do in the meantime?”
“What do you mean?”
“For money. What do you do for income while you’re still in school?”
And, of course, this was the question he had hoped she wouldn’t ask but knew in his heart she would ask anyway. The first thing he thought about was misdirection.
“What did you do for cash while you were in school?” he deflected.
“I worked in a pharmacy for four years, realized I wasn’t making enough to really be happy, so I quit and went to work in the day spa. That was six months ago. Now I’m a certified masseuse who makes lots and lots of money.”
“And you like money, don’t you?”
“It buys the things I want.”
“I see.”
And somehow this revelation made him even more depressed–if that were possible. Since childhood people had told him how important economic success was, but it wasn’t until now that he understood why. As he looked in this girl’s eyes he realized it wasn’t having riches that would make him happy, but that having riches would make the woman happy. So the problem he faced wasn’t the lack of stuff he had to fill his apartment, but the lack of stuff he had to impress this girl with. If he were rich, he would be problem-free. But, because he was poor, he was problem-consumed. If this girl found out the truth, he wouldn’t get past this initial conversation. And, even though that wouldn’t have been a problem five minutes ago, he didn’t want to blow his chances at having a future with her now that he had started getting to know her. So he decided he would puff up his chest, make another attempt at landing a good job, and do whatever he could to get rich quickly. He decided the best road to take after this night was to become a masseuse.
$$$
And that’s precisely what Greg set out to do. The next day he borrowed a phonebook from a neighborhood restaurant and scoured the yellow pages for a massage therapy school. On finding what he thought was the cheapest place–he called schools with only basic listings–he requested information regarding tuition, duration, and job placement. The school of his choice said it would offer classes in a month.
Greg had to make a firm decision: one month in his world meant the difference between sleeping in a room and sleeping in a gutter. Holding out that long would’ve been like testing the duration one could handle a dog biting him on the ankle. A prize might have been waiting at the end of the test, but the road getting there could’ve gotten him killed. Of course, he had no choice; he had to stick it out. That meant working anywhere, doing anything, and doing it for many, many hours a week. In the end, it meant having to withdraw from the university.
He resolved not to stay out forever, though, because sooner or later he would need his psychology degree, which he had switched to from philanthropy because he had thought there was more money in it, and because he really hadn’t known what a philanthropist di
d. But there was clearly no room for his college education in the meantime, so he elected to drop it.
When Monday came, his friend Jeff called to ask where he’d been hiding, but Greg never gave him a straight answer. He just claimed that he would return to class whenever he knew the time was right. The ambiguous statement didn’t leave Jeff all too satisfied, but Greg dodged his unrelenting questions by asking about the girl from the club, and whether he knew how to reach her. He hadn’t gotten the information from her personally because, just before he was about to ask, she was distracted by another girl’s shiny bracelet and proceeded to ask a million questions about it, which Greg found rather dull, so he left. Fortunately, Jeff had run into her a couple of nights earlier and managed to get her phone number. He graciously passed it to Greg, who in turn chose to store it in a safe place.
The girl, Mandy, turned out to be easily reached. Every time he called, which he kept to a cool three times a week, she answered on the fourth ring, just before the voicemail kicked in. They typically spent twenty to thirty minutes talking about life, ambitions, and the money that came with serving both, and ended each call with an “I miss you,” or “wish you were here,” or something cheesy along those lines. On several occasions, Mandy tried to talk Greg into going out with her, most notably to fancy restaurants and comedy clubs, but Greg misdirected her seductions by insisting he was too tired that night and would try to go out later in the week. The only times he elected to be “alert” and “ready to go” were the times they agreed to meet at a park, or any place allowing free parking, free entertainment, or didn’t involve him coming to pick her up, or meeting her in the parking lot where she might see his car. Those times, of course, were the best times of his life.