A few weeks ago, when the Powerball was around $300 million, one of the chefs at my day job took up a collection among the employees at five bucks a head to buy as many tickets as he could. “Remember the Lunch Ladies!” he said. And so almost everybody pitched in for her share, and we had one of the best workdays ever. The driving force was the series of great, spotty conversations we had throughout the day as each of us considered what we’d do with our multi-million-dollar cut. I guess that’s what you’re really paying for when you buy a ticket. The dream.
Some of us knew right away what we’d do. For others it was a fantastic exercise in imagining a Donald Trump-style, full-tilt boogie cash wallow. For those folks, it wasn’t a matter of if they’d quit their day jobs or whom they would sever ties with. It was a matter of how they would do those things. One guy spoke wistfully of paying his mother-in-law a monthly stipend if she’d say things to him like, “You’re right!” and “I’m so glad my daughter married you!” for the rest of their natural lives. He guessed it probably would cost him about five hundred dollars a month, a bargain.
Later, I asked my husband what he would do with a few extra mil, and he said that he might quit his job. He wouldn’t make a big production out of it; there would be no rebel yells or end-zone strutting. He’d just come in, announce that it was his last day, and knock one item off every desk he passed on his way out.
“Of course I wouldn’t be selfish about it,” he said. “I’d probably buy the freedom of one of my fellow slaves, my best friend. My best friend would be determined on the spot by a talent competition. Break dancing, yodeling, whatever people felt comfortable with.”
I’ve never been rich, but once when I was in my mid-twenties, I had about forty thousand in the bank, cash. I don’t exactly remember what happened to it, although according to my journals from that time, it looks like I spent it all on eyeliner and beer. You don’t have to tell me what happens when money comes before breeding.
I know money can’t buy happiness. What it can buy are things, and sometimes things can make people very happy. Let’s say that someone in your field of vision parades his new thing in front of you. You can go out and purchase a bigger, newer thing to assuage your deep-seated fear of irrelevancy. The same feeling of satisfaction can be had whether you’re on Lake Street shopping the Jacklyn Smith collection under the Blue Light or off on safari in a $2,500 Ralph Lauren khaki camisole, hunting the magic goose that craps Fabergé eggs.
But if I came into a sudden fortune, I’d want to make sure it bought an experience, some form of change. That’s why I think I’d buy a congressman. The idea came to me when I learned that Rep. Randall “Duke” Cunningham kept an actual price list for bribes, noting how much defense lobbyists would have to slip him in order to win multi-million-dollar Pentagon contracts. “Duke” is in the slammer now, after pleading guilty to tax evasion, conspiracy to commit bribery, and a raft of other charges. I wonder if he has a new bribe menu posted in his prison cell. “1 pack Camels = 10 mins. of ‘personal services.’”
I know just the congressman I’d buy. That guy from Texas’ 22nd District, Tom DeLay. As the money man for the Republican Congress these last six years, he understands the role that moolah plays in politics, so I wouldn’t have to spell it out for him. Also, I expect he’d come pretty cheap right now, since, after being indicted on felony money-laundering and conspiracy charges, he announced his plans to retire from Congress. News reports say he’s down to the last $1.3 million in his legal-defense fund, so it’s a buyer’s market.
Once I had The Hammer in hand, I’d make him vote against all of his current positions. It would be fun to force him to make a stirring farewell speech calling for universal health care, lobbying reform, and a stop to the gerrymandering of political districts. I’d keep him on retainer for life, so even if Fox News hired him as a commentator, I could order him to advocate for clean government, the separation of church and state, and bipartisan cooperation. That would drive him crazy!
Finally, if he’s convicted, I’d make The Exterminator serve his full term without any wussy pleading for a pardon or assignment to a country club prison. I’d have him ask to go to a real hellhole where he could apply his experience with rats and cockroaches. Not only could he contribute there, he could grow. As the new guy on the cellblock he would learn to forge alliances and earn influence without corrupt outlays of cash and expensive gifts. He might find that a little tenderness goes a long way.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m cleaning out my change jar and heading over to the gas station.
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