Baby, You're a Rich Man

Chapter 1

I grew up in the small town of Bakersville, Indiana, about 40 miles west of Indianapolis. However, Bakersville was not just your typical blue-collar 20th Century town—it was like a family. It was the type of town in which the mayor staged a farewell ceremony for each of the two Bakersville soldiers who were drafted for the Vietnam War, and the entire town—yep, all 912 of us—showed up. It was the type of town that was so run-down that many households, including my own, did not possess a television, but when it was announced that two Americans would be landing on the moon, people could be seen walking, biking, or driving to houses that did have a TVs, hoping to catch a glimpse of the historical event. It was the type of town in which I was known colloquially as either "Paperboy," or, if I was lucky, "Paperboy Charlie," because that was how I spent my mornings: biking around the town before school, delivering newspapers to households for $1.70 an hour. Today was no exception.

"Charlie, m'boy!" an older gentleman yelled from his porch as I rode past, tossing a paper in his direction.

I pedaled backwards and skidded to a stop. "Hey Mr. Hartley," I called back politely. "What brings you out here so early in the morning?"

"It's a beautiful day to just sit back, enjoy a swig of coffee and a puff of a cigar, and read the paper."

"That it is," I agreed.

"So Charlie, what's the latest news today?" Mr. Hartley prompted me.

"I dunno," I replied honestly. "I haven't read it. I'd guess more about Vietnam."

"Ah yes," Mr. Hartley agreed. "What I'm sure will go down in history as one of the most pointless wars our nation has engaged in. I'm so glad we finally ended our involvement there."

"I am too, Sir. It should be only a matter of time before the war ends for good."

"Well Charlie," the old man sighed at last. "I will see you around."

"See ya, Mr. Hartley!"

And with that, I pressed on, doing my best to ignore the scorching August heat and the fact that my slacks were sticking to my sweaty shins.

I finally arrived at school promptly at 8:00, put my kickstand down, and, without bothering to chain my bike to the bike rack, I rushed inside.

Our entire school—kindergarten through twelfth grade—attended the same building. In fact, only one school building existed in all of Bakersville, so it wasn't like we had any choice. I was in tenth grade, and we had a total class size of 24, which was fairly typical. So it may come as no surprise to you that I was at the top of our class, tied with my best buddy Pete Benson. Not that being the valedictorian of a Podunk Indiana school was that much to brag about, but that didn't stop me from hoping. See, that was the type of guy I was—some people dealt with their own insecurities by picking on other kids. I dealt with mine by setting goals for myself, in the hopes that those goals would give me a stronger feeling of self-worth. It was the reason why, in sixth grade, I decided to start teaching myself the guitar in the hopes of becoming a rock star. It was the reason why, even though college had not even been an option for my parents, who had spent the majority of their childhood in the midst of the Great Depression, and even though my parents had warned me that college would be a tough road for me as well, I continued to work an almost-minimum-wage job while struggling to maintain a 4.0 GPA, hoping against hope that maybe I would be the first in my family to attend.

Because that was the other thing about me: I never really belonged anywhere. I wasn't cool enough to hang with the blocks (or "greasers," as they were still sometimes known), I didn't do enough drugs (or any drugs, really) to hang with the burnouts, and I had no athletic ability, so the jocks were out of the picture. It was just Pete and I, as it always had been since kindergarten, and I didn't plan on changing that anytime soon.