My wife's initial reaction to turning forty was far worse than turning thirty, so the morning of her fortieth birthday began, much as I'd expected. Thirty-nine had been far worse than thirty, for both of us, just in anticipation of forty, so I'd had a preparatory foretaste. I wasn't yet the wealthiest man in the world, but I was universally listed among the top twenty and on the rise. If nothing else, the people above me on the list kept dying off with their wealth redistributed to multiple heirs or trusts. Either way, it was either diluted or placed somewhere that it would no longer count as anyone flesh and blood individual's fortune, and no one was near to gaining on me from behind. The nearest was my brother and Bob, who surfed along in the wake that trailed behind me, to which I remained largely oblivious. The fact of my obliviousness left my little brother in a perpetual state of incomprehension and frustration.
Regardless, you'd think it'd be simple for me, one of the wealthiest men in the world, to pick out a birthday present for my wife. I was aware that I could afford nearly anything but still had no idea what I could get for her. And I was terrified in anticipation of the day as it approached, even months in advance. In truth, I'd been dreading the day since she'd turned thirty. Those annual milestones of my own left no more impression than my accumulation of wealth during their passing, as if I'd already assumed that I had forever. But, for my wife, her own were a reminder of the finite and ever decreasing amount of time left to us that would run out. So, I needed to find something, short of the only thing that would matter, which would at least lift her spirits and offer her encouragement. Otherwise, I needed to prepare myself for a day from hell with nothing to assuage her despair. I considered locking her in her penthouse dressing room - where she'd transferred the bulk of her collection of wigs-and-things - and allowing her to sip champagne from a straw pushed through the keyhole. Except, the other part of our agreement for birthdays was to make love all day, which required me to be present in the same room, prepared for the physical assault ahead.
Several months before the dreaded event of my wife's fortieth birthday, I attended a charitable event, which I never would, except that my little brother insisted. My responsibility as founder and CEO included maintaining our corporate image by rubbing elbows with other wealthy people - many of whom would also prefer to be someplace else. So, I stood at the edge of a group, like I did that evening when I met my wife. I wasn't unfriendly. I rarely, at least not consciously, did anything to discourage social interaction overtly. I felt no need to dive headfirst when another person entered the room. A small group and I were near enough to the bar to appear that I was in line for a drink rather than lurking when I overheard a part of the conversation that grabbed my attention.
One of the group made an offhand comment that he was looking to divest himself of some investments in which he'd recently lost interest. He mostly wanted to free up some cash for other potential ventures that had presented themselves. Others, apparently aware of the single investment he principally had in mind, smiled to themselves in silent agreement. Some even told him, "Good luck with that." None of them were interested, which they indicated with a range of gestures while outwardly remaining sympathetic to the challenge of reclaiming that bundle of cash anytime soon.
It was a privately held company, the man explained, quite evidently, based on the group's reactions, not for the first time, so he couldn't just call his stockbroker and tell him to offload his shares. He'd need to hire a different kind of broker to locate a buyer and negotiate a deal, which, with the due diligence and all to follow before closing, would require far longer than he'd like. Opportunities were passing him by.
When I heard the name of the company he was looking to sell, it was all I could do to restrain myself from stepping into the group and offering to buy him out without even asking the price. Instead, I took a deep breath and attempted to channel my little brother. I apologized for listening in on their conversation but was somewhat familiar with the company in question. I believed there might be a couple of areas of their research that would be of interest to my company. It would be worth further discussion.
YOU ARE READING
The Words - An Autobiography
Science Fiction"What if God was one of us?" Credit to Eric Bazzilion, and thanks to Joan Osborne for singing his brain-rattling words. Much earlier, my mother promised that if I applied myself, I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. Then, from somewhere, I r...
