Big Things in Far-Away Places — Part 3 (Patreon)

***The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. This post does not constitute, insinuate or recommend an offer to sell, a solicitation of an offer to buy, or a recommendation of exchange, monetary or otherwise, services that are sexual or pornographic in nature.***

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Part 2 is here.

Heather,

Thank you so much for your response. I am glad to hear of your interest, and that you might be willing to entertain me during my time in Dubai.

Hmm. “Entertain.” Well, In For A Penny…

Please find attached a selection of files that might lend themselves to feeling comfortable about my identity, and regarding the intentions that I have described. Please note the file in the enclosed zip marked “OPEN FIRST;” I hope you are comfortable with this initial formality.

Hmm. “Regarding.” At least he didn’t pluralize. “In regard to” would have been acceptable as well. I have never been an English teacher, but I do have my areas of persnickety. [+5 if you can find the grammatical errors in the previous sentence.]. And, hmm. Initial formality… the plot, it thickens.

I hope that you will take your time reviewing these attached materials, and that I can look forward to your response shortly.

Maybe it’s because he’s European. What does, after all, “take your time,” but also “shortly” mean? Is that within the next 24 hours? Or the next 12? Or maybe, within the next three days, or maybe within a week? My grandfather used to work at what toddlers would call ‘a business store,' and while he did a good job adapting to the wonders of the modern age, there was much to be left desired as the tides of change flowed in. I remember him saying how refreshing it was to be able to get a rushed parcel from the opposite side of the country on a Monday; think about it; respond on Wednesday; and be certain that the client wouldn’t see it until Friday. That’s a whole business week. Now, it’s a matter of not being effective if you don’t meet your quota by 3 p.m. The future, as I said in Part 2 of this story, sucks.

Very Sincerely,

Johann.

[His names not Johann. But for the sake of the flow of this story, we shall simply say that it is. A la “Dragnet,” names have been changed, **chung chung.**]

P.S. I tend to talk at length about some concepts. Please know that the stipend for your time and services would gladly increase, should your preferences allow you to participate in such activities. With all this so articulated, please consider these addendums to be optional, but within the realm of the previous articulated terms.

Thank goodness. If he’d have said ‘amendments’ instead of ‘addendums,’ I’d have written him off completely.

But, of course, the “stipend” line caught my attention. It was becoming less and less likely that this was some sort of scheme. I’m not easily pranked in the first place, so if this was a ruse, it was a fucking tight one… One thing at a time, Heather, old gal.

So, time to crack open the zip. I still wasn’t 100% convinced, but this wasn’t my first rodeo, and since I work in this kind of business (copywriting isn’t a profession entirely without its surreptitious nature), I ran it through a virus scanner before double clicking and hitting ‘OK.’ The results came back clean and shiny.

Inside, a variety of files, very organized. At the top of the list, one marked “OPEN FIRST — NDA.” Ahhh, OK.

A PDF, and a brief “read me” text doc.

Heather,

I am sure you can understand that there is a sensitive element to this interaction. Before I share too much about myself, I would very much appreciate some assurance on my end, as I’m sure you can understand. Therefore, I have attached a non-disclosure agreement. Please review, electronically sign, and return to the indicated email address. You will then receive a code that will give you access to the remainder of the files in this document.

—J

Good Lordy-Lord, it was a long one. It still didn’t give me his last name; rather, the name of a company with enough references to “associates, affiliates, and subsidiaries” to make it clear that corporations and people, these days, are interchangeable entities. It took me about a half hour to review this thing, but it seemed to be on-the-level enough — no indications that I was going to be willingly signing over my kidneys — just standard, “don’t you dare talk about this with anyone” defamation preventing legalese, not too dissimilar from a variety of other NDAs I’ve signed in my life. I copied my go-to encrypted signature to the bottom page, dated it, and clicked the handy “send” button.

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach when it flew away. Was I giving this person, who I didn’t know, too much information? I mean, it’s not like I game my SSN, or my phone number, or my bank account info, or anything. A minute passed, and the feeling worsened. Did I miss something? I tried to open one of the files (shouldn’t I have tried that before?!); sure enough, it was encrypted with a passcode.

Another two minutes passed as I refreshed my email and checked my spam. Doesn’t immediately mean… right away? Was it automated? Was it sent to his… I dunno, personal assistant? Some bow-tied 20-something gofer named Franz, or something? Maybe Franz was taking a shit, and would get back to me in a moment. ‘Even Franz has to poop,’ I justified to myself, as I swore to give it the five minutes it would take to reheat some coffee and add a dash of Bailey’s. And Jaegermeister. (I call this particular cocktail a "Heather's Tuesday.")

About halfway through my little upper-downer belt, I kept an ear open for a bell as I distracted myself with some of Seth Meyers’ weekly “Corrections.” (I am a Jackal, if you get the reference, in case anyone is wondering). And just as it was winding down…

Ping!

An unfamiliar address. But thank God. At least, so far, not for naught.

Heather,

Thank you for providing this agreement. Everything checks out. As promised, here is the key to unlock the folders. Please let me know if you have any issues.

[Alphanumeric key here, something like 30fo4Kepp3Nm663FR5]

— J

Long code. But, it worked for the file marked “01. Introduction." Inside that file, a single .mp4 video file. I hovered my finger a moment, an odd thrill running down my back and into my belly. I ignored it, before clicking.

A still image of a man popped onto the screen. A webcam, but elevated to just above eye level, and panned-out enough to show his upper body. Oxford shirt, obviously tailored, one button undone. Sitting in a leather wingback office chair. In the background, dark wood, books, a J.J. Abrams lensflair of light coming in from a window to his left. A dark yellow paint job — no, wait, lightly patterned wallpaper. I pressed ‘Play.’

###

Good afternoon, Heather. Or whatever time it is for you! My name is Johann Andersen. [Again, not his real name.] First, I want to thank you for your response, and for enduring this little pony show so far. I hope, whatever you decide, that I can at least deliver a fine presentation.

I hope that what I have to show you does not overwhelm. My goal is not to present myself as some sort of overzealous figure. In my work, thoroughness is imperative, and this is a habit I tend to apply to many parts of my life.

Oh, the first impression. 

In a past life of my own, I worked in a field that required me to interview individuals who have, as many of us would perceive, extreme monetary wealth. This was back in my C cup days, so I wasn’t treated as quite the oddity I typically am these days. But, I’ve always possessed a mix of shyness that is confused as listening; of directness being construed as curiosity; and as aloofness being misinterpreted as relatability. All the world is a stage, as they say, and through all these qualities, I have an ability, whether I like it or not, to “attract the crazies.” And their cases, rich folks are, always, just a little bit crazy. 

I've learned to spot these characters from a mile away. Not necessarily in a bad way, you understand. It’s just that their station in this world makes it hard to relate to the normal folks. 

And so, these are the six distinct types I've been able to discern.

The Double Lambo

In a LOT of ways, individuals of such status go against what Polonius said about bing “Rich, not Gaudy.” When we think of a standard-issue rich person, this is generally who comes to mind. And in my limited, but educated experience, this does constitute a slight, not-necessarily-malevolent majority. ‘Neuvo Riche?’ “Ah, but it’s the ‘riche’ that counts.” These are the ones who comprehend the inherent logic that states, “Why have one Lamborghini, when you can have two for twice the price?” They have cardboard McMansions that are unnecessarily giant. They treat those lesser than them as inferior by way of flaunting: $50 in a tip jar is just their way of pointing out, “You poor fellow, here you go — clearly, you need this more than I do.”

These folks are good at what they do, and of course, they won capitalism. They’re also quite insecure, have lots of problems of their own that money can’t fix, and above all, are terrified that it could all just dissolve, at any moment. What a torture. To have to present the face of certainty, when you’re the only one who knows that there’s a powder keg in the center of your Very Own Rome, and it could go off at any moment, if Elon Musk tweets the wrong thing.

But, Johann Anderson was clearly not one of these people. So far, I could tell that he fell into one of the other categories of rich folk.

The Deva

See, I’ve also interacted with people who have inherited their wealth over the generations. For these people, money has never been, nor will it ever be, an issue. Perhaps the money is unlimited, Succession style. These folks just get bored. No need to spell it out. But daddy, must we holiday in Cannes? I so wanted to go to Ibiza! Don’t worry about these individuals. Those of you who have studied Saṃsāra have heard of the God Realm: a place of infinite paradise that only leads to attachment, lack of spiritual advancement, and then, ain’t gonna be no Nirvana for you.

Buddhism has plenty of parables that work out pretty well, especially in our consumeristic age. But if you’re not familiar, it’s like that episode of The Twilight Zone, “A Nice Place to Visit” (S01E28), where Rocky, the life-long crook gets shot and dies. He goes to the afterlife, where he’s waited on hand-and-foot. Wins every hand of cards, hits a pool ball, they all go into the pocket. But eventually, he gets sick of the perfection of his existence, and begs to go to “The Other Place,” because he can’t spend eternity here! His caretaker laughs and says, “Bwahaha, but don’t you get it? This IS the other place!” [cue mind: blown].

The Betty

Or, perhaps there’s a finite number in the bank account. The widower may only be 55, but if she plans well, she can make that $10 million last long enough for her last check to bounce.

Reminds me of one of my favorite conversations. One time, I sat down with a woman named Betty at some under-attended function I had to be at. She was ancient, but campy, and completely self-aware. She spoke in the most earnest terms about how she was thinking of going to Italy for the spring to visit her daughter and her grandchildren. Not necessarily because she wanted to — it was just that it would be less expensive. She was a dyed-in-the-wool debutant you see, and after a lifetime of experiencing all the finer things, she faced an old age where she had a dead husband, no marketable skills, and above all, social obligations to maintain.

“I’ll have to go to this function, you see, and that’s $500 a head,” she explained. “But for at least one of them, I’ll have to be the one to buy the table, and that’s $4,000… And of course, I’ll need a dress, and I can’t wear the same dress as I wore last year, or people will talk and say, Oh, Dear, do ya’ think Betty is doing OK? She’s wearing the same dress she wore to the other thing, last year… And, of course, I have to at least bid on something at the auction, which I don’t even want, and I’ll have to win one or two things… And I just don’t want to do another $20,000 springtime. I’d rather spend it abroad.

There’s a lot wrong, and a lot that’s disconnected with what Betty said. But can you blame her? That’s just the way she was raised. Probably only has a few million left in the bank, and with a lifestyle like that, after a whole lifetime of nothing else? Can’t foul a fish for swimming. I actually felt a little sorry for her. She was counting $100 bills in the way most of us count quarters. But she was nice enough, and I’ll always appreciate the context that conversation provided.

The Penguin

This fella, with his Napoleon Complex. He just wants to be BIG. I am a LUVVAH of Danny DeVito’s Penguin in the Tim Burton film [I’m gonna watch that when I’m done writing this!], but when push comes to shove, Burgess Meredith in the old Adam West series? Can. Not. Be. Beat. Waaaaahk waaahk wak! His top hat made him taller. He used his umbrella to extend his personal space. If he could lose weight? He totally wouldn’t. He wants to be BIG.

This person wants to be villain, because a villain is just a type of bully who is able to exact their own brand of control. But this person also wants to be a tycoon, with access to all the resources. Complete, unyielding control.

Jeff Bezos with Starship Penis; Elon Musk, with his hair transplants; I’m guessing Andrew Carnegie had a tiny schlong (but thanks for the libraries); and Rockefeller was not one to shy away from a big, muscle-y Atlas in front of a phallic symbol. And, some people get feisty when people insult the size of their hands, or when porn stars make Mario Borthers references.

Thing is, we all want to be this person. The one NOBODY can deny. I dunno. I think it was Steinbeck who said that “America will never adopt Socialism, because we do not see ourselves as the exploited populace — only as ‘temporarily embarrassed millionaires.”

People like this are a rarity. But sometimes, they make it above the fold.

The Scrooge

Covetous. Strange. Suspicious. Solitary as an oyster. A Christmas Carol is actually my favorite story, because it’s a tale of redemption. The Scrooge doesn’t actually want to be mean. It’s just all they’ve known. They work ceaselessly, and have been screwed over enough to calcify. Also a rarity, at least on the inside. On the outside, most of them are actually quite congenial. But don’t back them into a corner.

The Volvo

And then, there are my favorite rich people. I know a very specific sort-of surgeon who is literally one of the best in the world in his field. He started out a poor medical student, his wife was a florist. He built up his practice. Now, he has a vineyard. He built his own home, a gorgeous little four-bedroom villa that is utterly unpretentious. He keeps his ’99 Volvo alive because “he just loves the shape of it.”

Or this other dude I knew, who just leaves it in the bank if he needs it. Took $3 million, put it into a no-risk savings that’s locked at 2%, and lives off the interest. 60K a year ain’t no joke, and it keeps things… simple. I like that idea.

They laugh, they joke, they’re curious, but dammit, usually in that way where they’re only feigning interest. You can just tell. But at least they go out of their way to make the person they’re talking to feel a little special. That’s how business deals get closed, and that is, after all how relationships are forged. It's habit.

Social psychopaths, sometimes. They’re not bad people. Maybe just a bit more practical.

Or, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just cynical. Because, most of the time, I genuinely wonder how a person can be so absolutely happy, just so goddamn always. It doesn’t compute. Mirroring much? Maybe. And maybe... maybe they actually figured it out and found the balance? 

Or… in some regards, insomuch as I’ve been able to evaluate him after only 20 seconds of talking… Johann. But only a little. Because even though Johann struck me as a Volvo, I could just tell: he’s a bit of all six.

Whenever you meet a super-rich person, pay particular attention to their eyes.

The eyes of the Lambo crowd are wide and manic.

The eyes of the Deva are bored to death.

The eyes of the Betty are sad.

The eyes of the Penguin are calculating..

The eyes of the Scrooge are suspicious.

The eyes of the Volvo have the kinds of lines that come from either a lifetime of smiling, or a lifetime of squinting into the sun, while on a boat.

###

The video continued, and Johann told me a little more about himself. Where he was from originally, where he was based, where he lives now, how he got there. A pleasant looking fellow. Sort of a Vincent Cassel vibe, but with a little less hair and a few extra pounds (sorry… kilograms) in a Lawrence Olivier carriage. Jovial, and with a slight bit of nervousness, which was endearing. I suppose we all have an awareness of first impressions. He wasn’t afraid of letting a few eccentric mannerisms loose, which I appreciated — a nod of the head, a spin of the hand… subtle nods that he was more of a Golden Retriever, and not-so-much a Patrick Bateman.

Then, picking up his (apparently, phone) and taking me on a small tour of his… positively decent apartment. From the handful of films I’ve seen featuring this building, I could tell this was authentic. Holy hell. That view.

[Editor’s Note: Oh who the fuck am I kidding? It’s the GODDAM freagging Burj… And this dude is all like… OK. Carrying on. Pardon the dust.]

Dubai has always baffled me. For years, I’ve been referring to it as a mausoleum to humanity’s hubris — what a strange thing to build such a building, to craft islands from the sea, to have skiing in the snow, in the desert… A playground built out of farce. But then again, this is coming from a woman who hails from a nation that invented Las Vegas and cruise ships the size of cities. Game recognizing game.

So, I don’t know how familiar you are with the Burj Khalifa. But your hotel is somewhere in the 30s. It’s a great little suite — whenever I have friends come to town, I try to give the hotel a heads-up so they can hold on to it for me. The view of the sea is just amazing. Not here, though, just the desert, which has its own beauty.

The camera panned around his flat. Definitely not on “the 30s.” I will admit that I did a little poking around on Google just to see how the floors are divided, and it looked like his place was somewhere in the 100-floors-up category. A two bedroom place, perhaps? Well-appointed, not insanely remarkable if it were in Tacoma. But here? Well, shit.

[Editor’s note: Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, it’s just an altitude where humans aren’t supposed to live, and you poor little fella, with your view of that stupid desert, I will play the world’s smallest violin, murhurherhur… Ah-hem. Apologies. This wasn’t Heather talking, just her fingers.]

He focused a little on a small collection he harbored in a bookshelf at the edge of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I know you’re a fan of good books. I don’t want to impose, but I’m a bit of a weirdo when it comes to first editions. If you’d like, I would be so happy if you were to choose one as a parting gift to remember your time here.

Oh, already speaking in the present-past tense. Well done, amigo.

You have to understand, I was hitting the pause button every five seconds. I am a very simple person when it comes to creature comforts, so this was kind of a sensory overload for me.

I paused the screen on the books he was referring to. Jesus Fuck, there was a first edition of “The Sun Also Rises.” I would Indiana Jones the shit out of a trip to Dubai and break into his apartment for that summabitch. OK. Things are starting to get real now, and my mind is starting to break.

Oh, I know you like to cook. You certainly do not have to, but if you would like, any ingredients you would need are just a text message away.

He showed me the kitchen: a well-appointed galley style affair with black marble tops and a gas range. **Copper bottom pots, boots with the fur. **with the furrr!****

I am frankly terrible at cooking myself, which is odd, because my father was a chef. But feel free to fiddle about if you would like — the mess can be cleaned up after.

Oh, a Patreon fan, indeed. He already knows that I am an absolutely messy cook.

And then, my recipe for Bolognese popped through my head. It’s been ages. The key is slow-caramelizing the onions, and putting the carrots, celery, and bay leaves into a cheesecloth sack, and letting it simmer for longer than you think it necessary. Wonder if I could get the GOOD Iranian saffron, not the shitty stuff…

And, for the first time (and I SWEAR it wasn’t for the complementary 1926 First Edition of “The Sun Also MotherFuckinnn Rises”), I got that nut in my head. That little mustard seed that, for a variety of reasons, said, “Shit. This is… something I could do.”

Well. I’ve already talked for too long. You said something recently about Hemingway, about that a writer should write what he has to say.

FUCK. YOU. How did you know I was already… Urrrrrghhh. Hmm. OK.

The rest of what I have to say is in the rest of these files. You’ll find information about me, on real websites and company pages and all that. Itinerary, feel free to have fun with that, tell me what works and what doesn’t, and make your own suggestions if you want. There are references, I know you signed the non-disclosure, but please reach out to these people if you would like, because I consider them friends. Phone numbers, website addresses, images of your suite… the whole shebang.

He punched ‘shebang.’ There’s a double meaning in that, but it is an inherently American vibe to it, so it was funny. I chuckled. Then, I caught myself for chuckling.

Oh, by the way, I didn’t mention this in this packet. There’s a cocktail party I was kinda forced into attending, here at a neighbor’s place on… ah, whatever floor he’s on. It’s on 15 March. You don’t have to attend, and I can stop by after. But if you’d like to come, let me know, and we can fit you for a dress. If you wouldn’t mind being just a little revealing. 

Well! That comes later.

Otherwise, I hope you’re having a beautiful life, and a beautiful day. Talk to you soon.

And then, end of video. 

If that last bit was an addendum before signing off? I would need to check out this itinerary of his, next.

[To be continued, my dears, and yes, the itinerary is... something to write home about. [[provided I hadn't signed that damned NDA, jajaja!]] You'll see it here in the next couple of days.]