The Capitalist
The Capitalist tugged at a giant stash of cash in an extra-large burlap sack. As the city where he made his billions burned bright behind him, he recalled Lot’s wife and, unlike her, decided not to give any of it a second thought. There they were all hollering and crying, their entire world smoldering before their very eyes, and here he was, safely distant from all those embers. There was no turning back. He must take his fortunes elsewhere and find some other fashion to enjoy it.
The outskirts were an unpleasant place for a man accustomed to his lavish lifestyle. There was no electric cooling to protect him from this immense heat. There was no butler he could holler at the mere ringing of a bell to bring him a club sandwich filled with choice deli meats. And with every step he took on the rigid terrain, his fine suede loafers from Italy seemed to tear ever more at the seams.
“Humbug,” someone muttered. Someone, for it, was uncertain even to him, whether it was his own mouth involuntarily saying this or if it was his great big belly muttering the word with its quaking rumbles. One thing was very clear: he needed food, sustenance, and something to power him through this perilous voyage to his next location. But there were no cafes, no bistros, no Russian Tea Rooms or French Laundries where he could saunter in for a quick re-energizing bite. They had all gone down with the fire. So he reached into his giant sack of money, knowing it was a fool’s endeavor, for he packed the only thing he felt necessary. From all this money, the only thing he could think to prepare was a cash money salad. He tore up a few hundred dollar bills, mixed it with some twenties, and peppered it with some desert sand for a little extra kick. He munched, and he chewed, and would you know? It didn’t satisfy him very much.
The Capitalist traveled several miles more. The heat was really starting to get to him. He was pouring buckets of sweat at the rate he used to rake in buckets of cash at the stock exchange. He was in desperate need of hydration, a cooling sensation to relieve him of this boiling perspiration. The sun was practically melting his brain cells, and all around the periphery of his vision, he was seeing great formless blotches of purple overtaking his perception. Yet, a miracle was at hand. Was it a mirage? A soda machine was standing in the desert. It had all the canned options he could want: soda, diet soda, clear soda, orange soda, grape soda, and orange soda with cream. When he approached to put in his money, he saw that it did not accept anything larger than $1 and $5 bills. He was not carrying anything so minuscule, or so he thought. He made the choice to climb that great big sack of money he was carrying. He climbed it and dove into it, searching everywhere for any little dollar bills he could find. He spent many hours rummaging through all those Ben Franklins, and at last, he found a cool George Washington to quench his drying lips. When he climbed back out, he was mortified to find that some hooligans had ransacked the machine and emptied it of its contents completely.
He could not control his rage, but he was somewhat relieved to realize he was not alone. He noticed by the machine that there were a pair of sandy footprints that descended all the way to the horizon. It was only natural that he followed them.
He walked for many suns and many moons, trailing that giant bag of money with him. He could not withstand it any longer. He collapsed and fell to the ground. It was an opportune moment to completely give in, for it was then that a stranger emerged from a tent and filled his mouth with a glass of warm water and crumbs from a cold sandwich. This instantly revived the Capitalist. His eyes sprang into action as he looked at the face that had saved him.
“My infinite gratitude, my good sir, thank you for helping such a stranger like me. How could I ever repay you.”
“You’re a long way from home,” the Stranger with dirty hair and wrinkled face replied, “what brings you out here.”
“My old home is no more. Or homes, I should say. They are all gone, down to ash.”
“You came from the city?”
“Indeed.”
“Where you headed?”
“To my new city, wherever that may be.”
“Not a lot of places outside of that one, I’m afraid. But good luck with your search.”
The Capitalist nodded at the Stranger and noticed the sturdy, dependable quality of the boots on his feet.
“Those are some very lovely boots,” said the Capitalist, “May I purchase them from you? They would help me immensely on my trip.”
“I’m afraid they’re all I have.”
“Would you sell them for $50?”
“They’re not for sale.”
“How about $100?”
“Not for sale.”
“What about $200?”
“Nope.”
“Certainly, you can’t say no to $300?”
“I certainly can.”
“And how about $500?”
“No!”
“$1000?”
“I already told you–”
“You drive a hard bargain, sir, I raise you a mill-”
“I don’t want your stinkin’ money. It’s no good to me, and it’s no good to you, quite frankly. You’re better off just leaving it be. It’ll make the rest of your trip a lot less difficult.”
The realization hit the Capitalist like a ton of bricks. His money, despite its immense amount, would not be enough to save him from his current situation. He could no longer throw stacks of it to get what he wanted. He would have to scramble like all the rest of the peasants he used to so condescendingly raise his nose at. He wanted to cry, but there was little moisture left in his body to muster it. He wanted to rage, but his energy levels have plummeted worse than all his investments. He had no other recourse but to bid the stranger farewell and go about his trip into the great unknown of useless cash. Before he left his great sack of cash out there to rot in the desert, he pulled out a few stacks; he knew he would need them to make himself a new pair of shoes.