Dear Void,
Sometimes it's hard to remember you're there. For some, every day is a hustle, for others it's a game of survival, for yet more, every day is sweet, relaxing and/or largely a repeat of the day before. Still, in each of our respective day-to-day existences, your existence, dear Void, as broad and all-encompassing as it is, may not entirely relevant.
You're pretty distant, y'know.
But sometimes all it takes is a story to remind us that you're still there, that indeed you've always been there.
A young associate of mine was truly worrying himself sick over paying off some medical bills. His daughter had a chronic disease which required not only frequent visits to specialists but also deluges of prescriptions and installations of the latest medical devices. He was doing everything he could and still it was not enough. He took to praying, sincerely, by his bedside every night (though I don't think his prayers were ever answered). He prayed for more money. He'd ask God, "If I could have $10,000 more—just $10,000—then I wouldn't have to worry anymore..." My associate never received any extra ten-grand falling out of the sky, but he did take to working extra hours and weekends. He took out loans. Then he got a second job to pay off those loans. Last I heard, he had given himself a hernia.
I wondered, at the time, how much time he must get to spend with his daughter? You might say that's unfair, that poor father! Well, I say that poor daughter!
But I understand just how damnably easy it is to get caught up in the hustle of everyday life. Money matters, no doubt. How many times have I heard someone say, "If only I had the money..."? How many times have I felt that special resentment against someone with more wealth than myself? "Did they earn it? Do they deserve it?" I wonder whether there are some who could look at me, now, and not feel a similar resentment; I know there are.
Money for bills. Money for a new car. Money for a kiddie pool in the backyard. Money for the mortgage. Money to fix the roof. Money to buy a ticket to the game. Money for a little celebration at the end of the week. Money for food. Money for taxes. Money for death.
It's easy to become obsessed with money, those who have it, those who have none. All of life nothing more than a game of making—and spending—money.
Strange that people often think of the economy as a pie, as in: the wealthy are taking a bigger piece of the pie for themselves and not sharing with the rest of us. But in an economy which is continually growing and generating wealth, isn't the pie just getting bigger all the time? Could it be that the pie is actual many pies and not just one? And, yes, if the wealthy are running off with half the pie that feels scandalous but can they even consume their half of the pie, in that: can the wealthy even liquidate the sources of their wealth into plain cash which is the sort of pie we tend to consider? How about when Uncle Sam takes his bites of the pie, too? Is the pie more like a mishmash of different pies, some edible, some not?
It may be the pie-metaphor is limited in its applicability. It generates an interesting story though, one of family and of scarcity. Immediately, once a politician or a newspaper mentions, "They're taking a bigger slice of the pie!" it conjures up an image of a pie on a kitchen counter. It implies that we, as a society, are a family and as a family we should share. But the pie is finite. There's only so much to go around.
How then shall we share the pie?
That is, perhaps, the question of entire economics, political science and ethics courses. Indeed, the question of entire careers, if not the entire experiment at the crossroads of democracy and capitalism itself.
I'd love to go into the making of pie, because pie is so good, but there's not really enough for room for all that. I'll just end this post with a third story, one about a gambler.
I heard of a man in Las Vegas. He drove a limo, not because he particularly like driving limos but because he needed the steady stream of money it provided. This man was a gambler, though not just any gambler. He was known across the Strip. He was banned from more than a few casinos. This man could gamble so well that through his career he had made and lost entire fortunes. He liked to joke that he'd been a millionaire for a day.
That's why he was driving the limo. Just imagine it... making a million dollars in one day... then gambling it all away. Imagine what you could do with a million dollars then having to make minimum wage to feed yourself? This man had made a million, then lost it, and made it and lost it again, and again, and again.
He didn't feel bad about it though, he loved what he did. He even kind of loved driving his limo, telling customers about to partake in one of the oldest of recreational past times all about his gambling exploits. He said it wasn't about the money, it was about the thrill, it was about enjoying the ups and the downs—the ride, as some put it.
That gambler reminds me of you, dear Void. He reminds me that it really isn't about the money after all, is it?