ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOLLARS

Deconstructing Generational Wealth

“I like my character,” said the blind man to a can of beans, “after seventy-two years I still don’t own a pair of pants.”

“I’m over here,” I called out with a calculated amount of scorn. I wasn’t going to tolerate any of the usual bullshit, such as this old refrain about being a free spirit. When one owes society more than one’s miserable existence remains capable of producing, one should accept the consequence.

“Why don’t you save us the unpleasantness and take your own life? I have needles and pills in my briefcase, your choice.”

This was me mustering my most amicable manners, but the subject still hadn’t measured the severity of his circumstance. Rather than heed the limpid intent of my speech, he elected to attempt a comical exit:

“Robert, don’t speak like this to your father. You know it makes me feel queasy. Bring me a banana milkshake.”

Such ludicrous tricks are often endeavored by individuals who realize that they are about to die. They try to personalize the interaction, however they can, hoping to draw out compassion from the unfathomable depths of their prospective murderer. Tough luck: I possess no more of that sentiment than if I were made of steel and electronic parts, despite being entirely cellular, organic even. My genes were free-range farmed, certainly not distilled in the infectious bean sacks of this banana lover.

“YOU KNOW WHERE YOU CAN STICK YOUR FUCKING BANANAS!” yelled I to express my disgust and, at the same time, pull the man back to reality. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t do it yourself,” I added in a raspy voice.

“Come on, Bobby, you know I’m going to die soon. Can’t you just wait a little more? Do you really need this money now?”

Of course. The whining stage. It pains me to mention, but almost all of them go through some form of lamentation, supplication, and unmitigated humiliation They will make up anything in the desperate hope of escaping their fate. I wish there was a way to improve this part of my job, which I find rather distasteful. In truth, there is only one way to move us on to the next phase, so I stick my fingers in his eye sockets and pull his head back against my chest.

“In the name of God, Robert, behave yourself!”

He still seems to think he’s my fucking father, so I slip my elbow under his chin, grab my opposite biceps, and, all in one days’s work, snap his neck, then go home and wait for my check.