Chapter 14 Arthur Become Independently Wealthy
Arthur: Become Independently Wealthy
“It’s your turn,” Wren said.
“I’m tired.”
“Just stick your fingers in the hole and grab something.”
He did as instructed, trying to remember that hazy night that just refused to come all the way back to him. What had he said at the time? Who had he wanted to be when he was a bright-eyed college kid?
Standing there in the living room, he pulled out the first slip that brushed across his fingertips and read it aloud.
“Well, I’m nothing if not consistent. Another impossible task that, under the best circumstances, would take decades. And we’ve got…less than three weeks.”
“Are you chickening out?”
“No,” he said defiantly. “No, I’m not.”
In truth, he was feeling pretty good after his encounter with Martin.
I mean, come on, he had potentially changed that kid’s life.
Martin could go on to become a famous musician or songwriter, or maybe get a scholarship to a prestigious arts school, and it would be, in part, because Arthur made it possible.
That…was an amazing feeling. It was what he’d been searching for, for years.
“I have to ask,” Wren said, rattling the jar in small circles as if it were a whiskey on the rocks. “How had you initially planned to pull this off?”
Now some of the thinking was coming back to him.
He’d figured he’d get an entry-level teaching job, for starters.
But he’d subsist pretty frugally. Maybe even live at home with his parents for a few years, or split an apartment with a roommate or two (or three).
He estimated he could scrimp enough to save at least 20 percent of his salary, like the experts recommended, but ideally 30.
That wouldn’t be much at first, but he’d make smart, aggressive investments.
During the summers, he’d work on side hustles—doing freelance writing or tutoring…
He hadn’t totally figured it out yet. But he’d pour the extra money into his investments and the compound interest would do the rest. He’d grind hard for a few years, forgoing as much sleep as humanly possible, living off Cup Noodles and 5-Hour Energy drinks, before investing big in himself and starting his own business.
Something boring but stable, a sure bet, like junk hauling or power washing.
Now, did he know the first thing about how any of that worked?
No. But he’d figure it out. That’s what YouTube was for.
And he’d design it to be hands-off so he could have time to write again and continue working with kids when he wanted—that part he had always enjoyed—and when he was finally an honest-to-God millionaire, he’d be ready to meet his wife and start a family.
It was a foolproof plan.
But then he had to go and screw around and fall in love young.
After that, he wasn’t sure exactly where the time had gone.
Having two roommates had turned into having one (although she was very pretty).
Teaching, and working in general, had turned out to be a lot harder than he thought.
Instead of dreaming up side hustles in the early mornings, he was always scrambling just to make it out the door on time.
Rather than cook up lofty business ideas in the evenings, he was fighting to keep his eyes open during Netflix documentaries because his brain couldn’t handle much else after the long days.
Someone had once told him to work hard for eight hours, sleep for eight hours, and spend eight hours with the people he loved—but he must have been doing something wrong, because the math never seemed to add up.
Plus, it was so hard for him to get out of bed when there was a warm body pressed up against his, soft skin to lay his hands on, the curve of his palm fitting just so perfectly on her hip.
That had never been part of the plan. Summers came around and he was burned-out and totally unprepared to capitalize on the extra time.
It felt good to veg with Wren, read books, sneak into neighboring tennis courts, and eat coupon tacos on warm patios.
The years got away from him in a hurry. The best he’d managed lately was his idea to go to grad school, which would allow him to make a little more money—on the order of dozens, not millions, of dollars.
But he hadn’t even made much progress at that.
Maybe it was finally time for that to change. Time to finally take action. But first…
“I had concepts of a plan,” he admitted, trying to refocus on the present moment, the task at hand. “The question is…how can you become a millionaire in a single day? Got any ideas?”
“You act like you’re the first person who’s ever wanted the instant gratification of immediate wealth. There’s a societal mechanism for this. But I don’t think you’re gonna like it,” she said.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, not getting it. So she began singing the Maryland Lottery jingle from his youth, twirling around and shaking her hips, ending the number with finger guns pointed at him and belting out the lotto’s signature catchphrase: “It could be youuuuuu!”
“No. No, absolutely not. I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t.”
They walked into the Royal Farms convenience store, about a three-minute drive from their front door, and the door chimed behind them.
Instantly, they were met with the scent of crispy fried chicken, or not so much met as they were drenched with it.
Arthur knew the clothes he had on would need a good washing or two before they smelled normal again.
“This is ridiculous. We could have just lit a five-dollar bill on fire at home and saved the gas money,” Arthur huffed.
He’d never been a fan of gambling. Not that he looked down on it ethically, but he viewed it as a colossal waste of money, which it objectively was.
They’d been able to save as much as they had specifically because he’d avoided frivolously throwing money away on impossible pipe dreams.
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it,” Wren retorted. He didn’t. “Now, should we play the Powerball or the Mega Millions?”
“How much is the Mega Millions jackpot?”
“Three hundred forty-eight million dollars.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said. That was a number he couldn’t even fathom. His goal was to become independently wealthy, not to get invited to Jeff Bezos’s next yacht-based wedding. “And the Powerball?”
“One hundred fifty-five million,” Wren sneered. “Gross. That’s not even worth it. Let’s go for the big’un.”
“Sure, why not.” He pulled out his wallet and prepared to hand over the cash.
It didn’t matter. They weren’t going to win, but at least he could say he gave it a go, and then he could get to thinking about more realistic ways to secure their financial future together.
Stocks and bonds and CDs. And real estate.
“Wait,” she said, stopping him and squinting to read something behind the counter. “Says here the drawing isn’t until next week. That might be too late.”
“OK. What about the scratch-offs? How much can you win on those?”
They perused the little glass display case of scratch-off tickets, like looking over the desserts sitting out by the hostess stand in a diner.
“This one says you can win two million,” Arthur pointed out.
It was a Monopoly-themed ticket with the mustachioed Mr. Monopoly skipping jovially across the face of it, carrying a sack of coins.
He’d always liked the game. He’d been good at it, liked the strategy of buying aggressively, depleting his cash reserves, and playing to win.
It was the opposite of how he lived and was a fun escape.
Of course, Wren had only played with him once and then vowed to never do it again, accusing him of being a “dirty slum lord” after he’d scooped up a murderers’ row of cheap light blue and purple properties that was impossible to bypass, slowly and agonizingly bleeding her out over the course of several hours.
By the end, the light had all but left her eyes, until she demanded they play Yahtzee instead and promptly destroyed him.
“So with taxes we’d walk away with maybe a million? I guess I could live with that.”
Wren smiled and flagged down the attendant to make the purchase. Then she swiped a coin from the take-a-penny, leave-a-penny tray—a nickel with concerning black marks covering most of its face—and handed it over to Arthur. “Do the honors.”
He found his heart speeding up as he began to scratch away at little colored stacks of money on the card, the sticky rubbery coating peeling and flaking away.
Behind the coating were numbers, each attached to a different prize amount.
At the top of the card was a row of six winning numbers: 17, 3, 45, 66, 11, and 49.
The legend also included special symbols that would make him an instant winner if he were to find them on his card.
Arthur scratched and scanned, scratched and scanned.
“So?” Wren asked impatiently.
“Give me a second!” He felt ridiculous, of course, the way he was ever so slightly getting into it.
There was a small chance they’d win, but probably just enough to buy another ticket.
That was how they got you. The odds of winning the grand prize were infinitesimally small.
Even still, he couldn’t help but imagine what might happen if fortune were to strike.
They’d have no trouble affording a house, one that actually had rooms. Could trade in the sedan and get a new SUV or minivan.
Go on proper family vacations without guilt.
It was just a fantasy, though, a daydream to keep him busy while he tediously scratched away.
Never going to happen. But scratching and revealing the numbers was kind of fun, he had to admit.
Was there value in that? Fun, excitement, and a brief flicker of hope?
Was that worth a couple of bucks? No, he decided.
It was a cheap, hollow dopamine hit, like getting a notification on Instagram.