Crazy Mr. Gould

A homeless man bumped into me today at the bank. I found it ironic to see that even a penniless man needs a bank account. Must have been a good day panhandling, I thought. Though I was a good ten feet from the man, his unbearable stench made its presence known. He smelled of stagnant water and burnt trash. I couldn’t help but breathe through my mouth and I could hear the woman behind me follow suit.

The man was wearing a long, thick, winter jacket that was coated with a thin layer of dirt; a few scattered and crumpled leaves pinned to his hood. His shoes looked like they had seen many unforgivable miles. His jeans that were once a dark navy blue were now a portrait of a cloudy sky, with the clouds as tears around his knees and at the ends. His hair and beard were both peppered gray and unkempt, and his eyes seemed to be looking all around in a state of paranoia. I couldn’t help but feel bad for the man. As I waited behind him, standing in my Armani suit and custom-made Italian shoes, it made me appreciate the things I have, and how hard I’ve worked for them.

“Thank you, Mr. Gould. Have a nice day,” the young teller said in a polite tone to the man. He said nothing in response, but shook his head and grumbled something beneath his breath.

“Next.” The teller called out. I stepped forward, looking directly at the teller when I accidentally bumped into the homeless man, who dropped his banking slip.

“I’m sorry,” I said as I bent down and picked up his slip out of courtesy. My eyes floated to his account total: $65,488,073.11. I was speechless. This man…that much money. It was like seeing a dog standing on its hind legs and speaking fluent English. It made no sense. The man snatched the slip from my hand as my jaw was left unhinged.

“Gimme that. You shouldn’t take what’s not yours, you know?” His voice yelled and echoed off the marble floors and walls of the bank. All eyes were on our exchange. I could feel their stares piercing through me. Even though I was in the wrong, I couldn’t help but think that their negative judgments were mostly toward the man.

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to…” I attempted to apologize, but he interrupted and said, “Bah.” My eyes followed him as he passed through the glass swing doors and onto the busy New York sidewalk, blending in with the rest of the passing crowd. I could hear the teller calling out for me, but something compelled me to follow the man. Curiosity, I told myself.

I walked out of the bank and followed him, through the busy Manhattan streets. Every time I thought I’d lost him, his unpleasant scent seemed to give away where he was. After a few blocks, I saw him walk down an alleyway and into a shanty home, made of particleboard, cardboard, and wooden boxes and pallets. I cautiously approached him, watching my footsteps.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“What? What do you want? Hey, you’re that nosey man from the bank! You still trying to take things that don’t belong to you? Well, jokes on you, I don’t have anything for you to take.” He said as he lit a barrel fire to combat the cold New York winter.

“No, sir. I just want to help. I didn’t mean to pry. Honestly, I didn’t. But…I saw how much you had in your account.”

“Ah-ha, you are a nosey little…I knew it, the moment I saw you.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean to. Just, I guess, curiosity took the better of me. And now I’m here.”

The man said nothing but looked into the fire, trying to warm his callused and weathered hands.

“I just want to help and wanted to know. I mean, with all that money. Why do you live like…like…this?”

“That’s all you people care about--money. Don’t care about the government squeezing your privacy, telling you how to live, controlling every aspect of your life. Don’t worry about the fact that they are in control and are out to take away what you want.” The man began coughing uncontrollably, into his palm.

I had an inclination before I talked to this man that he was insane, but this only confirmed it. Still, I pried.

“But, sir, you could live in a mansion and not be freezing. You could go to a doctor and get healthy again.”

“Psh. Doctors. Ha! What do they know? The government buys them off. Told to give people pills to make them feel happy and calm. Just like how they put fluoride in our water to keep people from rioting in the streets. Doctors and their pills. Doctors don’t know a damn thing,” the man spat into the barrel fire, “I spit on doctors and their lies. Couldn’t diagnose a pregnant woman giving birth.”

The man seemed schizophrenic. It all clicked. Half the homeless population is schizophrenic. But I couldn’t just walk away, knowing what I knew. I had to help the man, or at the very least try to help him.

“Alright, screw doctors. But with this money, though, you need attorneys, financial planners, bankers--you need help. I mean, you can’t keep all that money in one account,” I said as I began to creep closer and closer to the warm barrel fire.

“Accountants and bankers. Again, I spit on them.” The man spat again into the fire; it crackled in response. “Telling me to invest in the stock market. Up and down, up and down it goes. I’d rather invest in a dog fighting a bone. They’re just trying to get my money. Just like everyone else. Just like you.” His scathing eyes peered in my direction.

“I’m not trying to get your money,” I rebutted, “I’m just trying to keep you from freezing your ass off and being another dead homeless man in New York that no one gives a damn about.”

The man grinned, revealing his stained and rotten teeth. “I’m happy. I don’t need a man in a business suit and fancy coat to tell me to be happy. I’ve got my fire to keep me warm, I go to the library to read my books, and eat when I want to eat if I want to eat.”

The man had a point, but then I breathed in the smoky flavor of the barrel fire and was reminded of his stink.

“What about a shower and a bathroom, and modern plumbing? I don’t expect you to have a running shower and toilet in that box.”

“This is New York, you know how many restaurant restrooms I can use?”

“That’s the toilet. What about a shower or just deodorant to cover up your smell? No offense.”

“Deodorant? Do you know how many cancer-causing chemicals are in deodorant? Boy, you are something stupid. To think someone pays you a, from what I guess, is a six-figure salary. I wouldn’t pay you a dollar. Actually, that´s not true.” The man reached in his pocket and pulled out a crinkled dollar bill. ¨I´ll pay you a dollar to leave me the hell alone!¨

Disgust built up inside me. A homeless man giving money to me. A rage I couldn´t control anymore. “Maybe I am, but at least I have a big comfy bed to sleep in. I was just trying to help you. But I guess you can’t help everyone!”

“Remember I’m the one that’s happy. The question is--are you?” The man said as I walked away through the alley.

As I walked back to the bank, I couldn’t help but think of the question he asked. “I’m happy. Are you?” Am I happy? The truth is I hate my job. I hate that I have to buy these expensive clothes to give people a false idea of my wealth, and to impress potential clients so I can get more money to afford more flashy objects.

Am I happy? Here I am, a man with everything a successful businessman could hope for: a luxury penthouse, a high-paying job, a Porsche in my private garage, and a closet full of runway-ready fashion, while a man with nothing but his library card is happier than me. How can that be?

I never had time for a family or a steady girlfriend. I’m married to my work. Even though sometimes I do get a woman to come home with me from whatever hot and prestigious club, I find myself waking up alone between my silk sheets. Even if they stay, it’s only to say goodbye and thanks. A 2,000-square-foot penthouse, and only me to walk around its lonely, professionally-decorated floors.

Am I happy? Is this true happiness? Am I just living a façade, a shameless farce? Am I not just a depressed clown with a painted smile? I walked back to the bank and waited in line again until the same teller as before called for me.

“Hi. How are you? I apologize for before, but I had to talk to that man.”

“Oh, Mr. Gould? Yeah, he’s a pretty interesting guy,” the young teller responded.

“Yeah. He was. Listen, I couldn’t help but notice the balance on his account. I don’t know if you’re allowed to tell me, but how did he get all that? Inheritance? Trust fund?”

“No, I can probably say. It was in the papers so I guess it´s public knowledge. Mr. Gould won the lottery a few years back. He won $115 million.”

“$115 million? Then how did he lose so much money?”

“He put a lot of money into stocks and faith into financial planners that didn’t work out.”

“Was he always homeless?” I continued to interrogate the poor young teller.

“No, he used to be a government official, ran something with the Department of Health or something. Had a big house, and then one day he snapped. He let his house go into foreclosure. He stopped taking his pills, and now he is the way he is. We’ve had to kick him out a few times for bothering other customers.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, most of the time he’s a good guy. Just sometimes I think something sets him off.”

“Did you say pills?”

“Yeah, he’s a schizo. He actually left his pills here one day and told us to flush them for him.”

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought it. “Oh…I just wish I could help him.”

“You can’t help those that don’t want it, sir. And believe me, he doesn’t want help,” the teller reminded me. We continued and finished our transaction, and then I got into my Porsche and drove through the over-crowded New York streets repeating the events that just happened. A king in his own palace, while somewhere in New York a multi-millionaire was bathing himself in a Starbucks bathroom--one a gilded king in an empty castle, the other a king of nothing but himself.