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Just days before Christmas last year, I surveyed the metropolitan skyline from the Hilton’s presidential suite as I sipped a chocolate Corvette cocktail with extra rum. My family joined me after I insisted on remaining in the city to finalize financing for my latest real estate development.
Pastor Jack, I’d bought lavish gifts; a mink for my wife, aquamarine chocolate diamonds for my daughter, and for my son-in-law, a country club membership. They feasted on champagne and chocolate covered strawberries while I continually nursed a cocktail and boasted about earning millions. Why, business was so great, I predicted I’d have billions within five years. Going forward, it would be only the good life for my family and unborn grandson.
My wife argued she didn’t need a fancy fur; she wanted me home. I feared she believed rumors I was having an affair. Sure, I loved the company of beautiful women in nightclubs but I didn’t have a mistress. Behind those once sparkling brown eyes, I sensed she was concerned money had driven a spike through our love.
After the first of year, the financial world collapsed. The stock market dropped 666 points in a single day, gasoline hit $4 a gallon, million dollar homes lost hundreds of thousands in value, mortgages became scarce, and business financing evolved into a dinosaur. Yeah, Pastor Jack, my dreams were snuffed in a heartbeat.
What’s that? No, I don’t want to go to the kitchen and help peel potatoes for tomorrow’s soup. Yeah, it’d give me something to do; I don’t need to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I wouldn’t mind a half-pint of rum. Don’t like my joke?
Pastor Jack, today’s the due date for my grandson. My ex-wife is with my daughter, I’m sure, waiting to count 10 toes and 10 fingers. Bet he has their brown eyes. And I doubt if they will tell him about his grandfather, even if they knew where I was.
What are you doing? Pastor Jack you don’t have to wipe away my tears. May I have that handkerchief? I can wrap it around my face when the wintry air blasts across the parking lot. Thanks for the blanket, Pastor Jack. In the spring, I’ll scrap the old brown paint and redo the shelter if you’d like.
No, Pastor Jack, I’ll sleep out here. Let the old men have any available beds. Tonight, I think I’ll count the stars. There’s billions baby, billions.
Maybe, I’ll see the face of God.
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