The-Man-Who-Folded-Himself-David-Gerrold

One hundred and forty-three million—
I found I was having trouble swallowing. “I thought it was in trust until I was twenty-five,” I said.
“No,” he corrected. “It’s for me to administer for you until you’re ready for it. You can have it any time
you want.”
“I’m not so sure I want it,” I said slowly. “No—I mean, of course, I want it! It’s just that—“ How to
explain? I had visions of myself trapped in a big mansion surrounded by butlers and bodyguards
whose sole duty was to make sure that I dusted the stacks of bills every morning. One hundred and
forty-three million dollars. Even in hundreds, it would fill several closets. “I’m doing okay on five
hundred a week,” I said, “All that more—“ “Five hundred a week?” Uncle Jim frowned. Then, “Yes, I
keep forgetting—There’s been so much—Danny, I’m going to increase your allowance to two
thousand dollars a week, but I want you to do something to earn it.”
“Sure,” I said, delighted in spite of myself This was a sum of money I could understand. (One hundred
and forty-three million—I wasn’t sure there was that much money in the world; but two thousand
dollars, yes, I could count to two thousand.) “What do I have to do?” “Keep a diary.”
“A diary?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean write things down in a black book every day? Dear diary, today I kissed a girl and all that
kind of stuff?”
“Not exactly. I want you to record the things that seem important to you. Type out a few pages every
day, that’s all. You can record specific incidents or just make general comments about anything worth
recording. All I want is your guarantee that you’ll add something to it every day—or let’s say at least
once a week. I know how you get careless sometimes.”
“And you want to read it—?” I started to ask. “Oh, no, no, no—“ he said hastily. “I just want to know
that you’re keeping it up. You won’t have to show it to me. Or anyone. It’s your diary. What you do
with it or make of it is up to you.”
My mind was working—two thousand dollars a week. “Can I use a dictation machine and a secretary?”
He shook his head. “It has to be a personal diary, Danny. That’s the whole purpose of it. If it has to
pass through someone else’s hands, you might be inhibited. I want you to be honest.” He straightened
up where he sat, and for a moment he looked like the Uncle Jim I remembered, tall and strong. “Don’t
play any games, Danny. Be truthful in your diary. If you’re not, you’ll only cheat yourself. And put
down everything—everything that seems important to you.”
“Everything,” I repeated dumbly.
He nodded. There was a lot of meaning in that nod.
“All right,” I said. “But why?”
“Why?” He looked at me. “You’ll find out when you write it.”
As usual, he was right.
* * *
I’m not fooled. Uncle Jim is trying to teach me something. This isn’t the first time he’s thrown me into
the deep end of the pool.
* * *
Okay, this is it. At least this is today’s answer:
There’s a point beyond which money is redundant.
This is not something I discovered just this week.
I’ve suspected it for a long time.