Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion.

During the next passing of the plate, James put in ten bucks. I put in five. I didn’t want him to feel totally alone. Daron Styles smirked and shook his head.

I s it me? Is it the people I hang out with? Is it the society we live in? Is it the American way? One minute I’m totally bummed out. The idea that someone, maybe in the Cashdollar camp, tried to commit a murder. The idea that someone has threatened Cashdollar himself. My feeling that Cashdollar is a slimeball. And then, in an instant, I find myself sucked into a scam. I know it’s a scam, but I want to believe it. I want to believe that you will be made rich in every way. What is wrong with me, with the people around me, that our belief system can change in a nanosecond? What we believe one second can totally change due to greed.

I’m not what you’d call a religious person. I believe in a God, but only because there’s got to be something out there. I don’t buy into this primeval slime that we supposedly evolved from.

So all of a sudden, I’m investing $5, betting that God will make me rich. And I already know where that $5 is going.

“You guys know where your money is going, right?” Styles had cocked the hat back on his head and, back at the truck, he was eating a burger that James had cooked for him as he prepared for the evening rush. The bun was loaded with pickles, peppers, relish, onion, mustard, and whatever else he could find.

James sat on his upside-down pickle bucket, his apron on, waiting for the crowd to come piling out of the yellow tent. “Yeah. Some of it goes to the full-timers. But you know, damn it, you see two guys up there who are worth a billion dollars, and you’ve got to wonder.”

Styles sat on the rear of the truck, dangling his legs over the edge. He sipped on one of our expensive green labels and kicked his feet back and forth. “Yeah, you’re right, James. You’ve got to wonder how much Cashdollar paid them for that testimonial.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I was up by the grill, precooking potatoes, onions, and peppers. “What do they need the money for? They’re worth billions?”

“Boys, read the Time magazine article on them. Read the Rolling Stone interview. See if they mention Cashdollar one time.”

James took a long swallow of the good beer. “You mean, they don’t mention him at all? It’s a hoax?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I don’t read that crap. But I’ll bet they don’t mention him. I’ll bet they don’t say a word about how Cashdollar was responsible for their wealth and fame.”

“So, what could he pay them? My God, they’re billionaires.”

“Look,” Styles finished the beer and pointed to the refrigerator. James, the obedient lapdog, brought him another. We were almost out.

“I’m not saying these guys didn’t attend one of the rev’s meetings. And I’m not saying that they didn’t contribute some jack to his fund. And, I’m not saying that they don’t believe that Cashdollar and the scripture had something to do with their wealth.”

I was tired of him already. “Then what are you saying? Man, you talk in circles.”

“Maybe there’s a grain of truth there. Maybe Cashdollar had something to do with their success, but you’ve got to remember, Skip, this is a show. It’s a circus, a carnival. Remember that. It’s set up to get money from the locals any way possible. These people are entertainers. Entertainers pure and simple. They get paid depending on how well they entertain. It’s no different than the hucksters that paraded around at the turn of the century selling swamp water in a bottle to cure all our ills. It’s a business. An entertainment business, and that’s all it is. The minute you forget that, you become a sucker. Listen. James drops ten in the pot, two thousand people put ten in the pot, they’ve got three collections per service, that’s what? One hundred twenty thousand dollars for Thursday and Friday. Saturday and Sunday, we’ve got two services. Count ’em, two. That’s two hundred forty thousand dollars per day. That adds up to,” he paused, working the figures in his head.

As a business major I could have told him, the trick is to do the math as the story unfolds, not wait until the end.

“Three hundred sixty thousand dollars.”

He’d gotten it right.

“And son,” he continued, “there are a lot of people who put in a whole lot more than just ten bucks. I’m talking a hundred bucks a pop and more.”

James and I looked at each other. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. This guy could do up to half a million dollars. In four days.

Now I got it. James wanted to stick around and soak up everything he could. The good, the bad, the ugly. He wanted to learn just how everything in this operation ran. At the risk of our own safety, James wanted this education. Hell, I wanted this education. I finally figured it out. Stick with James, because it was an education.

“So Cashdollar could pay these two hot-shit entrepreneurs some big bucks. What the hell does he care how much. Fifty, one hundred thousand? It may be pocket change to these young guys, but pocket change is good.” Styles tugged on his hat, pulling it down almost to his eyebrows.

“They’d do it for one hundred thousand?” James was mesmerized.

“They would. Wouldn’t you? Think about it, James. You’re worth half a billion. It’s tied up in stocks and bonds and whatever rich assholes do with their money. Maybe real estate and other stuff. Somebody offers you — maybe under the table — one hundred thousand dollars. Have you ever, in your wildest, seen that kind of money?”

Neither of us had an answer. Figures we’d never even pictured. Hell, we were excited about making four or five thousand dollars. One hundred thousand? We could probably own our entire apartment complex for less than that. Not that we’d want to. Our complex is a piece of crap.

“Pretty good money. And don’t forget, my friends, this is a cash business. The rev and Mr. LeRoy can claim they only got four or five hundred bucks in the collection if they want to. They can pocket thousands in cash. And, as I said, pay the boys from Meet and Greet under the table. No tax consequences for anyone.”

“So that’s what he did? Cashdollar?” James was salivating.

“How the hell do I know, James? I’m throwing out the possibility. That’s it.” He paused, getting his thoughts together. “The word spreads. The rev, he’s got a huge online business. I’d bet he gets a couple hundred thousand a week just from his Internet pledges. And when people hear that the Meet and Greet guys got rich because of Cashdollar? Trust me, the money gates are going to open wide. Remember the second half of that scripture, boys. So that you can be generous on every occasion. Generous to the rev.”

“Holy shit.” James was glassy eyed. He’d almost died and gone to heaven. “Internet. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

Daron opened the bottle and drained half of it. Our beer. Technically Brook’s beer.

“He’s got more arms than an octopus. This Thomas LeRoy, his finance guy? He’s hooked into so many outlets, these guys are making millions in their sleep. Television, newsletters, the Internet, a radio network, a direct mail campaign — and LeRoy is working on a text-message campaign that they figure will rake in a cool million a year.”

I was stunned. “How do you possibly know all of this?”

“I know, okay.”

My God. A text-message campaign that would rake in a million by itself? I’d been thinking small time. I’d been thinking thousands, not hundreds of thousands. I’d never dreamed of millions. And today we’d been in the presence of billions. I couldn’t get my mind around it. Billions. And the funny thing was, these two guys who started this huge Internet site, Meet and Greet, were maybe three years older than James and me. I finally got it. James was seeing the big picture. I was in the Stone Age. It was time to rethink my position. If James wanted to stay and learn, even though our lives were threatened, then we were going to stay and learn. Em would never get it. Ever. I had to live with that. But I got it.