Dear Benny

The Copperdale Trust is one of the most prestigious financial foundations ever established. Run by the world’s greatest attorneys, bankers, and financial experts, it holds significant interests in major tech firms, banks, oil, steel, hospitality, and transportation—if there was money to be made, then The Copperdale Trust had its hands in the pot.

           Martha A. Rothschild-Copperdale, and her husband, William T. Copperdale, the beneficiaries of The Copperdale Trust, cruised through the Maine countryside in their Rolls Royce limousine on a trip to visit their long-estranged son, Benjamin W. Copperdale. Their destination?

           The Penobscot County Institution for the Criminally Insane.

       William T. stared deeply into the forest as it passed. What happened to their darling Benjamin? What could they have done differently? Just what made him go so insane? William looked back towards his wife. She drank red wine from one of the limo’s crystal champagne flute. Perhaps she drank a 1963 Merlot? Or maybe a 1958 Bordeaux? They never kept the good vintages in the limo.

           The most pressing question on William T. Copperdale’s mind was one he hoped to answer today. Ten years after their son was committed to The Penobscot County Institution for the Criminally Insane, the question still ate at him. Could their darling son come home? And more importantly, why was their son so insistent on giving their money away?

**

           The Copperdale Trust’s founder was Benjamin W.’s great-great grandfather, an ironsmith named Cormac McGinty. Cormac was an Irish immigrant that come at America during the first throes of the potato famine in 1845. He arrived in New York City and quickly discovered that being poor and hungry in America was not too different than being poor and hungry in Ireland.

A caravan due west from New York was in need of a toolsmith and was taking open queries. Not unsurprisingly, a shovel and pick maker was not a common profession in the financial metropolis of 19th century America. So, when an indigent and foul-smelling Cormac offered his services, the members of the caravan said, “I suppose he’s better than nobody.”

         Cormac’s caravan made it all the way to Kansas City before their driver and hired hand came down with cases of consumption. Back on the street, and poor and hungry once again, he happily offered his services to another caravan heading further West.

            The caravan eventually stopped in a spot that would become San Francisco. Cormac continued making picks and shovels and axes and spades and rakes and horseshoes and hoes. When the gold rush hit San Francisco there suddenly became an insatiable demand to buy tools in bulk. The only toolsmith around?

            Cormac McGinty.

           Cormac focused entirely on pick, pans, and shovels and sold them faster than he could produce them. Better yet, he could sell them for hundreds of dollars per tool. He hired a team of smiths, and within a year had a factory under his control. In his second year he had over a dozen factories. Cash and gold flooded in by the shovelful. Cormac rise to the upper echelons of society required him to hide his past as a poor immigrant from New York, so in the year 1854 he changed his name from Cormac McGinty to Cormac Chester Copperdale.

           Eventually, the goldrush began to subside and the American Civil War picked up traction. Cormac switched his factory’s production from anything that poked holes in the Earth to anything that poked holes in people. Bayonets, knives, bullets, rifles, cannons, and artillery shells: all of these were on the Copperdale Ironworks menu.

         After a few lucrative government contracts, Cormac expanded further into the steel business and began laying down the railroad track that covers majority of the Western American Railroad network.

           He spent his money on investments from all over America. If you asked for a loan, it was yours. Of course, he lost money more often than not, but those investments were overshadowed by his immeasurable successes loaning money for ownership shares to young men named Henry Ford, Charles Schwab, and J.P. Morgan.

           Over the following twenty years, Cormac’s wildly successful businesses generated an enormous amount of income. Cormac Chester Copperdale sat upon a sum of money that rivaled even that of the American Treasury. His lawyers encouraged him to put his money into a trust should one of his many businesses go belly-up, and so he did. He desired for his money to be passed down by direct lineage and only by direct lineage. When asked why, in a broken Gaelic accent he responded, “One of them will eventually spend this money right.”

**

           The Penobscot County Institution for the Criminally Insane was a beautiful facility deep in the forests of Bangor, Maine. Mr. and Mrs. Copperdale admired fountains that lined the long driveway, they admired the clay tennis courts that could be seen in the distance, they admired the pillars of real roman marble—all of this was paid for by a sizable donation from The Copperdale Trust. After all, a Copperdale wouldn’t be caught dead in anything except the finest institution. The sizable donation that paid for the fountains and tennis courts and pillars of marble and the world’s best doctors was exchanged for the institution to admit their darling Benjamin W. And, of course, for absolute discretion in doing so.

**

           Benjamin didn’t grow up criminally insane. He was born after a healthy nine-month pregnancy at a very healthy eight pounds and two ounces. He was taught by the best tutors from birth, and attended the prestigious Garby-Harvin Academy for Gifted Babies. He received high marks, as expected, and was a consistent honor roll baby.

           It wasn’t until age six that his parents, Martha A. and William T., noticed the first signs of his insanity: At age six, their son decided to reject the perfectly good name, Benjamin W. Copperdale, and opted to go by the name, Benny.

       “Benny” continued to attend fine academies and always finished at the top of his class. As he grew older, Benjamin would shadow his father at business meetings and spent time with the finest business minds. William T. was proud of the insight his son would bring to his meetings. William decided that his son was sparklingly intelligent, and would lead The Copperdale Trust to great things.

           Williams greatest concern was Benjamin’s insatiable appetite for philanthropy. He raised money. He volunteered. To his father’s dismay, Benjamin even started a charity—Imodium for the Bowel Sensitive, or IBS. The purpose of IBS was raising money to purchase anti-diarrhea medication to those, well, hopefully the name is self-explanatory. The very thought disgusted William. At first, William thought it was an honorable ploy by Benjamin to strengthen his college resume. When Benjamin continued to run his charity after he was accepted to Harvard, then William realized that there must have been no ulterior motive. He was greatly confused by his son’s actions. It was also around this time that Benjamin began campaigning for “Mandatory Corporate Social Responsibility.” How preposterous—using the trust’s assets for anything except expanding and creating new assets? William concluded that there was something fundamentally wrong with Benjamin W., and it worried him greatly.

**

           Benny never wanted to be a businessman.

           He knew this when he was very young. Recycling money to horde more money. The notion appeared to be an unfulfilling pursuit.

           When Benny turned twenty-one years of age, he became a senior at Harvard. He also became a trustee and beneficiary of The Copperdale Trust. With three billion dollars of annual revenue at his disposal, he decided that the bountiful garden of assets would get on fine without his tender care. So, he dropped out.

         His parents were furious. Which conflicted him. He had always been taught that money can buy you happiness, and because of the tremendous supply of money their fortune had amassed, his parents should have been the happiest people on earth. While sorting through this turmoil, Benny’s grand idea finally ‘clicked.’ With his tremendous supply of money, he could supply a tremendous supply of happiness for those without his assets.

           So, Benny took a shuttle from Harvard Square to downtown Boston, purchased a desk and dragged it out in front of Faneuil Hall. From that desk he hung a sign which said, “Need change? Let’s make cents of it!”

           Benny sat at the desk with checkbook and notepad until finally somebody stopped. The customer was an ill-shaven man of about forty. He spelled putrid and was about as homeless a plastic bag blowing in the wind. “Hello.” He said.

           “Howdy. What can I do for you on this fine day?”

           The vagrant looked confused.

          “If I could make your life better in one way, what would it be?”

     “I’m kind of hungry.” The man looked around. “There’s a sandwich shop around the corner.”

        “Delicious!” Benny said. He likely wasn’t talking about the shop’s sandwiches, but at his first opportunity to be successful in his endeavor. He signed a check for $10 and handed it to the man.

            “This is for me?”

         “Yup. Thanks for letting me help.” Benny said with a smile. The homeless man was flabbergasted for a moment, but quickly scooted away before strings were attached.

           Satisfied, Benny thought, now this is good business.

           Not long afterwards, the first homeless man brought another skeptical vagrant who doubtfully asked for $100. With a quick stroke of the pen, his wish was granted. Light filled the skeptic. He and the other vagrant skipped down the bricked street like school children. Later, a man asked for Celtics tickets. A quick phone call to the box office and it was done. The man asked Benny how he could thank him. Benny replied, “Stop by some time and let me know who won.”

           A line steadily built and Benny soon had a constant flow of customers. At day’s end, Benny helped 36 people and had spent a total of $144,982—an amount that The Copperdale Trust generated in three seconds. He decided that his business would need an address, and so he got a PO Box, and a few boxes of business cards with this information on them.

           By week’s end, he had helped a desperate man afford his wife’s dream ring, paid for two weddings, and a vacation to Hawaii. He purchased three houses, seven cars, and paid off a dozen mortgages. All of this came at a cost that didn’t hold a match to the flame of his malignantly large bank account.

            In his second week, he was approached by a woman cradling a bundle of papers. “What can I do for you, dear?”

         The cradle of papers thumped the desk. “I’ve got a manuscript here. I’ve been writing it for years. I’ve tried to get it published—I’ve always wanted to be an author—but I can’t even get an agent to look at it.” She said with wounded pride. There must have been over a thousand pages in the pile.

           “What’s your book called?”

           “A History of Northern American Strains of Grass.”

           “You’ve written a thousand page book on grass?”

           “I covered Bermuda grass, common lawn grass, Kentucky Blue.”

           “Yes, yes, I see you’re passionate about it.” No wonder why no literary agent picked it up. Nonetheless, he had a duty, and so he said, “Let me make a phone call. I own a publishing company you know.”

           One phone call later, the deal was done. She had her book deal.

           “How can I ever thank you?” The elated woman asked.

           Benny handed her his business card. On it was his name, his PO Box, and his business’s motto, ‘Need change? Let’s make cents of it!’ And he said to her, “Write me a letter to let me know how it goes.”

           The next few weeks were a dream for Benny. He founded over a hundred scholarships, started a dozen food trucks, and even pronounced two fine young people ‘husband and wife.’ Every time he was asked about repayment, he handed them a card and asked for a letter about how their new endeavor was proceeding. He had never been happier in his life.

           One day, a woman dressed in a tattered uniform visited him. She sheepishly rolled her tired looking hands and ask, “Could you please, if you don’t mind, help me find a better job?”

           “Of course I can!” Benny excitedly answered. “What do you do?”

           “I work as a maid…” She blushed, “At Dorchester by the Sea Motel.”

           “Dorchester by the Sea?” Benny knew the motel was one of the sleaziest in the city. It was located in a bad part of a bad neighborhood, and was not ‘by the sea’ by any New England standard. He knew these things very well because the motel was wholly owned by The Copperdale Trust. “Oh dear,” he took pity. “We’ve got to get you out of there. How is working at the Dorchester by the Sea?”

           “Sticky.”

           “Oh… Right. It happens that there is an opening at The North End, one of the most prestigious hotels in the city.” He knew this because he memorized all of the open positions in his companies—something strangely easy for his radiant mind.

           “Really?” She jumped. “You would do that for me?”

           “Of course I would. Just write me a letter in a few weeks and let me know how you like the new gig.”

           Later that evening, Benny called the Dorchester by the Sea Motel and ordered them pay their hard working and underappreciated maids $30 dollars an hour. This act traveled around the many companies owned by The Copperdale Trust, and eventually, to William T. Copperdale himself. William’s suspicions were confirmed. His son was unfit to lead The Copperdale Trust, and therefore, unfit for the public eye.

**

“Will the other loonies be of any danger to us?” Martha asked the doctor.

“With the exception of your son, they are all perfectly sedated.”

“Good. Good.” William responded. He and his wife walked uncomfortably through the lime tiled hallway of The Penobscot County Institution for the Criminally Insane. They were escorted to a table in the rec hall. “Hello son.”

  “Mom, Dad!” Benny turned from his card game with a wide smile on his bearded face. He had grown so much in these last ten years. He was a boy when he had his ‘psychotic break.’ Here was a man. Perhaps he had grown out of those fantastical ideals. Perhaps it was a phase. William felt confident that his boy, his son, might come home today.

“What game are you playing Benjamin?” William asked as he shook his son’s hand for the first time in a decade. “Poker? Baccarat?”

“Go fish.”

Confidence lost.

“Are you here to take me home?”

“Well, we are here to see you!” William awkwardly transitioned, “You look good, son!”

“I’m so happy to see you dear!” Benny’s very uncomfortable mother chimed in. “How are things?”

           “Fantastic.” Benny responded. “There’s a lot of good work to be done around here.” He pointed towards the members of his card game. “I’ve helped Jackson pay off the loan on his mother’s home. I’ve helped Dennis learn how to trade securities, and…” He put his hand on the shoulder of the man sitting next to him, “I helped Peter start a college fund for his daughter.”

“Wow, son.” William said with a hollow tone, “That’s great.”

“Peter, what did you do to end up in this institution?” Martha asked.

“I killed my wife.”

“Oh lord!” Martha fainted.

William stunned, pleaded signs of normalcy in his son, “You’re playing cards with this man? With this killer? What have you got to say for yourself Benjamin?”

“Peter, have you got any three’s?”

**

           “We paid for all of this!” William shouted at the director. “For the fountains, and the marble, and the doctors, your salary, so that you could cure my son. And what’s he doing now? Playing cards with the Manson family!”

           “Well, Mr. Copperdale. I am sorry to tell you this, but it is this facility’s opinion that your son’s generosity is incurable.”

           William took Martha’s hand. “We are leaving. And I doubt you’ll see us again.” They marched to their Rolls Royce limousine, entered, and were gone.

           Benny never received a good-bye.

**

           “Mail’s here for you Mr. Copperdale.”

           Benny thanked the mailman and accepted the ruffling postal sack that would make an envious man of Santa Clause.

         He crashed on his bed and opened the first letter, “Dear Benny, we are finally selling the old house—the one you paid off all those years back. It’s finally on to bigger and better things for us…”

           “Dear Benny, You don’t know us, but my daughter just started her first day at Princeton under one of your scholarships. No doubt she would have never had this opportunity without your generosity…”

           “Dear Benny, they just made me a manager at The North End. Me! A manager! They are sending me to Johnson and Wales University to study hospitality. Can you believe that?”

          “Dear Benny, A History of Northern American Strains of Grass, has been nominated for the Times’ books of the decade list! They say there isn’t a golf course in America without a copy. I’ve started writing my second novel, Different Concretes of Earth…”

           “Dear Benny, Thank you!”