We Can Be Heroes

Her unexpected smile—from a bank teller, no less—was like a spell. Wanting my traveler's cheques cashed—in Vienna, I was charmed, vulnerable to her whims, colored cheeks, and rosy lips…

This international language of twenty-somethings overcomes everything. Smiles are the start, followed by delicious looks and touching what has been touched. You know, papers pass between us. Then her halting English trumps my abysmal German so that we’re transcendent together, dreaming.

Until she hands me too much money. Uh, what?

I fumble for my phrase book. “Er ist ein Kanadier.”

She cocks her head, a frown crashing my mood. So then I panic. I'm a kid again, and the corner store proprietor's daughter has just given me quarters for change instead of nickels.

While the ornate chandeliers cast a benign glow over the crowd, I could hear footsteps marking time on the marble floors of this grand old Viennese bank. I hurriedly counted the bills again, just to make sure, mindful of the restive lineup of muttering Austrians behind me.

This was long before cell phones did the talking. Long before, every European wanted to take English as a second language. Sighing, I threw that wretched phrase book in my bag and slid everything through the bank wicket back to her.

Her face crimsoned so attractively. She offered me chocolates.

How often have I replayed this hero script I pulled on myself, especially since I never got to ask her out? My traveler's cheques were Canadian, but she assumed I had given her American cheques, dispensing too many Austrian schillings.

If I hadn't alerted her, she would have gotten in trouble when her till didn't balance, but at least I would have her number! I could have spent the bank's money on drinks and seen that slow smile at the end of a romantic evening.

But here I am, so heroically honest, the ideal customer, a charming addition to anyone’s life, any time or place, an honest...dolt?

Doing the right thing is overrated. Is that why everyone shies away from being that sort of person?

For instance, who wants to be the designated driver? Or worse, at eleven or so, one who announces that it's been fun, but they need to hit the sack?

Is that why when someone rescues a family of five from a five-alarm fire at five in the morning for the five o’clock news, they’ll five and dime what they did?

“Aw, shucks, anyone could do it!” they'll sheepishly say, as if embarrassed.

I must have a gene that predisposes me to heroic gestures. So when that cyclist, gliding off the sidewalk, where he shouldn’t be, is out in front to run a stop sign or red light, God help him! Except it’s me he’s cutting off, me not driving a big black truck, not getting from A to B in the shortest time possible, watching everything, the sniveling preschooler with his helicopter mother, the teenager on their big cell phone, the jogger, not looking, paying attention to their headphones…it’s a workout let me tell you. I don't hit anyone, but I'm always a designated driver. So if someone asks, yeah, sure, I'm a hero—an everyday one!

#

They say that when you are stuck with lemons, make lemonade. So, if I'm an everyday hero, I might as well be a flush-with-cash one.

You know how people do things these days. I’m so different, so divine. I’m up for the time of my life anytime. Want to ride along with me? Here’s my formula, my snake oil for sale—an app! What else could I think of?

It's an app for two kinds of people: the heroes and the unwashed.

How does it work? I'm glad you asked. It's just like how everything works these days.

Ai powered, Internet-connected, server-tethered, privacy-busting individual monitoring.

You get these little blasts sounding off in your ear, micro-dot-inspired graphics where you stare, or pixelated emojis to make you aware…

That you messed up! Or not. It depends because it's like Mom talking. She blows hot or cold, depending on the circumstances.

There are no hurt feelings, no recriminations. You're not mad forever, as if she was there. It's only five bucks a month, or what? By the year?

#

The following day, muscle memory worked on my cell phone. Half awake, I poked at my financial app, rolled over, and nearly choked on my bank account. It was the biggest steal ever—by me.

“Thanks for not listening to me all my life!” says my wife when she sees those round figures. “Now, we’re rich?”

I looked at her, and then my hero app started up:

She feels left out—a classic! Men who make sacrifices and work until midnight to score big financially typically get super angry because they feel unappreciated. Forget about it. It's not personal.

Now, you will be supportive. Include her in your plans. Make her feel like she was there from the beginning.

Yes, my invention, my app, working even for me? I get her to do the math. I get her involved and part of it.

"One hundred thousand people downloaded my app in twenty-four hours," I started. "Freeloading basic tier aside, how many who paid five bucks?"

“One hundred thousand dollars, from twenty thousand,” my wife chimes in—math wiz in high school.

"Less Google/Apple percentage, server rental, AI charge, and what?” I say.

“Software maintenance, employee wages, taxes, and aggravation?” She says.

“Miscellaneous queries, nonsense requests, computer glitches?” I reply.

“We’re speaking in tongues,” she sighs, sitting down.

I sit with her. We cry.

#

After that cry fest, I got down to business. What more could I do or not do? Thinking back to that Viennese teller, I tell her that how we react to things matters, not so much what happens.

“What?” my wife says.

“Sure, as shooting!” I say. “What happens isn’t nearly as interesting as the human angle! Take that teller in Vienna. Was the mistake she made as important as my reaction?”

“And?” she says.

“And that is it! There are other ways to monetize this, but data is the gold pot at the end of everything.

“And?” she says again.

"The more people sweat the minutia, the more data points we have! It's not the pot but what fills it. It's not the gold but the gold digger!"

“I get it,” she says. "People love stories, and we'll have millions of them. The more people sweat the details, the more stories there will be."

"Break even on the subscriptions and sell the data!" I say.

We high-five it, and my wife turns it up a notch: "People are so lonely these days. What if the app automatically connected with strangers who would welcome a chat or a friendly nod?"

"Chatting without texting?"

"Real. Like Mom and apple pie!" she added.

"So, are you receiving?" Her eyes had me, like that teller in Vienna.

"Hmm, I had no idea," I say. We both toss our cell phones aside.

"Apps are so overrated," I say.

"Especially when you're my hero," she says.

I wink at her then notice our of the corner of my eye, her app, and what I could read there:

Male egos, tread lightly.

But I didn't care.