From Riches to Rags

Greg Balfour sat back on the ancient couch that had been thrown out by the neighbours years ago, and which he had dragged the length of the alley to replace its woodworm-riddled predecessor. He had been watching “Lawrence of Arabia” from a secondhand DVD he had bought at the street market. After three long hours, the motion picture was nearing its conclusion, and though he had watched this movie at least three times before, it still enthused him.

The box-sized living room of his partly renovated old house was dim and stuffy. He took one last pull at the stub of his rollie and then snuffed it out in the chipped ashtray, to join the heap of at least ten mutilated companions. He lay the ashtray back on the scratched coffee table beside a dirty plate. He then knocked back the last sip of cheap malt whiskey from a filthy mug, which had “Saxon” inscribed on it, a relic of one of the band’s concerts in Leeds. He blinked as the spirit burned its way down to his stomach, and then glanced for a moment at the framed photo on the chest of drawers. A twenty-year-younger version of himself was dressed in a designer suit, looking full of swagger, as he received the Best-CEO-of-the-Year award. He sighed.

As his eyes wandered back to the TV, a newly promoted but disappointed T.E. Lawrence was driven away from the Middle East, while a motorcycle sped by in a cloud of dust. The end credits started rolling. Greg never failed to be touched by that movie’s ending. He was a great admirer of Lawrence.

As he turned off the TV, the aggressive guitar riffs of “Anarchy in the UK” boomed out of his mobile phone, which slid aimlessly on the table as it vibrated. Greg picked it up. It was Mojo, the guy from whom he rented the less-than-one-car garage where he kept his 1980 Triumph Bonneville T140.

“Shit,” he mouthed before he pressed the connect button on the screen. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Greg, how are you doing?” said a raspy voice.

“Ah… not too bad, mate.” He sighed. He had surmised why Mojo had phoned, and it spelt nothing good.

“Listen, mate,” went on the raspy voice, “I am short of cash right now, and I have to pay the workmen who painted my house. I need you to pay me. You are already two months overdue, mate.”

Greg exhaled like a bellows. “I’ll pay you in a week, Mojo. Would that be okay? I should receive my dole check within the week. As soon as it hits the box, I’ll go and cash it.”

“Mate, I need the damn cash,” croaked Mojo. “One week, that’s it. I have a cousin who’s been nagging me to rent the garage to him for months, and, as I said, I’m strapped for cash.”

Bullshit, he mouthed in his head. “Don’t worry mate, you’ll have your cash in a week. My word.”

“I hope so, or you’ll have to find someplace else for your bike.”

The line went dead.

“Damn,” said Greg. He did not like the idea of leaving his good old bike in the street. The company send-off money had long run out, and now he was living on a meagre monthly allowance from the government. Nonetheless, he categorically refused to complain. Since quitting his job, he had lived a quiet, minimalist life, making do with next to nothing. He had even taken up the hobbies of his youth, which his job had left him no time for. He collected and painted model aeroplanes and had his beloved bike. What else did he need?

He put on his skinny jeans and his faded-black Metallica t-shirt and headed to the local football pub for his evening pint. It was a weekday, and the place was almost empty as usual. He held his breath for a while, till he got used to the smell of rancid cheese and sweat that oozed out of every piece of furniture and from the very walls. Frank and Bob, two relics from a bygone time, were playing Rummy over the small table in the corner.

“Hi, gentlemen,” said Greg.

“Evening, Greg,” said the two old men in unison without raising their eyes from their cards.

“Evening, Robin,” said Greg to the pot-bellied, bald bartender. “Give me a red, mate.”

The bartender nodded in acknowledgement and filled a pint glass from the tap. He slammed the glass in front of Greg, spraying white flecks of froth all over the bench.

“Cheers,” said Greg, raising the glass.

Robin gave him an indifferent nod, then started polishing some beer glasses with a filthy rug that must have seen the two world wars.

Greg took a sip of beer and stared vacantly at the muted TV. There was a quiz show on. A shadow then drew his attention away.

A lean, middle-aged man sauntered to the bar bench. He was dressed in a new-looking pair of jeans and a brown leather jacket that must have cost a fortune. His gleaming hair was combed to one side. Greg noted, from the faint grimace on the man’s face, that the dimly lit, smelly place disgusted him.

“A Heineken, please,” he said to Robin, ironing out his frown into a forced smile.

The bartender gave them his back to pull out a bottle. He placed a glass gently in front of the newcomer and poured three-quarters of the bottle into it. He looked at the potential new patron with undisguised glee.

“Thank you, Sir,” said the man in a confident tone.

Robin forged a smile and then resumed his glass polishing.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” said the newcomer to Greg.

“Sure, why not?” said Greg. He did not mind a bit of conversation, and Frank and Bob were not certainly strong on natter, besides being half deaf, anyway.

“Thanks,” said the newcomer. “I’m Roy.”

“Greg.”

He gave Greg a wry smile and took a sip of Heineken. “It’s a bit quiet here.”

“It’s a weekday. Most people are too knackered after work to come to the pub. Only OAPs come to the waterhole during weekdays.”

Roy scoffed. “Like those two oldies there,” he said, nodding towards the two card players.

Greg smiled. “Yeah, they are the regulars. Well, I am one too I suppose.”

Roy stared at him for a moment, furrowing his brow. “You seem too young to me to be a pensioner though.”

Greg shrugged. “I’m actually unemployed.”

Roy sported a distressed expression that seemed suspiciously exaggerated. “I’m sorry, mate. I did not want to offend you or something.”

“It’s all right,” said Greg, dismissing the man’s apparent qualms with a wave. “It was my choice, really. I’m living the life I always wanted: stress-free, no damn timetables, no responsibility.”

The man’s lips tightened into a shallow smile. “You’re living the dream it seems, Greg.”

“I have time on my hands now. I can afford to take it easy,” said Greg.

They watched the muted TV quiz in silence.

“Another Heineken,” said Roy after a short while to the bartender, “and another pint of whatever my friend here is having.”

When Robin placed a second glass in front of Greg, he raised it towards Roy. “Cheers, man!”

Roy rubbed his chin. “May I ask you something?”

Greg nodded, before taking a long draught.  

“How do you make ends meet? I imagine it’s tough to live on the dole.”

Greg frowned for a moment. “Everything comes at a price. I have to be frugal to maintain my freedom.”

“Don’t you ever grow tired of having to live tightly?” said Roy.

Greg raised an eyebrow and exhaled loudly. This guy was certainly a nosy fellow, but he had to admit that talking to another bloke who was not forty years his senior felt refreshing. “Well, sometimes it gets a bit hard, you know, with the bills and all that.” With his round face and hair combed to one side, Roy stirred up a memory in him. He was sure he looked like someone he knew, but he could not really figure out who it was.

“If you were to work a little on the side, let’s say making 1K a month,” said Roy, “how many hours a day would you be willing to sacrifice at most?”

Greg furrowed his brow. “Well, not more than one hour a day.”

Roy nodded. “And if you were to earn 4K a month, what’s the maximum number of hours a day would you be willing to work to make it worthwhile?”

Greg thought for a moment. “Well, if for 1K I’d work 1 hour a day, for 4K I should be working 4 hours a day.”

“And if you were offered 10K a month,” persisted Roy, “how many hours would you be willing to work?”

Greg frowned deeply. He was getting annoyed now. He thought for a while. “Ten hours a day would be a fair amount of work, but I would not want that for all the gold in the world.”

Roy nodded. “What would you say if you were to work only 8 hours a day and earn 40K a month instead of 10K? Would that be a deal?”

Greg exhaled. “I suppose it would, yes.”

“What would you do with 40K a month, my friend?” said Roy, smiling.

Greg smiled wistfully. “Well, where to begin? I’d buy myself a garage for my bike, and perhaps buy another bike or two.”

“Nice!” said Roy. “What else would you do? Come on, tell me!”

Greg scratched the back of his head. “Well, I’d buy a scale model of all types of World War II planes. Perhaps, I might consider moving to a larger house, and take a holiday trip or two abroad every year. It’s been ages since I moved away from here.”

Roy beamed, showing a row of perfect teeth. “That would be awesome! Go to the States and maybe do a long bike trip, like that guy, Che Guevara.”

Greg smiled and nodded. “Yeah, in the spirit of ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’. I could drive all the way down the States and then on to South America.”

“That would be epic, man,” whooped Roy, patting him on the shoulder.

Greg closed his eyes. The thought of being able to do all the things he had longed to do enticed him. He imagined riding a bike on the open road, perhaps a gleaming Harley, sleeping in a different hotel every day, eating at the best restaurants.

When he opened his eyes, Roy was pushing a paper and pen towards him. “Come on Mr Balfour, sign the contract. 40K a month and you will work only eight hours daily, Monday to Saturday. 480K a year. You’d be swimming in money, doing whatever you like. You can buy ten motorcycles and live the good life once again.”

Greg felt stabbed. “How do you know I’m Balfour?”

“Come on, you felt all along who I was,” said Roy, grimacing like an angry dog. “Since you left, Wright Aircraft Corporation has been spiralling downhill. With you at the helm, it will make the top ten in the world. No one has your clout and your instinct.”

A sudden revelation dawned on Greg. Roy was Jonathan Morgan’s son. The resemblance was uncanny. Morgan was the multibillionaire and majority shareholder of the company.

“Sign the contract,” said Roy, his voice now soft and enticing. “Come on Mr Balfour, you cannot live like a beggar anymore. Such a life does not suit you. You were made for greater things.” He pushed the contract towards him.

Greg was shaking and a sweat broke on his forehead.

“480K a year,” persisted Roy Morgan. “Think of that. No more stinginess. No more cheap whiskey and living from day to day. Mojo could stuff that dump of a room he calls a garage up his arse. With that money, you can buy a ten-car garage easily and fill it with gleaming bikes.”

He knows a damn lot about my life? thought Greg feeling somehow violated.

“You will afford to buy the smartest designer suits, just like the ones you used to wear when you were CEO: Hugo Boss, Versace, and all the rest. Look at you, man! You look like a tramp. Just a signature, go on, and your life will be like the good old days. You will be the top man at Wright Aircraft again.” He dangled the paper in front of Greg.

Greg’s trembling hand reached out for the paper. With the other hand, he reached out for the pen.

Roy Morgan’s lips twisted into a wicked, triumphal grin. “Yes, Mr Balfour, CEO of Wright Aircraft. You are just a signature away from wealth, power and status.”

Greg looked at the contract. He felt an irresistible urge to sign it. It was beckoning to him like an alluring siren, calling him, calling him. The company needed him. He was the man for the job, the top man. He would have the last word in every decision. Then, an old memory sneaked into his head. He saw Jonathan Morgan’s arrogant face shouting him down and overriding his decisions. He saw Morgan overturning good initiatives driven by his own greed. He remembered what frustration was, how it had made him feel wretched. In a fit of rage, he crumpled the contract and tossed it on the floor. “Tell your father to stuff his contract up his arse,” he said.

He strode out of the pub, leaving his beer unfinished and Roy Morgan fuming.

***

           Greg was sitting on a bench in the public garden, the Sunday newspaper sprawled on his lap like a blanket. The timid rays of the winter sun felt warm and comforting, and the twitter of the birds in the trees kept him company. He flipped the newspaper pages and his eyes fell on a bold title: “Newly appointed CEO arraigned for embezzlement of funds of bankrupt Wright Aircraft.” As he read the short article, he felt a deep sense of relief. Wright Aircraft had gone bust, and the new CEO had provided the perfect scapegoat. The board of directors had slung all the blame on the poor fellow who would probably end up in prison.

           He flung the newspaper to the ground, and the large sheets were caught by the wind and scattered in front of the bench. He imagined himself Mel Gibson in “Braveheart,” about to be hung, drawn and quartered. He felt like shouting “Freedom!” at the top of his voice but opted to shout it silently in the recesses of his own head. Unlike William Wallace, he had avoided a grisly end by the skin of his teeth. He sauntered towards the nearby café, sat at an outdoor table and ordered a cappuccino. The thought of the newly bought Spitfire model, waiting for him at home to be assembled and spray painted, filled him with delight and excitement. I am the richest man on earth, he said to himself.