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1. I have never wanted to be rich. Not because I believe the old "Money is the root of all evil" saying, but because I am not an ambitious person. When I was in college, I always said that I wanted a degree that would let me be comfortable in my life. Enough money to take care of me and whatever family I might have in the future; keep us living, keep us happy. It's a boring dream to be honest, but it's attainable. And I'm happy to say I got it.
Yes, I'm one of those very lucky people who got their dream. I got a job as a counselor for a medical group after I graduated and I loved it. I loved it so much that I ended up staying for the next six years. And during those six years I met, dated, broke up with, got back together with, completely fell in love with and married the woman of my dreams. It was completely improbable and absolutely wonderful. And with that, my dream was complete.
The next few years were heaven with no exceptions. I worked a lot, savoring my weekends at home. Despite the long hours and my wife's job, too, we would never be rich. As the economy went down the tubes (a phenomenon I not only experienced, but read in the one edition of Newsweek I bought that year), so did any breathing room in our budget. We began many long, sometimes grueling months of living paycheck to paycheck. This was the hard part of the dream.
2. Just as we were really getting tight, I got a call from my friend, Alex. She was an old friend from college, who, unlike me, decided to really go for it and become a lawyer. And let me clarify what I mean when I say, "getting tight." We were the kind of tight that happens when you just don't buy the really good hot chocolate. Instead, you buy the off brand chocolate that is definitely not the amazing Godiva chocolate. But we weren't so desperate that I was considering hiring out my wife as a prostitute and becoming her pimp. (I will say that at one desperate dinner of nothing but mashed potatoes my wife offered to buy me a pimp cane. That was sweet of her and I seriously considered it for a minute, but in the end, I just don't like to share.) So that was the situation when Alex called.
The phrases "You're kidding me?" and "obvious plot device" don't even begin to cover what happened during our conversation. I believe that if the FBI had actually tapped our phone call, they would have arrested us for transgressing the rules of good plot.
Alex told me in quite obviously disbelieving tones that my uncle had died and left me some money in his will. What was unbelievable was that he was technically my "distant" uncle. Actually, he was my great, great uncle of some considerable age who had died of a "ripe old age" and left me a hundred thousand dollars. I had met this man exactly one time in my life, in college, on the day when he had randomly showed up at my apartment, mysteriously got me a day off not only from work but from school, too (one of the advantages of being fantastically rich). He made me show him around the school (to which he had donated some substantial amount of money) and find him what he called "a promising law student that he could give a career to." Alex was that lucky student and she definitely had a good career. And now that fantastic career was making her tell me that my rich uncle had left me a hundred grand in his will.
Please pause a moment with me and appreciate the irony of the situation with me. Now believe me when I say that this story is about to get better.
3. "There's just one thing about this," said Alex. "There's just one thing about this," said Alex. "There's a clause in the will that you have to fulfill before you receive your inheritance." (Didn't I say that it was gonna get better?) "He left a sealed envelope for you and instructions that you were to complete all the directions inside before receiving the check. If you fail to do so, then your part will be split between the other recipients. I'm supposed to get a verbal agreement from you." I gave what was probably a lame excuse for a verbal agreement, but Alex was familiar with how incomparably communicative I am so she accepted it anyway. "You should get the letter in the mail in about three days,"
4. My wife and I were in an absolute fever of anticipation for the next three days.
That's not true. We were actually very busy preparing for a family get-together. My wife was fine-tuning her lasagna recipe ("How does the combined ricotta and parmesan taste?") and I was trying to figure out how to figure out how to sneak in vodka martinis, heavy on the vodka, without my in-laws finding out and persecuting me for being an alcoholic, which is not true because I only drink hard liquor when I'm at family gatherings with them. So, we were stressed and forgot about possible inheritances from mysteriously rich uncles.
I picked up the mail as we headed out to the car on the way to the family gathering, carrying two uncooked lasagnas and a thermos full of badly mixed martini drink. I let my wife drive. Not because I can't drive or don't know where my in-laws live, but because I hadn't decided how drunk I wanted to be before we arrived.
Let me explain something here that is probably not completely related to the story, but is important to me in a "close to my heart" way. My wife, whom I love with all my heart and would willingly take a bullet for, scares me when she drives. She speeds, knowing that I prefer speed limits. She changes lanes all the time, just to needlessly get around people who are going the speed limit and then stop at the stop light twenty seconds later. At every stop light. She also yells at every driver in front of her, whether they're nice drivers or bad drivers or if everyone is parked. She has a very colorful vocabulary, too, and sounds uncannily like a sailor on leave. And she knows that I am a nervous passenger, so I'm pretty sure she does all of this on purpose just to mess with her head. Yes, I do love my wife.
On this occasion, I really needed something to distract me from the carnage. So I opened the mail so I wouldn't have to pay attention to her driving, which is how I ended up reading the letter from my uncle. It said:
Dear Shannon,
I have never been one for supporting the conventional. It is, therefore, fitting that my end be what it is and that your inheritance be similarly unconventional. I shall enjoy this, even from my grave.
As Alexandra will no doubt have told you, there is a task you must accomplish before receiving your money. Let us not be coy. You need the money and I have a sick sense of humor. However, in my own way, I care about you. You were honest and compelling the day we spent together and I have never forgotten how you saved me from the Ahi tuna rolls at the cafeteria. It's a service that I credit with adding three years to my life.
Here's the fun part, for me at least. In order to receive your inheritance you must decide if you really love your life and leave an explanation of why you do or do not in my coffin. That means that you'll actually have to attend my funeral. Alexandra will be in attendance to observe you, at which time she will also give you your check.
I am an old man. And I have had ample time to ruminate on my life. But you are young and perhaps have not had time yet to reconsider some of your choices. If I can prompt you to begin the process now, then my will may do some good other than to line your pockets. And if it happens to stir up some trouble at the same time, my humor will be satisfied.
Have fun. I remembered you, but I doubt that I cared about you at all.
Your great, great uncle,
(unreadable signature)
5. "That sick bastard" was the first thing I thought of to say. I really don't like people messing with me and my life. As a woman with a wife, I've had plenty of that in my life and I vowed, along with the whole "in sickness and in health" clause, not to let people meddle in my life. However, I resisted the urge to call my possible benefactor something that rhymes with "pucker" and settled for putting the folded up letter in my back pocket. I said nothing to my wife, who had launched into a diatribe against letting old people have driver's licenses. A few minutes and many curses later, my wife had parked the car and we were plunged into the dark recesses of a family gathering.
It was a wild time, I have to say. Parties with the family were always fun. Yes, I am using the word "fun" ironically. My in-laws were feuding over something, so they were snippy with each other every time they talked to each other. There were three teenage cousins sulking in a corner. I felt some definite kinship with them, but I was whisked away by my own true love to chat with the aunts and uncles. She wasn't showing me off. I was her plus one to the firing squad. We were suffering together and it was bringing us closer in a "Misery" sort of way.
After what seemed like years of purgatory with toothpicks poked under my fingernails, she and I took our midway point break in her old bedroom and taking some time to breathe. This was our halftime, our intermission, and our pee break. I closed the door behind us, leaning against it wearily.
"If I have to listen to one more word about insuring houses that are structurally unsound, I will poke my eyes out with the tiny plastic swords they're making us use for the weenies. Those things are so annoying." I fell onto the bed dramatically.
She sat down next to me and rubbed her neck. "Do you have any martini left?" she asked.
"No. Your father caught me. We shared. It went quickly." I reached out and touched her hand, just to make sure she was still real and I was hallucinating her to comfort myself. She was and I wasn't and that made me happy.
She turned and looked at me, a small smile playing on her face. She lay down and cuddled up to me as I put an arm around her shoulders. "If we fall asleep," she said, "my mother will never forgive us."
"Has she forgiven us for Easter?" I asked. (And before you ask, it's too long of a story to tell and it's a bit embarrassing, so I probably won't tell you anyway. Ever.)
"No. She brought it up again while we were in the kitchen."
"She has a mind like an elephant."
"A white elephant."
"What?"
"And we are Ahab. We can call ourselves the Ahab collective."
"You made a hive mind reference. And it was a white whale, not a white elephant. Your mother is not a whale. She's Kathy Bates."
She sat up a little bit and looked at me. "How many times did you recite the "Misery" joke in your head before you said it?" she asked.
"Once. It sounded better in my head."
"You shoulda left it there, babe."
"Thank you for your concern."
"We should get back out there. We are charming and will definitely be missed." Neither of us moved.
"Well, you're beautiful and will be missed. I am like your purse, which shows up with you but is left in a corner untouched until it's time to go."
"A purse that I really love."
I sat up and looked down at her. "You mean that?"
She kissed me once quickly, then did it again, slower and deeper, running her fingers through my hair. "A woman never goes anywhere without her purse. Now come on."
We got up and headed to the door. I stopped her and tried to make her kiss me. She made me work for it as always. I had to put my hands in my back pockets and lean against the door so she couldn't get out until she kissed me. I felt the letter from my ridiculously and dead and rich uncle in my pocket. I didn't care. She was kissing me and I couldn't care about anything else.

A few days later, I was sitting at my uncle's funeral, thinking very hard and very quickly. I had forgotten all about the directions in the letter and now that the day was here, I hadn't done anything for it. I hadn't thought about my life or my choices or written anything down. Frankly, I had been very busy. There was work and living and things of a responsible nature to do. And, yes, I didn't do any of that important, responsible stuff because I was with my wife as much as possible, but that's beside the point and none of your business. So, there I was, sitting in the back of the chapel at the funeral home, staring at his ugly oak casket with the brass hardware, frantically trying to figure out how I could still get the money without actually doing any of the work. It felt like doing the homework the hour before it was due and realizing that not even Einstein could finish it because it was a mountain and you should have just done it the day it was assigned like a responsible person would do.
I had already seen Alex standing around in her official capacity as the deceased's lawyer. I could tell she was being official because she was wearing a charcoal grey skirt suit which was a very professional and very ugly, but which she pulled off well because she had an amazing figure and long legs. (I have long coveted her long legs.) I had noticed all this in the minute it took to slip in at the last second and take my favored seat in the back. She had her business face on, too. It was a face I knew well from college. It was the face that said I should not try to put anything over on her today. And as I sat their, furiously thinking, I very quickly ran out of options.
"I knew our honored friend for only a few days," the minister was saying. I politely tried to appear like I was paying attention and not thinking about greedy things. "He was a singular man, full of charm, wit and what can only be described as a unique sense of humor." You got that right, buddy, I thought. "It was a pleasure to get to know him and a source of endless amusement." I was pretty sure I saw a look of pain on the minister's face. "I'm sure many of us here feel the same way about him and remember him as fondly as I do." I could barely keep myself from laughing out loud. "I would like to share a story with you about him which I think says a lot about how his mind worked." Oh, this should be good.
How many sarcastic remarks could I get out of one speech? I wondered. I decided to go for the record.
"I had com e for a visit at the hospital, to minister and provide what comfort I could in my capacity as clergyman. When I walked into the room, he gave me a mischievous smile. I thought he was just in good spirits, so I cracked a few jokes and waited for him to bring up what might be on his mind. He winked at me and asked what I planned to say in this eulogy. I told him I hadn't thought about it yet. He said, 'I figured you needed some help,' and handed me an envelope. I was a little confused, but he was adamant that I open it, so I did. I unfolded the paper inside it. And imagine my surprise when it was a blank piece of paper. He laughed and laughed. He laughed until a nurse came in to check on us. When I asked what was so funny, he told me that he hated long speeches and since he wouldn't be listening anyway, I should save my breath. Basically, he had written my speech for me."
All of a sudden, I knew what I should do. I ducked out of the chapel as quietly as possible and went up to the reception desk. To my everlasting joy, they had the envelope I needed. I almost asked for a piece of paper, but a perverse notion occurred to me and I put my uncle's letter in it instead. Then I had another perverse notion, took it out, wrote on it, and put it back. I sealed it and wrote my name on it, just so the bastard would know it was me who had sent it. Then I crept back in and sat down again just as Alex was walking up to the podium.
"As the minister said, I'm Alexander, his lawyer," she said in a dry, businesslike tone. "Will the beneficiaries come forward and complete your obligations."
About nine of us stood and queued up in front of the casket. I was about third from the back. Each of us put an envelope in the casket and went over to Alex. The first guy looked at her expectantly, but she only held out an empty hand for a shake. He shook her hand, obviously disappointed, and went back to his seat. The rest of us followed his example. I threw my envelope in with a flick of my wrist. It hit him on the nose and stumbled over to lean against the opposite side of the casket on the satin padding. I shook Alex's hand with all due seriousness and went back to my sear. When the last of us had set back down, Alex said, "He said he knew you were all just here for the money, so he made me promise to wait until after the ceremony to give you your due. I'll be in the lobby afterward."
Forty minutes later, I filed out with everyone else and received my "due" from Alex. She raised an eyebrow at me.
"You seemed a bit hasty with your contribution," she said, suspiciously. "Any problems?"
"A little bit of writer's block, but a sudden inspiration saved the day."
She looked at me skeptically and handed me an envelope with my name on it. I walked out holding a hundred thousand dollar check in my hand; a hundred thousand dollars that was going to save my wife from prostitution. And the only thing I'd done to deserve it was write "sucker" on his stupidly infuriating letter. I felt triumphant, elated and very, very rich.
Riding high on that feeling, I took my wife out to dinner that night to celebrate our windfall. We ordered whatever we wanted, including an extravagantly priced white wine to start whose taste was nowhere near up to par with the cost. We had appetizers that were fried and ones that weren't fried. We had soup and salad. I had steak, medium rare, with mashed potatoes and fried vegetables. I splurged on getting a nice red to go along with it. The love of my life had gourmet pasta with marinara sauce and expensive Parmesan cheese sprinkled so thick that you couldn't see the red of the sauce. We had sorbet to cleanse our pallets before the dessert, which took a lot of deliberation to pick out. We talked and laughed as we ate like we hadn't done since we were dating. I told her the whole story about what I'd done, horrifying her with my capacity to lie to the dead and feel no shame. (He was a bastard anyway.) We were in very high spirits for the first time in a long time. We finally had no worries and were going to enjoy it to the fullest extent possible under the law.
"So," my wife said towards the end of dinner and the beginning of dessert. It is not always a good thing when my wife begins a sentence with the word "so." I prepared my mind for the worst while I prepared my mouth for dessert. "So," she said, "what did you decide as you were contemplating your life?"
"I didn't," I replied as the waiter put down our desserts, "which is why we got both the brownie and the apple crumble."
"No, about what your uncle said. What did you decide about your life?"
"Are you gonna make me tell you?" I asked. My wife can be stubborn about finding things out that I don't necessarily want to share. It's annoying, sometimes good, but mostly annoying. It also makes it impossible for me to plan surprise parties and keep what I got her for Christmas a secret.
"Of course," she replied, taking a bite out of her brownie.
I looked at her and smiled. I very romantically took her hand and kissed it, right there in front of everybody in the fancy, expensive restaurant, making her blush. Then I did it again for good measure and because I wanted to. "I decided that I wouldn't change a thing."