Chinook
by George  M Hosier II  - November 3

Get Rich Quick

I have always wanted to start a business. To do so should be a no-brainer. After all, this is America, right? America is famous for being a land of equality and opportunity! I’ve been told that any buck-toothed, freckle-faced kid who puts his mind to it can become President of the United States. In addition, at a very young and impressionable age, I was imbued with a sense of awe for the financial windfall pleading with absolutely anybody at all to pluck it. It was called the “American Dream”.

One of the earliest stories I remember hearing at my mother’s knee was about some guy named Ellis Sylen and his encounter with the friendly giantess, Nukah Lossus. It’s been a long time since I heard the story, and no doubt age and cynicism have blunted the details as well as the fascination it held for me as an itty bitty little munchkin, but it went something like this:

“Once upon a time, in an ancient land of storied pomp, there lived a huddled mass named Ellis Sylen. Now Ellis lived on a teeming shore with a bunch of other huddled masses, eleven of which consisted of his wife and kids. The only thing that really distinguished Ellis from the other masses was his asthma. How he yearned to breathe free! But instead of being able to devote his time to searching for a good pulmonologist, Ellis was compelled to spend his days on the teeming shore becoming saturated with salt water. This condition of perpetually marinating in ocean brine was not unique to Ellis, but was, unfortunately, the only life that any of the huddled masses knew. This was true for two main reasons.

“The first reason was that their teeming shore happened to be right smack dab in the middle of Hurricane Alley. No less than three times a day, a nasty tempest would arrive out of nowhere and toss the huddled masses like a salad—which leads me to the second reason they were all wet.

“The huddled masses were homeless. Since they had no home, they had no shelter from these horrible tempests. After years of being tempest tossed, Ellis woke up one morning to the realization that he was tired and poor. Between tossings, Ellis began to ponder this. He couldn’t think of a word picture quite vivid enough to describe how pointless he felt—and then in a sudden epiphany, he had it! A succinct and gripping phrase gripped him succinctly. ‘I feel precisely like wretched refuse,’ he blurted.

“It felt good to admit this to himself. For so long he had lived in denial, but now that he knew how wretched and refuse-like he was, he determined to do something about it. He began researching the possibility of improving his life. He began to hear stories about a wonderful place called the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. It sounded awfully grand.

“Evidently this land had some sort of a royal family who lived atop a purple mountain—‘Majesties’, they were called. These Purple Mountain Majesties were attended by a servant girl named Amber who fanning them by waving sheaves of grain, and who piloted them anywhere they wanted to go in a fruited plane.

“However, this place was not a monarchy. Some called it a republic; others claimed it was a democracy. Either way, both names were fancy words meaning that the peasants ran the place instead of the Majesties. However, in order to become qualified to rule there, a strict initiation ritual had to be observed.

“Somewhere between sea and shining sea was erected a big apple. Deep inside the core of this huge apple was a furnace that burned with an eternal flame. Above this eternal flame rested a melting pot. Any huddled masses that yearned to breathe free had to go to the big apple and jump into the melting pot. When they emerged, they were guaranteed to have all their problems solved, and all their needs met. Furthermore, they would become millionaires in no time at all. Then they could buy a house with a white picket fence, a two car garage, and a lawn with a swing set in it.

“Ellis knew he had to get him his family there, so he built a raft out of some driftwood he found on the teeming shore, waited for a lull between tempest tossings, piled on and pushed off. To make a long story short, after a perilous voyage on the ocean white with foam, Ellis woke up face down on a beach. When he raised his head, he saw a gigantic sandal-shod foot planted in the sand, inches from his face.

“It belonged to one of an enormous pair of conquering limbs astride him. They were attached to a body that loomed interminably toward the spacious skies. Tilting his head back further and further, he was finally able to find the head of an enormous green woman holding a keystone tablet in one hand and a torch in the other. Rays of light emanated from her brow as she intoned, ‘Welcome, Ellis, I am Nukah Lossus. Here at our sunset, sea-washed gates I stand and lift my torch beside the golden door.’

“Looking in the direction she was indicating, Ellis saw a golden door yawning invitingly open, and through it he could see the Big Apple. To make a long story short, Ellis and his family, hand in hand walked through the golden door, straight up to the Big Apple, and without hesitation dove into the melting pot. There was a moment of intense pain, followed by a floating sensation. When they opened their eyes, Ellis and his family were no longer huddled masses. Ellis was a wealthy asthma nebulizer tycoon, his wife was driving a mini van, and his kids were wearing baggy pants and listening to music on their iPods. And everybody lived happily ever after.”

This was the story that inspired me as a wee tot, and I still haven’t learned any better. For years I have been aspiring to become a genuine entrepreneur. My wife isn’t as enchanted with the concept as I am. She frequently reminds me that between the dogs and cats and ferret and goats and horses, we have enough manure around here without me trying to become an “antra manure”.

She doesn’t understand the American Dream, but someday I’ll make her understand! You have to spend money to make money. She thinks the several thousand dollars I’ve invested so far in guaranteed business opportunities has been wasted. On the contrary, I take my cue from the great American, Thomas Edison. I haven’t failed a hundred times, I’ve simply discovered a hundred ways that it won’t work. I’m actually that much closer to breaking free of my financial bondage. I just need to max a couple more credit cards on memberships; top secret, limited offer manuals; broker fees; and complete marketing and product jump-start kits. I know it’s possible to get rich, because I get fifty e-mails every day from self-made millionaires offering to show me how they did it for only $49.95 plus shipping and handling.

Actually, I think I have finally found it. As the experts advise, to start a successful business, you must find a need in your community and fill it. Well I found a need right here in Delta Junction. It seems that everywhere I drive, I find bashed-in mailboxes. I am going to market a line of anti-mailbox-vandal products. It’s going to be a real cash cow.

I don’t know who is doing all the mailbox smashing, but I have heard rumors of sightings in the community. According to the reports, fleeting glimpses of the culprits suggest that they have sloped foreheads and protruding brows. They have hairy chests and their knuckles drag the ground when they walk. They appear unable to communicate in anything other than monosyllabic grunts, punctuated by primitive whooping sounds at the moment when their crude tree branch cudgel makes contact with the mailbox.

If I had my way, these savage beasts would be rounded up and stuffed into a giant mailbox which would then be slowly and systematically demolished by a crane with a wrecking ball. However, a savvy business person knows that he needs to offer his customers options, so I’ll tailor my anti-vandal devices to meet my clients’ needs and personal style. Here are a few of my ideas:

For the elderly grandmotherly type—a body odor sensing device which activates a pre-recorded voice which croons, “Now, now, boys! Wouldn’t you rather come inside for some fresh homemade peanut butter cookies and a tall glass of milk?”

For the hardcore Special Forces type—an impact triggered claymore mine mounted in the mailbox which sprays 3000 depleted uranium pellets followed by a white phosphorous grenade.

For the construction worker—a replacement mailbox which is cast out of reinforced concrete then painted to look exactly like the original. That will make the bat-wielding vandal’s teeth rattle.

For the banker—an ultraviolet dye packet which can be loaded inside the mailbox. When the box is smashed the dye explodes all over the vandal, his weapon, and any vehicle he may be riding in, making identification a cinch.

For the trapper—a trip wire can be concealed and rigged in such a way that when somebody stops in front of the mailbox in any vehicle not marked with the official USPS logo, gigantic spring-loaded steel jaws spring out of the shoulder of the road and hold the vandal by one leg and a tire until the police arrive.

For Discovery Channel fans—a live wolverine stuffed in the mailbox.

For the demented—a hornet’s nest carefully transferred to the mailbox.

Yep, I’m going to soon be rolling in cash. I’ll need it too. Once those neanderthal vandals start using the great American legal system of liberty and justice for all, my lawyer’s going to take every penny I’ve made to beat the lawsuits. Maybe before I start my business, I’d better go take a dip in that melting pot for luck.
 

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