“I never knew money until I fell headfirst into it, that’s how I saw how shallow it was.”
My late Uncle Richard was a dick.
Not because his name shortened to Dick — he just simply lived up to it.
Born into an ordinary family, with my mom as his younger sister, Uncle Dick left home at eighteen to make his fortune off the sweatshops and con men of his kind.
He started broke, four months on the street, until a small-town church took him in. They fed him, gave him a desk, and put him to work filing papers for the pastor — a kind man, too trusting for his own good.
When the offering plates overflowed every Sunday, the pastor thanked heaven. In truth, it was Uncle Dick’s doing. He’d made friends with some shady parishioners who used the Lord’s house as a laundering service. Dick took a humble five percent, passed twenty-five to the church, and sent seventy right back out as “charitable donations.”
It was a tidy operation. But easy money makes men nervous.
Before the Feds could sniff around, Uncle Dick announced he was off to college, gave a teary farewell to the pastor, and quietly upped his cut to fifteen percent for the road. A weekend later, the IRS swarmed the church but Dick was long gone.
For half a year, he lived well without lifting a finger. But he wasn’t built for rest — only for the chase. He drifted to New York, where men traded debt like baseball cards. He invested, won big, lost bigger, and realized he hated losing more than he loved wealth.
So he did what any terrible person would do. He followed the money out west.
California suited him — all sun and risk. He bought up homeowners’ debt in wildfire zones, then went out for a smoke. After the ashes cooled, he offered them a deal: sell him the land cheap, and walk away clean. He built condos over the ruins. The market called it entrepreneurship.
Before long, he was a real estate kingpin in San Diego, head of a firm that bragged about being “fire safe.” Uncle Dick loved the irony almost as much as his reflection.
But success bred envy. His millionaire friends each had a woman (or two) on their arms — none of them wives. Uncle Dick prided himself on being clean, loyal, and utterly intolerant of hypocrisy. So, naturally, he threw a party.
When they sobered up, they each found contracts waiting on their desks:
“No one will see or hear anything that happened in my home.
For the modest security fee of half a million dollars a year, this party never happened.”
Half a million was a bargain for peace of mind. For thirty years, they paid faithfully. Uncle Dick made ten million a year doing absolutely nothing.
Needless to say, he became a beloved member of our family.
Yes indeed — an all-American businessman who stayed loyal to his partners, shunned vice, and, by sheer coincidence, funded my entire college education. I’ll cry at his open casket, because it’s only right to mourn those who make your life easier.
Goodbye, beloved Uncle Dick — money couldn't buy your way into heaven, but it certainly bought our love.