Remember Mine, Won’t You?
“My name is very long. Three names, all extremely pretentious and exhausting to the tongue. You can call me Willy, because I think that — somehow — Williams must be one of those names. Either way it’s a very regal name, one that seems to come straight out of English aristocracy. And I am — English, I mean. I come from somewhere that starts with an S. Sussex, or maybe Suffolk? I’m not sure. But I’m definitely not aristocracy. Otherwise I wouldn’t be calling you.
“I’m clinging to the side of my bed right now. I’ve spent the entire day vomiting, you see, and I feel very sick in a spiritual sense as a result. Physically, I think I’m quite fine now. Whatever was in my belly is out, and the pains in my chest are subsiding. But spiritually, at some point during the heaving and spewing I felt something buzz, bend, and then break. I think it was the moment the burns from the vomiting had wrapped around and reached my back, and I worried that something could go seriously wrong. I started to dial 999 when I realised I couldn’t afford any hospital bills. So I locked my phone and continued vomiting. I think that was when it — whatever it is — broke.
“I know you’re not a medical professional, and you can’t advice me on my broken thing. Honestly the breaking was very alarming, and if I had thought it was physical I would’ve risked debt and went and gotten checked by a doctor. Vomiting alone is one thing, but when you feel something inside you snap, it becomes a completely different situation. This is all to say, I’m not calling you because I want help with the broken thing. I think that will either resolve itself, or kill me. It’s fine. I’ve lived too long for my means anyway, and as a result I am poor and hungry.
“I am calling you because… damn it. I’ve already said, haven’t I? I am poor and hungry. There it is. So much for the suspense.
“Listen, I have five thousand pounds in the bank right now. What? Yes, I know. Imagine how many pancake mixes that would buy, or sushi spreads. I know I shouldn’t be hungry with five thousand pounds in the bank, but it’s funny how money works. In that, it doesn’t really work, does it? I have five thousand pounds and that is supposed to make a difference, and yet if I open that account I’ll be in the same place I am now in two years.
“I know this because I had nineteen thousand in the bank prior. Inheritance from an uncle, wealthy enough that all of us could have a good enough sum but not so wealthy — or perhaps not so kind — to stop us from being poor in the first place. Sometimes I want to know if it’s just me. I want to call up my cousins and ask, “hey, did uncle Peter’s money get you up? Are you fine now? Do you own a house?”
“Anyway, I had nineteen thousand in the bank. And at that point I was as poor as I am now, or maybe even worse. So I used the money, and used and used until there was five thousand left and I realised what was happening. I was running on a treadmill, using up all my fuel but standing in the same place. And I worked the whole time — definitely did. I’ve only just quit my second job, actually. Being a night guard isn’t safe anymore. It’s never really been safe, but when the security man at the prison a town over didn’t have a knife sticking out of his throat it was much easier to pretend.
“Okay, so I have five thousand in the bank, and spending it will be akin to throwing it in the fire. In this metaphor money is not fuel. It is simply paper. If I toss it into the flames it will grow for a time and then it will die. And I need the heat to stay alive. So I tell my best friend. His name is Steven, but we call him Charles. It’s a joke, because Charles is supposed to fit in well with my fancy, three-unit, long as hell name. William and Charles, I would imagine, though I’m still not altogether sure William is even my name.
“What was I saying? Ah, yes. I tell Charles that I need the heat, and he asks me what the fuck that means. I’m very poetic, you see, and I like to go on long tangents that make little sense, as you must have already noticed. Charles likes logic and facts — he’s a damn good mathematician, and about to be earning enough for an en-suite. He doesn’t like when I use fanciful language, and so he tells me to turn it down. “Turn it down, Willy,” he would say to me, assuming my name is, in fact, Willy. “For fuck’s sake turn it down.”
“So I told him I needed money. Not from him, though. Borrowing money was one of those things you’d expect not to ruin a friendship but always eventually did. I told him I needed to make money, or to magically double the rest of the money I have untouched in my account. I said I needed it doubling about once every month, and if the money wanted a holiday for a month or two then I would let it, because it was working so hard duplicating itself.
“He said I sounded silly, but I had just described, in a way that was peculiarly mine, the concept of investment. Although when he described it to me it seemed like gambling. I told him this, and he laughed and said, “it is gambling, Willy.” He said the difference was that you were gambling in businesses, while for blackjack you were gambling in fun.
“He didn’t give me any numbers to call, or people to see, or anything really to start out this investment plan. He simply gave me a brief run-through and left before even finding out if I understood it. That’s Charles, for you. If you didn’t remind him he would forget people had feelings.
“Anyways, I scoured the web and I found you. I did a lot of reading, and a lot of research, and I’ve discovered I have no idea what any of this is about. So I decided to go with a broker. You don’t have to convince me of anything, honestly. I’m here because my mind is made up.
“What would I love to do in the future? Well, I’m not averse to work. Heh. I feel like I have to say that first, all the time, as some sort of disclaimer. Don’t think I’m a bum! I’ve worked three jobs at a go once and handled it exceptionally. I can withhold sleep with the best of them. I can grind harder than a lot of these rich pricks claim to have done in their glory days. But if I had a choice, and the freedom, and the financial security, I would love to be a musician. I’ve got a killer voice. No, seriously! I would sing now but my throat still burns from all the work it’s done.
“I can also play the saxophone. Expert level. That’s my first passion, actually. Singing was just a thing I was born with, and it’s amazing I can do it but it never astounds me. There’s nothing like the feeling of playing an entire song on your saxophone without missing a key. You take your lips off the mouthpiece and look at the little gold curves and wonder if you’re a God. All that hard work… it really makes it worth it. All that sweat just turns to fire.
“I think I’m generally of a very mild disposition. Why do you ask? If you want to know how I’ll react to losing the rest of my money, don’t worry. I won’t sue you or send a hitman or anything of the sort. Partially because I can’t afford it, but also because I’d be too busy killing myself. Ha! That always gets the awkwardness going. I’m joking. I’m very well adjusted, really. You have nothing to worry about.
“Honestly, I think this conversation is drawing out longer than it has to. Skip all the technical aspects, won’t you? I’m coming to you because I don’t understand it. It’s not because I don’t want to, but my brain works in very specific ways. I’ll pay you to help me do the difficult bits, and everybody wins.
“How much? Well my first instinct is to say the whole thing, but I’m afraid I’ll be called an idiot for that. Oh you do? Wonderful! The whole five grand, then. No, it’s fine. I‘ve survived this long without it. When the money starts to grow I’ll pull out a bit for my upkeep. Does that sound like a good plan?
“You’re quite funny. At the start of this call you sounded like a shark. Now you feel like a friend. I appreciate that. I supposed you get a lot of customers, and you probably don’t even remember all their names. Remember mine, won’t you? It’s that name… the complicated one. And remember where I’m from — that place that starts with an S. And most of all, remember my story. Remember that I speak like a poet, and I play the saxophone, and I love music but I am not a bum. Please remember that especially.
“Charles would be so pissed if he hears me saying this — probably do my head in with one of his knuckle punches. He thinks it’s idiotic to ask for things like this. This is the man that changed his name to Charles for me. I already know he will remember me!
“I don’t like to think of myself as somebody that should be forgotten. It would work poorly on my brand image as a musician, if you really think about it. So remember me. Remember me. I don’t care how it sounds, or how much you think I’m lowering myself. You can’t get much lower than this, really. Just remember me, okay? Maybe as a crazy person, who might need to be checked into a hospital. Maybe as a sorry excuse and a failure of a man. Whichever way is fine. Just never forget.”
