One day, you wake up, and you find yourself in a king sized bed, with silk sheets. Your valet comes into the room, and brings you coffee and the morning paper, and inquires, "What do you wish for breakfast, sir?"
Hmmm...
Kippered eggs (whatever they are) and toast, fresh squeezed orange juice, and a chocolate croissant. If it wouldn't be too much trouble.
"No, sir. No trouble at all."
And then off he goes to fetch your breakfast (or perhaps it is brunch by now, since you have slept well into the late morning). He is there to cater to your every whim, to provide you with your fondest wish.
Wouldn't that be nice?
I think I would like to be wealthy so that I could do whatever I wanted. You read in the papers about rich rock stars committing the most heinous crimes and then running off to some island for corrective surgery, and you think, Well, if I did the same thing, they'd nail my butt to the wall. But the rock star is to be pitied and coddled, for he has the money, and you (and I) do not.
Not yet.
Because somewhere in the back of your mind, and my mind, we each have a scheme for accomplishing incredible feats.
We might rob a bank.
We might win the lottery.
We might find a diamond ring lying in the road, and return it to a beautiful heiress, who will then reward us with the valet, and the car, and the house in the country.
When I look inside my heart and think about what I want, I see the road to fame and wealth that lies ahead, and sometimes it seems so certain.
If only everyone wouldn't laugh. If only they could see.
They all share the dream. Each and every one. Even the littlest ones. They imagine being a prince or a princess of their own kingdom, never to go to bed when told, and able to rent the latest videos before they ever reach the stores.
Who would dare tell such a royal wee bairn not to play Sega late into the night?
But the dreams fade. Realities impinge. Flights of fancy turn into endless and dreary days behind a desk, learning the alphabet, how to count.
But still, the story, that beautiful story, of the one who went from rags to riches.
That is the best story of them all.
It happened once upon a time in a town not much different from this one.
A young boy was born to two parents who loved each other very much, but couldn't get along to save their own lives. They fought day and night over everything from the breakfast cereal that they ate, to how to raise young Freddie.
Mother said that Freddie ought to be put to work. Father said that Freddie would be better off with his parents, far away from the small town, where he could make a better life for himself than they ever could.
And they fought about it. Fought furiously. Day and night. Night and day.
Until one day, Freddie walked off.
He was about twelve at the time.
Poor boy, wandering through the streets on a cold night. He heard his parents calling, but he didn't go home.
"They will be better off without me," he said, agreeing with Father. "And I will go to work," he agreed with his mother too.
He walked and walked through the town, until he came to a small grocery store, near the railroad tracks.
It was a warm store. Freddie could tell by the way the windows had steamed up. Inside, the cashier was laughing with a patron.
Freddie rubbed his hands together, and looked inside.
Then he noticed the sign in the window.
"Help Wanted!"
He looked around, wondering if anyone else was applying for the job, and then snuck inside.
The cashier was ringing up another sale, and he went up to her, hesitating, and said, "Can I have a job, please?"
"Can you sweep? Can you clean?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Can you do dishes?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Do you eat much?"
"No, Ma'am."
"I'll give you a dollar a day and all you can eat. If you need a place to stay, it will cost you a quarter. Clothing is extra, and you'll have to wear an apron. When can you start?"
"I can start right now."
And the woman nodded, gestured to the bag that she'd been filling with groceries, and told Freddie to deliver it down the street to such and such an address.
"Be quick about it," she said. "And hurry back. Don't talk to anyone you don't know."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Freddie took the bag in his hands, carefully, because it was heavy, and walked out of the grocery store.
He didn't know the neighborhood very well, so he had to watch very carefully for the street signs. After a while, he found the house, and went to knock on the door.
It seemed to take a very very long time for the owner to answer, and then all of a sudden, the door flung open, and there was a man, a tall man, dressed in a tuxedo and cape. He had a top hat and a cane, and he stared down at Freddie, who very nearly dropped the bag of groceries.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" the man shouted.
"Your groceries," Freddie said, lifting the bag up.
"HMMM," the man said. And he snatched the bag from Freddies hand. "I suppose you'll want a tip?"
"No, sir," Freddie said.
"Stupid boy," the man said, and he slammed the door in Freddie's face.
Poor Freddie. He looked around the dark neighborhood and he didn't know where he was, or where the grocery store was. He didn't seem to know anything.
Finally, after much trial and error, he found his way back to the grocery store.
It was dark inside, and he was afraid to knock, afraid to ring the bell. So, instead, he found a small corner outside the store, and curled up inside of it.
The next morning, he awoke, stiff and sore, and was surprised to see the woman from the grocery store staring down at him with a look of scorn.
"I thought you'd run off," she said to him. She was an old old woman, with wrinkles and moles, and a horrible frown that made Freddie shiver.
He began to wish that he hadn't run off, that he could go home to his parents.
But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he was rich and famous.