What would you do with half a billion pesos?
MANILA, Philippines - It has been very hard to avoid overhearing conversations or bits thereof about the huge lottery jackpot these past few days. Interest in the subject seems to have spread like a crazy bug after the prize went beyond the P200 million mark. In Factorytown, as in the rest of the country, daydreams have been broadcasting everywhere, and very randomly erupting in everyday banter — from office cubicles to designated smoking areas to crowded canteens and even toilets.
The question of the day, of course, is what would one do with the prize, which has ballooned to almost half a billion as of this writing?
The lottery is so universally appealing because it’s really the only way most of those who are not born rich to have a chance at hitting it big without striking a Faustian bargain. In the world of comics and soaps, the option of suddenly inheriting a mansion and loads of cash and housemaids from an unknown relative exists. This, however, is more suited to someone who has an axe to grind. After all, an inheritance is only significant if one can manage a dramatic turn, and what is drama without revenge?
There is also, of course, the possibility of marrying a dying billionaire, but given the exchange rate and prenuptial agreements, this could be quite complicated to pull off. I imagine that one would need to find someone so disgusting and cold despite his wealth that blood relatives would rather be disenfranchised than deal with him. Further, the task likely involves a lot of cleaning and work related to assisted healthcare. Anyone who’s willing to be shortchanged because of bad health must surely be a domestic megalomaniac of some sort, prone to fecal-related demonstration of emotion.
That may have sounded cynical, but just to be clear, I am riding the bandwagon. Who doesn’t want that much money?
The concept of wealth itself is highly dynamic. To the millionaire, half a billion may just be an after-thought; to the hungry, merely a million is enough to risk life and limb lining up for a game show. In both cases, wealth is a status one can achieve. There is always the possibility of becoming wealthier.
Half a billion, though: for most of us, this invokes the fantasy of limitless liquidity, which is a concept very different from just wealth. In many ways, the prize seems to be sufficient to live a life where money and its value is no longer relevant. That context bends all sense of belief, including definitions of morals and the taboo. You’d be surprised to hear how far the imagination can go.
The daydreamers in Factorytown aptly represent what most of the working class have in common. Everyone dreams of owning expensive estates, driving fast cars, eating good food, wearing expensive clothes, and other minor facets of comfort. That’s pretty much the standard template. What comes after ranges from illusions of power to the outright cruel or scandalously insane. While all of these are shared in good humor, where do jokes come from but the subconscious — our deepest thoughts and wishes?
The other day, I was chatting with some people at work. One thing we had in common was none of us (we said) would resign if we ever won that much money. The primary reason was practical — with that much money, you’d have to maintain a semblance of anonymity, at least for a while, so any drastic change in behavior could be dangerous. The secondary reason for most in the group involves making life a living hell for everyone we dislike. Not that we have a grudge against Factorytown and we want to make things unpleasant; we actually like working here. The desire is to play with the thought that everyone has a price.
The thought really came up some weeks back, way before the news about the half-billion prize was hot. Someone was relating a childhood experience from high school. A boy who used to bully her in grade school was in trouble for losing money. She was the class treasurer, and he was talking her into letting him borrow the class fund, apologizing for all the years of antagonism. The bully’s desperation gave her a strong bargaining chip: she agreed to give him the money and claim it was stolen, but he needed to kiss another boy during one of the breaks. While the bully was tentative and confrontational at first, he did end up doing it.
R., a co-worker, recalled this. She wondered if one slapped somebody else with a wad of money, without anyone seeing, would he or she complain if the money would be hers to keep? “Of course no one has zero pride, that’ll end up in a fight,” one would think. But what if it’s a thick envelope containing a hundred thousand in peso bills? How about two? Would anyone be willing to turn the other cheek?
The idea was bordering a bit on the extreme, but then again, so is anarchy. Only a few people will admit it, but social relationships are largely defined by what you have: a large segment of our generation has been not only tolerant of excess, they have been welcoming of it, like an audience in awe. Being rich and beyond norms of behavior is a legitimate status quo, regardless of how one amasses wealth, so long as this is flaunted via PR-driven media, and everything seems to be beautiful and ethereal. Not surprisingly, a great number of these monsters are considered heroes of this generation.
That’s the grinning face of anarchy, if you ask me.
Last Saturday, I spent eight full hours on the Internet planning the details of an around-the-world trip. It’s surprising how such an adventure can be planned completely online, including flights and luxury accommodations. At the end of the day, I had a full itinerary, with flowcharts on how to get the appropriate visas. By my rough estimate, I would require some P20 million for the trip I want, plus another 15 if I want to take my mother along. I was pretty much all ready to go — as soon as my lottery ticket wins.
Call me simple, but looking at the list of things I would want to do after claiming a multimillion-peso prize, a great number of these things seem whimsical. The template’s there: I’ll learn to drive and get a fleet of cars for me and for my family (we’ve never had one); I’ll buy a penthouse and have it decorated wall to wall with art I like; I’ll go on the aforementioned trip after easing my way out of my company (for anonymity’s sake); I may even give some to charity for good measure. The rest, however, would admittedly be used just for fun.
I would like to buy a horse and ride this every day to work. It’s a mystery to me why I have never heard of this being done before. Perhaps the real rich lack a sense of history. I’m not even sure if there are still regulations about horses on streets and highways —I suppose I’ll find out soon as I get my money. Come to think of it, I’ll actually need two horses: one for me and one for a personal assistant, who’ll take care of the poor animals while I’m gone.
As far as Factorytown is concerned, the most insane thing I’m inclined to do is insist that I bring my own caterer for me and my friends, as I’m not too fond of the food in our cafeteria.
The saddest part about daydreaming is realizing that no matter how wildly you can push your fantasies, at the end of the day they’re likely going to remain just that — fantasies. I sort of reached this epiphany on the Monday after the weekend of being a virtual tourist. It turns out most of the people I know must have been doing the same, as the chatter that day consisted of well-planned-out spending strategies.
On the shuttle that takes us back to the city, Travie McCoy sings that “I want to be a billionaire” song on the radio. I looked back at the other people sitting in the van — at least half of them I knew for a fact bought lottery tickets. I didn’t think anyone, including myself, would be lucky enough to get the one magic combination out of 29 million possibilities. That would be a legitimate miracle, and I somehow believe that miracles don’t come that easily. Not that we’re so unlucky to begin with. We all have good jobs, and these days, that’s enough to be thankful for. We’ll probably have our moments of wealth someday, with the money we earned.
The realization itself felt surprisingly peaceful. In many ways, it was like turning down the radio and listening to Debussy played by a quartet, after hours of noise at full volume.
