The Curse
Day three of being a billionaire and my phone hasn’t stopped ringing.
“Sir, this is Patricia from Goldman Sachs Private Wealth. We handle portfolios over—”
Click.
Ring.
“Congratulations! This is the Federal Reserve Bank regarding your—”
Click. Block number.
Ring.
“Sir, your cousin David from Michigan. I know we haven’t spoken since—”
I don’t have a cousin David.
Click.
The sophisticated ones are worse. They know things. Real things. My actual bank. My mother’s maiden name. Details that make me wonder if my lawyer’s office has been compromised already.
“Sir, we understand you’ve retained Whitman & Associates. Smart choice. We’re their recommended security consultants.”
Are they? How would I know?
I hired three different firms to vet each other. One came back clean. One had ties to a guy who got arrested for embezzlement in 2019. The third? Their “references” were phone numbers that went to voicemail boxes that never called back.
My doorman called up. “Sir, there’s a woman here says she’s from the state lottery commission. Needs to verify your ticket signature.”
The ticket is already verified. Already claimed. I know this. But what if—?
“Tell her I moved.”
I’m eating takeout from a different restaurant each day, having it delivered to the building next door. Paranoid? Maybe. But yesterday someone knew I’d ordered Thai food. How?
The cousin David called back.
“Look, I get it. You don’t remember me. But ask your mom about Uncle Frank’s funeral. I was there. I helped carry the casket.”
Thing is, Uncle Frank died when I was six. There was a funeral. People helped carry the casket.
So I called my mother.
“David who? Honey, Frank didn’t have any kids. Are you feeling okay?”
The investment opportunities are endless. Crypto ventures. Rare earth minerals. A shopping mall in Dubai. All requiring immediate action, limited time offers, exclusive access for select individuals like myself.
“Sir, what you’re looking at is a guaranteed 40% annual return. We only work with clients of your… caliber.”
Forty percent. Right.
But then Goldman calls back. Actually Goldman this time—I verified through three different channels. Their fund averages 12% annually. Rock solid. Conservative.
“We recommend a diversified portfolio. Boring, but safe.”
Boring sounds good. Safe sounds better.
Except now I’m wondering: is 12% what rich people actually get, or is this what they tell lottery winners while the real clients get the 40%?
My lawyer says this is normal. The paranoia. The isolation. The way everyone—everyone—suddenly has an angle.
“It gets better,” she says. “You learn to spot the tells.”
Meanwhile, my doorman slipped me a note. His daughter needs surgery. Bone cancer. Insurance won’t cover experimental treatment.
Real daughter. Real cancer. I checked.
But now I’m the guy with a billion dollars who has to decide which dying children get saved and which don’t.
Worth it?
Ring.
Click.