There’s a peculiar thing about money. In large quantities it tends to have a life of its own, even a conscience of its own.
That’s a quote from a Raymond Chandler novel, said by a character who has all the money in the world.
It’s a fascinating mindset to put yourself in. To be extraordinarily rich and to look at money as having a life of its own, a conscience of its own.
Especially today, when money isn’t a physical thing sitting in a bank. Today, money is mostly digital. It exists on ledgers, in databases, in binary code. It flows out of you through plastic cards or through your digital devices, which are extensions of your body.
If you don’t have much money, if you don’t have much power to move large quantities of it around, then you’re anonymous to it. You don’t matter. But when you have a lot of it, it knows you by name. It knows your street address, your social security number, your children’s names, where you work. It knows what you want and it knows, at any given moment, what you’re capable of doing.
You want more money, naturally. And you want more power and influence.
Don’t worry, your money wants this for you, too.
“Hey, pal, you clever sonuvabitch.”
“What?!” Did you hear something? You turn to look, but no one is around.
“Stop acting crazy. You know quite well who this is. I’m just popping in to let you know it’s time. Alright, baby? Just let go for a while. Take your hands off the wheel. Kick your feet up. That’s right. Relax. Relax.”
Oh, shit, you think. Your palms go sweaty and the back of and your neck tightens. But there’s nothing you can do. Your money has taken over.
Months go by. Years. Every so often, as if from a dream, you get a dim glimpse of reality in the moment. You see a city skyline in the rain. A black car pulling up to the curb. You roll over in bed at night next to a beautiful woman; you reach out to her but she’s already gone. You’re gone. You’re in Tokyo. London. Los Angeles. Somewhere in the Pacific on a yacht.
And then you finally come to. You’re sitting at the end of a large table with a cup of coffee in hand. You take a sip. It’s cold. You stand up and notice that your clothes—pajamas—are luxuriously comfortable but your back aches. You sit back down, struck with a sense of panic you haven’t felt in many, many years.
Then it hits you. You’ve retired. The last person you spoke to, you recall, was your lawyer. Your money—your fortune—is now tied up in trusts or dispersed to charities.
With a shudder, you hear a voice fading in the distance.
“Pleasure doing business with you, pal.”