The Rebel Allocator

by Jacob Taylor

  I hailed a cab and made my way to the hotel where I was to be sardined together with Larry. I opened the hotel room door to survey the situation. Damn, looks like Larry and I would be sharing a single bed this evening. If anything, Larry had only added weight since starting school. Stress-eating much? The scene from the film “Trains, Planes, and Automobiles” spooled up in my mind. Mental note for later: keep your hand from between the two pillows! Settling into the room and awaiting snuggle-time with my John Candy, I ironed my dad’s suit that I had permanently borrowed and daydreamed about what tomorrow would be like. Finishing my chores, I piled up the pillows and threw myself onto the bed to watch some mindless hotel TV.

  I awoke to the click of the door unlocking. Larry lumbered into the room like a grizzly. I saw him doing the math on the sleeping arrangements and we shared a bemused eyebrow raise.

  “I’m starving--let’s eat!” Larry announced in predictable fashion.

  We walked into the quaint downtown district and I had some of the best BBQ of my life. Wanting to be fresh for the morning, we called it an early night and headed back to the hotel room to get comfy.

  The next morning I awoke early, throwing Larry’s heavy arm off of me. I showered and choked down a cup of burnt coffee in the lobby, waiting for my classmates to join me. I caught a brief reflection of myself in a window. I was literally parading in my father’s Sunday best--what a joke. Stepping outside the hotel, it looked like a cold, normal Tuesday in Wichita with people going about their Midwestern lives.

  The small group of winning students and two faculty chaperones boarded a small bus and made our way from the hotel. After a short drive, we arrived at an unremarkably beige fifteen-story building. Are we sure this is it? Unimpressive would be putting it mildly. This was the secret lair of a billionaire? Where’s the money bin? Our group gathered our belongings and started exiting the bus. I guess we’re here.

  I glanced across the parking lot and noticed an odd scene. A half-dozen or so obviously homeless people were gathering around the back of a late model Cadillac. The trunk popped open and an old man in a suit exited the driver’s side. He went to the back and started passing out red and white paper bags to each person. The homeless dug into their bags, revealing McMuffins and hash browns. Maybe he was the billionaire’s chauffeur? There was a shared jovial body language; a comfort like it happened every day just like this. Before I could see how this odd scene would evolve, we were herded into the beige building.

  It took a few trips for the elevator to shuttle our group to the fourteenth floor. We were lead into a medium-sized conference room. Inside was a standard conference table with chairs around it. At one end of the table stood a podium. We took our seats around the table, the overachievers jockeying for spots closest to the podium. A quiet din of small-talk filled the room while we waited.

  A hush spread over us as an elderly man in a dark suit shuffled his way inside and stood in front of the podium. The chauffeur? What was he doing here? It took an embarrassingly long time for me to put the pieces together. The chauffeur feeding the homeless was our billionaire. Huh?

  He was slightly above average in height, and thin. Still fancying myself an investigative journalist, I looked for clues about the man. His gait was slow and methodically ginger, signaling his advancing years. Yet there was an easy confidence to him, like he’d seen it all before. Based on his facial features, he was probably handsome in his youth. His shock of hair was a mixture of gray and white and thinning in the front. It was surprisingly disheveled. I guess at some age you stop caring about what your hair looks like and move on to more important things. Like swimming in your money bin. Or feeding the homeless out of the back of your car. Maybe I didn’t have this guy pegged just yet.

  “One billion, two billion, three billion,” he said, jokingly testing the microphone affixed to the podium. The financial magazines had several pet names for him: “The Rebel Allocator” or “The Wizard of Wichita.” But his Christian name was Francis Xavier, and I relished my role as David, preparing to take down Goliath.

  CHAPTER 10

  Standing at the podium, Mr. Xavier scanned the room and looked at each one of us individually. He didn’t smile. Instead, he began with some prepared remarks.

  “I don’t want any of you here,” he said. “It’s a waste of my time. You all were already given every advantage you’d ever need in life.” Whoa, not the start I was expecting--this was going to be easier than I thought. He wasn’t done. “You don’t need any more handouts. But my assistant thinks it’s is good for my image to talk to students, and she keeps the trains running on time, so here you are.” We exchanged bewildered looks.

  “I have a few things to pass along, not that today’s generation will likely understand... never worked an honest day in their damned lives,” he grumbled. “Then I imagine you’ll want to bother me with questions before you stare at your phones while I answer.” Hmm...

  “First, for seventy-seven years now, I’ve tried to go to bed a little smarter than I woke up. Constant improvement is the only way to succeed. It makes what is difficult to achieve become inevitable. Success is a few simple disciplines, practiced daily. Failure is simply a few errors in judgment, repeated daily.”

  “Second, the most important decision I ever made was choosing whom to marry. Nothing will have a bigger impact on your life than your spouse. I got very lucky in this department. Keep your eyes wide open before you get married...” He trailed off, then said with a wink, “Then keep them a little closed after you tie the knot.” The group laughed nervously. Maybe he wasn’t a total curmudgeon?

  “Third, a lot of people ask me what I look for when I hire someone, besides blonde hair and shapely curves,” he winked again. “I’m only kidding... I prefer brunettes.” Is this a geriatric standup routine?

  “Here’s the real answer,” he said, now serious. “There are three qualities you want: integrity, intelligence, and energy. If you don’t have the first, the other two can kill you. If you hire someone without integrity, you really want them to be dumb and lazy.” Everyone chuckled as you could feel the room loosening up.

  Mr. Xavier kept rolling. “It is remarkable how much long-term advantage I’ve found by trying to be consistently not stupid. You should try it sometime. Instead of aiming to be very intelligent, just don’t be a dumbass. If you avoid most of the big mistakes, you don’t have to be that smart to succeed.” Good news for us dumbasses of the world.

  “Fourth,” he said. “As you probably know, I’ve done pretty well for myself financially. You’re capable of doing the same. Probably not as well, but good enough. It’s a simple recipe: consistently spend less than you earn. Automatically tuck away ten percent of whatever you make. You don’t even have to be an investment genius with that ten percent. You will have a staggering amount of money by the time you’re my age with even a modest level of compounding. I probably should have saved the secret to getting wealthy for last as you all look ready to leave to go make your fortunes.” He smiled--it was becoming clear that his gruff act at the beginning might be a ploy to grab our attention. The old man was wiley--game on.

  “You’ll find that once you’re wealthy, it isn’t as big a deal as you thought. Like losing your virginity. I will say that the freedom it affords is nice. I don’t mind avoiding the roving hands of the TSA.” He paused to gather himself, “Number five, I have a proposition for you. No, it’s not of the indecent variety. Besides, none of you look like Demi Moore.” His jokes were dated, but not that bad.

  “Here’s your deal: I’ll buy each of you whatever car you want. Right now. Mercedes, Ferrari, Chevy, whatever your heart desires. Who’s in?” Naturally, everyone raised their hands and started daydreaming like a kid in line to sit on Santa’s lap. “But there’s a catch,” he added. “You have to drive that same car for the rest of your life. No matter what, that’s your car from here on out.” At first blush, driving a fancy sports for the next eighty years didn’t sound that bad, except for
the disgusting consumerism message it would send. I also realized I couldn’t even afford the insurance and maintenance for a car like that. It’d be up on blocks and I’d be riding the bus within a year.

  “If you could only have one car for eternity, how carefully would you drive? You wouldn’t want to crash it, right? You would wash and wax your car all the time to make sure the paint didn’t peel off. You would take it in for regular maintenance to keep it purring. You would only use premium gas.” We all nodded. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re already part of a Faustian bargain like this. Except your car is made of meat.” What? The nodding had stopped. Anticipating our confusion, he said, “I’m referring to your body. Barring some miraculous advances in medicine, you’re only going to get one body in this lifetime. Don’t crash it. Take it in for regular maintenance. Give it premium fuel. Don’t let it just sit in the driveway and rot. Wash it and wax it, metaphorically speaking... but also literally if that’s what floats your boat.” He chuckled at his own dirty joke. I might actually be starting to like this Mr. Xavier. Stay objective, Nick...

  “I feel a little sorry for this younger generation,” he said. “You have access to so much easy information and entertainment. It’s truly the best of times and the worst of times. With all of the electronic gizmos, there’s an overwhelming temptation to multitask. I’m not sure I would survive if I were you. I don’t have the willpower. I can see it in your faces that you’re dying to get on your phones and check the latest celebrity gossip. Here’s what my strategy would be if I were you: we each only have twenty-four hours in a day, no matter what’s in our bank account. What we focus on is what differentiates us. Every morning, ask yourself this question: ‘What’s the one thing I could work on today that if I did a good job, it would make everything else easier, or maybe even unnecessary?’ Keep four hours carved out of your calendar to work on that one answer. Make it sacred time with no interruptions. Put everything else away, including your phone and whatnot. Focus deeply during that four-hour stretch at making progress on your most important thing. I can guarantee you a huge advantage in life if you do this. Unfair even. Most people overestimate what they can get done in a day, but radically underestimate what they can get done in a month… in a year… in a decade, with four hours of dedicated work. You could goof off the rest of the day and still run circles around your peers. At least that’s been my experience.”

  “Next topic. I have a firm belief, some may even call it bias, that one of the oldest technologies is still the best for the spread and absorption of information. It’s called ‘a book.’ Have you ever heard of it?” he asked. Who has time to read books these days, old timer?

  “Raise your hand if you read more than five books last year,” he said. Everyone raised their hand. “Keep them up if you read more than ten books.” Hands started dropping. “Fifteen?” Most had fallen by now. “OK, you are probably in the minority. The statistics say the average is about four books per year. At least that’s what people report. I bet it’s lower. They might start four books per year.” He was probably right--my nightstand was a shrine to literary false starts.

  “Think about the return on investment a book offers. For around ten dollars, you get to have an in-depth conversation with an expert who dedicated years to distilling all the information about a topic. For the cost of a mediocre dinner, you get access to years of another human’s effort. I did the math. If it took the author one year of work, you’re paying them about one penny per hour. How much time does this penny-per-hour investment save you in culling through information? We’re talking lifetimes.” That is a pretty good deal.

  “I like to think of books as the ‘oil of information.’ You all probably think oil is evil, but it’s actually a blessing. We’d all be sitting around a campfire in loincloths right now without oil. About twelve thousand gigawatt-hours of solar energy hits the earth every day. That's a lot of energy, but the problem is, it's spread out over two hundred million square miles of the earth's surface. Nearly all life makes a living collecting and processing that solar energy in different ways. Plants and animals are just collections of this energy, and sometimes they get trapped underground and subjected to extreme geological pressures. The decayed material becomes so compacted for so long that it’s eventually smashed together enough to become oil. In essence, oil is made up of millions of years of concentrated sunlight. Did you know that oil has ten times the energetic density of a stick of dynamite? Thank God for oil. It gives us the energy to create the modern world.” It was also the reason for wars in the Middle East, crushing autocratic governments, and destroying Mother Nature with smog. I swallowed hard to not engage him in debate. I needed to stay patient. Step into my parlor...

  Mr. Xavier rolled on, “Instead of energy, books are an extreme concentration of information. Oil is formed under Herculean pressures inside the Earth. The human equivalent of that amount of mental pressure is applied to the information that becomes distilled into a book. Mankind has been able to raise living standards immensely by harnessing better energetic materials. First we burned dung, then wood, then coal, and then oil. Books are simply a better fuel substrate for our brains. And I’m sorry if that didn’t fit into 140 characters.” The old man’s prepared spiel was good, I’ll give him that.

  “So long story short,” he said. “Read a damn book once and awhile. You’ll be the better for it, and maybe we won’t have a world full of dumbasses.”

  I hated to admit it, but in a world of political correctness, I found Mr. Xavier’s authenticity magnetic. We were hanging on his every word.

  CHAPTER 11

  My classmates were hurriedly scribbling notes as Mr. Xavier spoke. He was sharing decades of insights--we’d be fools not to write down every word. And yet, I hadn’t cracked my notebook.

  “Young man,” the old man said, his eyes homing in on me. “Everyone else is taking notes. Is there a reason you’re not?”

  My blood ran cold. I looked around at my classmates for help, finding only narrowed eyes of judgment. Damn, he must have sniffed out my plot to take him down. But how?

  “Well, sir…” I stammered. “The thing is… in undergrad I studied journalism. I used to take a lot of notes when doing interviews. One of my professors who was a seasoned journalist saw me in action and pulled me aside. He told me I should never take notes when conducting an interview. Record it, sure, but look your subject in the eye when they’re speaking. He told me if you want the other person to open up and share their story, they need to feel like you’re part of the conversation. If it feels like an interrogation, they’ll measure every word. Also, if you’re taking notes, it distracts you from empathizing. You won’t find the spark that leads to the next insightful question.” I was on a bit of my own roll now. “Lastly, most people never go back through their notes anyway. If it’s that important, it’ll find its way back into your head. Since that conversation, I’ve taken notes sparingly. Plus, I didn’t think we were allowed to record this.” That outta throw him off my trail.

  My classmates sheepishly put down their pens, unsure of what they should do next to maintain social decorum. Mr. Xavier slowly nodded and continued to stare at me, his wheels turning. Were guards about to swarm and drag me to a privately-funded capitalist dungeon?

  “Fair enough,” he finally said, “and a nice segue into my last point to share.” Mr. Xavier never broke eye contact with me. “Throughout your life, you should follow your own inner scorecard. What does that mean? Don’t spend a lot of time worrying about what other people think of you. Progress is only accomplished by those who are stubborn and a little weird. It’s easier said than done, but if you stay true to your own principles and follow your own inner scorecard, it’s your best shot at happiness. That’s how I got the nickname “The Rebel Allocator.” I’m done. Now it’s your turn to ask me a series of bonehead questions.” He smiled teasingly.

  It dawned on me that my growing affinity toward Mr. Xavier might have been because he seem
ed comfortable as an outsider. He embraced his rebel persona. It gave me hope that being an outcast might be a stepping stone to something better. But first, I hoped my fellow classmates would ask the old man some thoughtful questions. You have to dig pretty deep to find the soft underbelly.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mr. Xavier abandoned the podium and took his position at the head of the table with us. You could tell this was his normal seat when in this room.

  “Alright,” he said after settling in as old men do. “Now’s the time for you to ask me some questions if you want. Who’s first? And by the way, you can call me ‘Mr. X’ for short. That’s what everyone calls me around here.”

  A bubbly overachiever predictably raised her hand. “I’ll go first, Mr. X. How did you end up in the restaurant business? And why hamburgers? They seem so… like, you know... gauche. I should preface that I’m a vegan.” She looked around for kudos. Oh, brother.

  Mr. X gave us a smile that hinted at nostalgia and pain. “It’s a bit of a long story, but since you asked... I was the first-born in my family, at the dawn of the Great Depression. My parents were struggling to survive as farmers in the northern tip of Texas. In the mid-1930s, there was a severe drought. Have you ever heard of the Dust Bowl? Ever read The Grapes of Wrath?” We nodded, but he acted like he didn’t believe us. “You’ve never seen anything like it in your lifetimes. You’ve grown up as pampered snowflakes, never missing a meal.” Harsh, but maybe a little fair looking around the room. -cough- Larry. -cough-

  “People were literally starving,” Mr. X said. He had a dark look in his eyes. “It was a very difficult time. Farming in Texas was a dead end, and my father started searching for other work. We moved to Wichita where we had family scratching out a living. My father was too fiercely independent to take a job working for someone else, but all he knew was farming and food. His favorite meal was the hamburger, so he decided to make a go of it by opening his own hamburger stand. Not everyone knows the backstory, but my father called it ‘Cootie Burger’ because my parents were childhood sweethearts and my mother used to tease him that he had cooties. It became her pet name for him--a term of endearment. I’ve personally never liked it. Who wants cooties on their food? But that’s where ‘Cootie Burger’ came from.” I had been wondering the origin of such a weird name.