William Anders

Bill warily eyed the steak in front of him. He'd never had one before, except maybe when he was a real young kid, and even then, his dad probably cut it for him. He had no idea how to approach this, and although he should have been hungry to try, circumstances were conspiring to make him too nervous to enjoy the meal. Across from him, the fellow who was paying for this began cutting neatly into his own steak. “I'm just saying, it's amazing that you've lived the kind of life you've lived. I'm really, truly jealous. You must have hundreds of stories, like Jack Kerouac.”

Candlelight flickered across the fellow's face, and Bill briefly got the uncomfortable idea that maybe he was on a date. Maybe this guy was about to kneel down and offer a lifetime of companionship or something. But no, that couldn't be it. So Bill just shook his head, saying that his life was more normal than all that. “I really just am moving around all the time. Like in that song, you know? 'Like a Rollin Stone.'” He was about to smile, but then he reminded himself, No. No, can't that. He couldn't let this guy see his missing incisor.

“Well, I still think you had the right idea. I've been wearing this suit and going to a nine-to-five all my life, and you're about to be richer than me.” The guy was making clean geometric cuts into his steak, like it was some sort of puzzle. Bill wasn't sure if he was just getting buttered up or something, but the guy seemed sincere enough. Strange to have a fellow like that envying him. He felt horribly uncomfortable in his own suit, and he swore it was actually made to itch. The people at Clothes For Jobs had been good enough to give it to him for free, though, so it's not like he was complaining. “I bet if you took an IQ test, you'd score really high, Bill. I know I guy in Mensa, and I bet you'd score higher than him. Have you ever taken an IQ test, Bill?”

Bill just shook his head, blushing all the way up to his ears. Don't smile. His mom had always said he was bright and that he'd make something of himself some day. She'd be proud if she was here, no doubt about it. He was about to become a millionaire, he knew it was going to be big. He felt himself tearing up a bit, so he focused his attention on the steak again, so that other fellow wouldn't notice. He was having a real hard time with it, though. He wasn't even sure how to hold the knife right, and the meat kept shredding real messy.

“You're gonna be rich, Bill. I'm really jealous.” The other fellow eyed Bill's progress on the steak, then kept on talking. He really wished he could remember the guy's name, but when they shook hands and all, he was just a little too nervous. “I'm going to be frank with you, Bill. It's kind of obvious you're new at this. I mean, your patent was sloppy and I can tell you're a little on edge. But really, Bill, you don't need to be. Tarpline Inc. has already settled on an amount, and let me tell you, it's a lot.” Bill lifted his eyes off the steak, looked the fellow straight in the face as he pronounced Bill's destiny. “Two-hundred thousand dollars.”

It was like getting kicked in gut by a mule. He returned his eyes to the steak, trying to think what had happened. They were going to make hundreds of millions of his design. They'd probably sell it to the military or something. Why aren't they offering him just a little fraction of that? Just a single million? “I really had to fight for this, Bill, but when I saw your product I knew it would be worth it. You're really lucky. We haven't given out this much in years, not since the economy fell apart. And I mean, just imagine all the things you could do with two-hundred thousand dollars. You could buy a house in cash. Or, you could move to Tahiti and live like a king. Why just a couple years ago we gave a young inventor like yourself forty thousand, and he's still over there living it up.”

There must have been twenty, thirty people in the restaurant, but it was quiet, just murmurs coming from all the dark corners. Bill hated it. He hated this suit and his buzzed haircut. It made him feel like Samson or something, his neck and ears naked for everyone to see. The fellow must have known all along that he was uncomfortable. His patent was worth way more than that. It had to be. “Two thousand dollars?” he muttered over his steak.

The fellow smiled. “Yeah, thousand dollars!” When Bill didn't lift his eyes of the steak, the other guy grew more somber. “Come on, Bill, don't be like that. Things are hard these days, and two-hundred thousand is a lot. More than we've offered anyone else in years.”

Bill just shook his head. “I was thinking you'd give me like, you know . . . a million.” In the movies, the hero would have looked the fellow in the eye firmly as he said that, but Bill just looked at his callused knuckles, at the knife in his hand. The meat was all mangled now, and he still hadn't taken a bite.

The other fellow laughed, like Bill was joking, but then his laughter fell short. “You can't be serious, Bill. We'd never make a profit if we paid you that much.”

But that was a lie, and Bill knew it. They'd be making billions within a few years. He took a deep breath. “A million,” Bill repeated, looking up this time, glancing at the tie knotted around the man's neck before his eyes fell to the mangled steak again.

“Bill, think about this. What would you even do with a million dollars? What would you even do with two-hundred thousand? I can up this to two-hundred and fifty thousand. That's tops, Bill. That's the kind of money our CEO pulls in each year. You can't hope for more than that.”

The guy sounded so honest, Bill would have believed him if he knew it couldn't be. He'd chosen to approach Tarpline because they were the biggest tent manufacturers in the country. Because they'd be able to give him the most money. This time, Bill looked the other fellow in the eye. “Give me a million, or I go to Hubberds.” Yeah, Bill grinned, that's how they would have done it in the movies.

Finally, the other fellow took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Alright, Bill, I can see you're really intent on this, and I can respect that. I'll call the higher-ups and see what I can do.” Bill nodded, and the guy took a cellphone out of his suit pocket, tapping its display a few times until it started ringing. “Hi, Mr. Richards. I'm with William Anders right now, and he's asking one million for the patent.” There's a tense silence on the phone. “Now, I know that's a lot, but hear me out.” And he started rattling off the qualities of Bill's patent, admitting that it was risky, but that it might be worth it. Silence followed, and then an explosion of yelling. Bill was certain he heard the word “son-of-a-bitch” shouted several times, but the other fellow stood up for him and his patent. Finally, the phone calmed, and the fellow put in a few more good words for Bill, then listened to something, then hung up.

He took a deep breath, looking Bill in the eye. “I got him to agree to six hundred thousand, Bill, and before you tell me that's not enough, just think about it. That's huge. And I'm sorry to say, but there's just no way you're getting more than that. Not from us, and certainly not from Hubberds.” And there he went lying again, just when he seemed to be getting honest. Tarpline was going to take his idea and make hundreds of millions with it. They'd sell it to the military and make a fortune. Bill shook his head and scooted his chair back noisily. The other guy held up his hand. “Wait, wait. This is highly unorthodox, but I'll put in a hundred an fifty thousand of my own money. That's how much I believe in your design, Bill. Just sit down and take my offer. Eat your steak.”

“A million,” Bill insisted. “You're gonna make way more than that. We both know it.”

“But there are other expenses. Advertising and production.” Bill wasn't going to listen to this. He got up, scooted is chair back in like his mom taught him. The other guy got up, too, slamming his hands down on the table. “Alright, fine! Bill, I'll take out a mortgage to make this happen. A million. Of my own money. You've got it.”

“And taxes?”

“What?”

“And taxes? How much will it be after taxes?”

The other guy scowled, but quickly caught himself and replaced it with a smile. “A lot, Bill. You'll have a lot.”

“Pay me enough so that it's a million, after taxes.”

And the other guy sighed, dropping back into his seat. “Fine,” he muttered, waving Bill off, “You've got it.” A million. He was going to be a real millionaire. And sitting back down for his steak, Bill smiled.