by Greg Hischak
09.26.03

ven though his given name is William, I think I’m safe in saying that we all know him as “Bill,” and so that’s what my check for $20.00 said: Bill Gates. It wasn’t sent to alleviate guilt or anything, I just felt bad and wanted to help him out with a little pocket money. Here was someone who had given so much to our community—a library here, new band uniforms there—only to end up being treated so badly. Stripped of everything he had worked so long and hard for, done in by conspiring government interests—I wish I could have sent $25.00

All my artist friends had found themselves on the receiving end of Bill’s generosity. My otherwise insolvent mime friends received facepaint from a Bill Outreach Center, the boxes they practiced being trapped in had come from the Gates Foundation back lot. My interpretive dancer pals received their Scholls foot pads courtesy of Bill. Painters that I knew received boxes of fruit to paint, sculptors got safety goggles, novelists received patched sweaters—all from Bill. And then there was me, a lowly poet. Much of the punctuation I used was donated by Bill. Do I look like I could afford to go out and buy my own semi-colons? Em dashes didn’t grow on trees, you know. I benefited greatly from Bill’s Thesauruses for the Literary Arts Program (TH.L.A.P.), though I was disappointed that it didn’t contain the word Bestowardness. Bill’s egalitarianism, generosity, beneficence, benefaction, magnanimity, conferalism, charity, big-heartedness, altruism, selflessness, philanthropism and bestowardness was an inspiration to all of us and every day I woke up shaking my head because not so much as a food court had been named after him.

Granted, the city had named a street after his mother—which is sweet—but it was a minor boulevard near the university and, if the truth be told, it didn’t even have a Blockbuster Video on it. What kind of gratitude was this?

My $20.00 wasn’t enough--$40.00 wouldn’t have been enough. Bill deserved so much more. Here was this former multi-billionaire no subsisting solely off of faded dreams, old friends, and interest income—what kind of life was that? I just wanted to do more and so finally I did. Me and the roommates sharing my one bedroom apartment—my mime, painter, ice sculpture and glass-blower buddies set aside an evening to make sandwiches for Bill and his family. The next morning, I caught the express bus toward his house on Lake Washington, hoping against hope that I wasn’t too late.

Why, oh why, did people choose this lovely and beneficent man to heap their scorn upon? Why?

“These are for Bill,” I said, holding up a brown paper bag to two dark-visored men who opened the door. One had a wire protruding from his ear that disappeared into a dark green uniform. He opened the bag of sandwiches, carefully rummaging through the assorted ziplock baggies.

“They’re ham and cheese,” I volunteered.

“Mustard?” He asked.

“No mustard. But some of them have mayo.”

“And those are marked?”

“Of course.”

The guards relaxed and the silent one lowered the automatic weapon which, up until that point, had been pressed against my nose.

“We’ll see that Bill gets these.”

“There’s some mints in the bottom,” I reminded them as the heavy iron rivet door shut. A small surveillance camera whirled as it followed me up the driveway—I was relieved to see that Bill could still eke out the funds for world-class security.

His spigot of income had dribbled to precious drops of bitter comfort for parched monopolist lips, I hurriedly wrote in my Where Did You Go Today? Spiralbound notebook. I was consoled that Bill’s lakeview property could, in a pinch, be mortgaged to finance any Montessori tuitions that the kids would require in the future.

I was grateful that Jerry Lewis held a telethon every Memorial Day for Bill’s woes—that would help. John Mellencamp had organized over thirty-five performers for his Bill-Aid andd I bought the CD, which I liked except for the Celine Dion/Michael Stipe duet—every little bit helped. I walked the 30K Bill-Trot through dangerous eastside Park and Rides to raise money for Bill. I paused briefly, my fingers clenched through chainlink fencing, and cried real tears as I gazed across the sprawling deserted campus of Bill’s once-great empire. Loose plywood-covered windows creaking in the wind and the rustle of uncut grass growing through pavement cracks cast a heavy pall over the scene. Once meticulously-maintained buildings and greens now all given up to blackberry brambles and abandoned refrigerators that the locals dumped under cover of dark. They were real refrigerators and yes, these were real tears.

Thanks, Bill.

Like the editor of this magazine, Bill Gates was once arrested in New Mexico. It should be noted, however, that Gates appears much happier about his predicament than your erstwhile editor was.

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