I used to be a nice guy, and, you could say, a rather popular fella too. But starting today, I’m changing my tune — I can’t afford the acclaim. After all, I’ve got a kid-and-a-half of college tuition payments still to go, in addition to car loans, escalating property taxes, life insurance premiums and our cost-effective cell phone family plan. Even without what I’m about to tell you, every month is a nail-biting house of cards.
So here it is: The stuff that strikes at the heart of my heart is threatening to bury me. Family obligations are one thing, but now it seems like everybody in my global village is coming out of the woodwork to hit me up. And not just the royal hoaxsters from Nigeria.
It’s June, and I’m knee-deep in graduation announcements and celebrations. Did we have this sort of thing when we were kids? Each jubilant bulletin implicitly calls for a gift.
Five or six are from parents with whom my wife and I are close, and several are from folks in town I don’t know nearly as well, especially their children. The last time that I saw one of these newly crowned Ivy league graduates was exactly four years earlier — when I attended, with present in hand, her high school graduation party.
OK, I could worm my way out of some of these functions, but what about those inestimable causes that don’t require attendance?
This morning, as I am wringing my hands over my checkbook, the phone rings. “Hello?”
I hear a familiar purr on the other end — a hasty electronic coupling. Then, “Yes, hello, Mr. Block.” Translation: We’ve got a live one. I sigh. “What are you selling?”
“Not a thing, sir,” says the voice. “I’m from the National Children’s Leukemia Foundation. We want to thank you for your support last year and are hoping that we can count on you this time around.”
“Oh? You mean to say that my previous donation didn’t lead to a cure?” I hate myself for being snide, but I persist. “Look, I don’t make contributions over the phone. If you still want me, put your pitch in the mail.”
Moments later — yes, mere moments! — another like-minded call comes in. This one is from a Policeman’s Benevolent Association.
“We’ve already given to several PBAs,” I tell the man.
“We help out injured cops,” he says.
“Well, I hope they feel better soon, but the answer is ‘no.'”
I’m not only a louse, I’m starting to feel lousy too, so I head to my pharmacy for a bottle of decongestants.
The cashier asks if I’d like to tack on an extra dollar that would go toward what she calls the “Lou Gehrig Foundation.” I shake my head. “I like Lou and I know the disease, but I’m just here to clear my sinuses.”
The same thing happens when I go shopping for a carton of eggs. “Would you care to add a dollar onto your purchase to help fight world hunger?” invites the soft-spoken cashier.
“I think I care, but the answer is ‘no.'”
It’s “no” again to the boy with a can who stands outside the supermarket. He’s asking me to help outfit his Little League team. I wince. My gosh, I think, I’m such a sleazeball!
I return home to a gaggle of mail and immediately go searching. Could this be the day? I’m forever pining for a handwritten letter from a friend, like days of old. It’s wishful, almost always unfulfilled, thinking.
Now looks to be no different: I’m holding bills, credit card solicitations and a charity bid — this one from Amnesty International, an eminently worthy organization. Ever since my one modest, albeit heartfelt donation 10 years ago, they won’t let up. Every few months, they push for another contribution. I’ve come to resent it, and figure that by this point, my entire donation has gone toward their mailings to me.
Eureka! At the bottom of the pack is a pen-inscribed envelope from a friend from whom I’m delighted to hear. I rip it open. Yikes! It’s Invasion of the Charity Snatchers! The letter explains that he and his daughter are going on a 550-mile bike trip on behalf of the American Diabetes Association. They’re hoping to drum up at least $5,000 in donations. Would I like to contribute? Would I like to contribute?
How can I say no? I can’t. I adore them both and admire their effort.
Nor can I deny the latest request from Kids Helping Kids, a big-hearted organization founded by my oldest child’s best friend whose life was cut short by cancer.
This just in: The son of one of my dearest, but not so nearest, friends is getting married. The calculator side of my brain lights up. Let’s see: With round-trip plane fares for my wife and me, a two-night hotel stay, and a gift worthy of a 40-year-old friendship, how many smackeroos is this gonna cost me? Holy smokes! Maybe if I tell my pal that he doesn’t have to come to any of my kids’ weddings, he’ll let me off the hook for his wingding. Fat chance.
Perhaps I should establish a buffer — something like the charitable foundation launched by Bill and Melinda Gates. They sometimes say no, and everybody still loves them, right? I’d have a discerning board of directors and a tough-minded application process. Should we decide to gift your middle school baccalaureate daughter, exactly how does she intend to spend Mr. Block’s very last dime?
More wishful thinking.
Yes, from here on out I’m going to be the stingiest, most ornery man on Earth. Or maybe I’ll just take a second job.
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John Block grew up in Chicago and now lives in New Jersey.
