A Gazillionaire Born Every Minute

By Ed Lowe

I haven’t worried about money since I began to live the second half of what would be my century lifespan (if I don’t so
steadfastly strive to make a second half preposterous).

Years back, I earned my youthful hypertension fretting over what I would do if my car’s transmission dropped out. A spent transmission would have driven me under. Every incoming dollar arrived under the watchful eye of the institution to which I owed it.

In the years during which I have presided over my own house, without assistance (and therefore without changing curtains, rugs, color schemes, windows, walls, furniture or foliage), I have achieved an unprecedented state of financial stability. I am a thousandaire. What exquisite irony, then, to learn, in my pending dotage, that I am close to drowning
in millions.

I was reading a new book, when an email arrived from Silva Diomonde, who identified himself as “…the only son of late
Steve Diomonde.”

Poor Steve. I hadn’t heard.

A questionable speller, Steve’s surviving son writes: “My father and mother were very wealthy farmers and cocoa merchant [sic] when they were both alive. After the death of my father, long ago, my mother was controlling
[sic] his business untill [sic] she was poisoned by her business associates which she surffered [sic] and died. Before the death of my mother recently in a private hospital here in Abidjan where she was admitted, she secretly called me on her bedside and disclosed to me about the sum of eight million seven hundred thousand US dollars. ($8.7 million) she left in a security firm, it was the money she intended to use for investment before she was strucked [sic] down by the effect. She also instructed me that I should seek for a foreign partner in any country of my choice who will assist me collect this money from the security firm to oversea [sic] where the money will be save [sic] and invested wisely. I am yet to collect the funds.

“Because of the current political problem here in Ivory Coast.…I am crying and seeking for your kind assistance in the following ways: (1) To contact the security firm and collect the money deposited there (2) To serve as a guardian of this fund since I am a boy of 17 years old (3) To make arrangement for me to come over to your country to further my education and to secure a resident permit for me in your country.”

And he chose, out of all the people in the U.S.A., whom? Yours truly, Ed Lowe.

Silva. My boy. The magic of the Internet has expanded my already embarrassingly affectionate readership from Commack to Ivory Coast, where frightened young heirs gather in secret and pass along assurances regarding which among the 230 million Americans they can best trust. Why, good old Ed, of course.

But could I trust Silva? Now, there was a question.

I returned to my book (a wacky first novel called Exclusive, by former newspaper reporter Barbara Fischkin, whom I knew, and who is married to former newspaper reporter Jim Mulvaney, whom I know. The story is about themselves and their insane Brooklyn-Jewish/Queens-Irish-Catholic professionally and emotionally competitive romantic history, some of it fiction).

I was still pondering poor Silva, when I received an e-mail from Antonio Marcus. “CONGRATULATIONS!!!” it read, and
informed me that I had won 800,000 euros in a promotional lottery. Appearing immediately beneath it in my inbox menu was yet another e-mail from Mrs. Melisenda Rodrigo, coordinator of yet another promotional lottery, who wrote: “This is to inform you…Your name and Email address…drew the lucky numbers of 21-22-37-39-41-49…You have therefore been approved for a lump sum payout of Five Hundred Thousand Euros in cash…”

Golly. That brought the total to 1.3 million euros. In seconds.

Be still, my heart.

But wait. ANOTHER e-mail followed, from yet ANOTHER promotional contest, in Spain. “You have been approved for a lump sum pay out [sic] of ONE MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND EURO, in cash…”

Now, I was sitting on 2.8 million euros.

“Your fund is now deposited with our Payment/Finance Department in the security company in your name. Due to the mixed up [sic] of some numbers and names, we ask that you keep this winning a top secret from the public notice until your claims has been processed and remitted to your account as this is a part of the security protocol to avoid double claiming or unwarranted taking advantage of this program by participants.”

Top secret? No problem. Secrets are safe with me.

Before I could catch my breath, ANOTHER congratulatory promotional lottery e-mail popped up, and then ANOTHER, and, finally, another e-lamentation, reminding me of poor, young Silva.

Seems Mrs. Roseline Aaron, a Sierra Leone native currently living in the neighboring Benin Republic (“as a result of the war that erupted in Freetown,” she wrote) wants to open a restaurant in the U.S.A. with her son Ernest. Her husband, just before his assassination, was able to move $19 million out of Sierra Leone.

Pretty good for a start-up, I thought.

Probably because they have heard that I am familiar with many restaurateurs on Long Island, Rosaline and Ernie want my help. Of course, they will share a percentage of the millions in exchange for my assistance. All I have to do is trust them, as they trust me.

Now a potential gazillionaire, and therefore worry-free, I returned my attentions to Fischkin’s fictions, which were more fun.