"I bought it because I want to be the best in the world"--Saeed Khouri, Abu Dhabi resident, on purchasing a license plate bearing the number "1" for $14 million
Have you ever wanted something so badly you could taste it? I'm not talking about food, as in a platter of savory lamb on a bed of cous cous garnished with plump garden-fresh tomatoes and olives. I'm talking about a desire so intense it gives off a heat that nearly consumes you. I'm speaking of a passion that burns you down to the core: you're the candle, your desire is the wick, and the possibility that you may attain what you desire is the lighter, match, or other incendiary device held by the hand of Fate.
I come from a large family. My father had numerous wives and I am the eldest of 37 children. In many ways this has been a blessing (my brother, Juwain, nineteenth born and the middle child, is a basket case). During my youth, I was favored, pampered, and received certain privileges denied my siblings. Recently, I inherited my father's entire estate: $14.34 million.
There is an extremely high rate of unemployment in my homeland as many of us do not feel comfortable performing chores willingly done by guest workers (serfs from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, and, as of late, Indonesia). Consequently, prior to inheriting $14.34 million, there were many gaps in my work history. Actually, one large gap. I had toyed with obtaining a realtor's license, but property is not moving very swiftly in Abu Dhabi these days.
Having studied international business and finance at Cairo University, I was tempted to use my new wealth to aid my alma mater. The current enrollment at C.U. (180,000) makes it extremely difficult to take the classes one wants, to graduate in a timely manner, or to move any part of your body when attending a lecture. Lowering class size at Cairo University seemed a worthy goal. Until I divided $14.34 million by 180,000, arriving at the answer "3." Devoting three additional dollars per student to reducing overcrowding would still leave classes too large. Then my brother Juwain showed me that the true amount per student would be slightly more than $79. More than "3," but still not enough to make a dent.
In order to spend my inheritance most wisely, I sought the counsel of sages, oracles, astronomers, and Abdul-Azim, the faithful family friend who had been primarily responsible for building my father's fortune. "Think globally," he advised. "And also, I could use an air conditioner." "Thank you, Abdul-Azim," I told him, "I will take both suggestions under consideration."
My brother Juwain showed me on the Internet photos of Bolivian children who needed cleft-palate surgery. "Each surgery costs $250," said Juwain, "you could cure 57,360 children." "Right," I responded, "but I only see eight Bolivians on the screen (two rows of four)." There was an extended silence. Then Juwain spoke: "Perhaps you could straighten our sister's teeth."
That night I dreamt of establishing a dental clinic in La Paz. Parents brought their offspring from remote corners of the country to be healed. I greeted families personally and gave them a card which read: "I wish you the best." But I discovered many families could not read Arabic and I realized I would have to print more than 57,000 new cards in Spanish. I woke up in a cold sweat.
As a 28-year-old man, I think of two things constantly: sex and Israel. I crave the former and loathe the latter. For me, Bar Refaeli, Leonardo DiCaprio's girlfriend, presents the ultimate dilemma. "Juwain," I asked, "how much do you think it would cost to destroy the state of Israel?" His response was immediate: "For that you would pay a heavy price." "More than $12 million?" (I'd decided to keep some of my inheritance for a house.) "Much more." "O.K.," I queried, "How much to destroy Leonardo DiCaprio's girlfriend?"
My phone rang early the next morning. It was Juwain: "I must tell you: a life lived in the service of others is the only life worth living." "Jeez, Juwain, I hope you're not asking me to enter the service industry." "No," he said tightly, "I'm not asking you to work at at Burger King." "Good," I said, "don't even ask me to eat at Burger King." "Remember what Abdul-Azim told you?" asked my brother. "What? About the air conditioner?" "No: think globally." I then had a revelation: "Are you suggesting I purchase a Burger King franchise in Bolivia?"
One day Abdul-Azim called. "I know, I know," I apologized, "it's 136°. I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you." "I understand you have deposited your inheritance in a non-interest-bearing account." "Calm down," I reassured him, "it's only been there eight months." "Please, for the memory of your father, transfer the funds."
So I did transfer the funds: to my living room. And part of the hall. The night I started a fire making popcorn, I could have killed Abdul-Azim. I informed him I'd lost $340,000 in banknotes extinguishing the flames and sopping up butter. "It's 136°," he responded, "why are you making popcorn?"
Sometimes it's a real drag living in a hidebound, intolerant culture. If I couldn't visit the Lamborghini showroom, I'd flip out. I usually show up there at about eleven each morning, sit in the red car, the yellow one, and then in the red one again. Then I go to the restroom, grab some glossy brochures, and leave.
One Tuesday, the salesman told me there was to be a big auction of vanity plates at the Supreme Division of Motor Vehicles. "Imagine yourself behind the wheel of a Lamborghini painted a primary color with your very own vanity plate." "What would it say?" I asked eagerly. "1," he answered. I thought so deeply I could almost hear my brain clicking and whirring inside my skull. Who among us does not want to be #1? "How much do you think such a vanity plate would cost?" "Ah," he said with a furrowed brow, "for that you would pay a heavy price."
