The Richest Man in the World

It was a dark, two bed, two bath apartment with outdated carpet and a kitchen with no counter space. My husband and I filled it with second-hand furniture, a dinette table with four chairs and a pull-out sofa. A makeshift table constructed from an old crate served as a coffee table when we had company. The king-size bed came from the back room of a mattress store, where the owner said it was barely used by a preacher and his wife. We were so young and dumb that we believed him and bought it.

I wanted an apartment closer to campus. There was a one bedroom, full of light, but it was more expensive and on the third floor. The consolation was that this place had a lake and a some regular visitors from Canada, a gaggle of geese, that we fed with day old bread we bought at the Arnold Bakery Thrift Store.

We never did use that second bedroom for anything other than storing our junk. When we had company, which was only once when our friend needed a place to stay for a while, we just made up the sofabed.

We were newlywed college students, and we moved to Lake Hill Apartments just before the fall semester of our senior year. It was our first apartment, and our first attempt at adulthood, even though our parents were footing the bill. The rent was $250 a month, a bargain, which is probably why we chose it over the bright one bedroom.

After three years of college, we were on the homestretch. My husband would graduate in December, and I would finish in May. We were full of dreams for the future. Prosperity was waiting for us just over the last hill. Sometimes at night we lay in bed talking about what we wanted. We both longed for the days when we could make our own money and call our own shots. We dreamed of a nice home, a shiny German car, and designer clothes, which we both loved.

When we moved in together we were crazy in love, but neither of us knew what to expect. We had never lived together. Our courtship had been rocky, with a meteoric beginning and some trouble in between, but we just wanted to be together. Three years after meeting, there were were in our second floor apartment playing house.

The day we moved in, our neighbor came to introduce himself. His name was Frenchie. He asked if we needed any help, and we told him that we had it under control but thanks for the offer. The next day he came by with a fresh baked loaf of zucchini bread that he said his wife had made. Thus began our relationship with Frenchie.

Over the next few months we would learn that Frenchie managed a parking lot in downtown Charlotte. His wife was a homemaker, who cooked everything well, and shared it with most of the neighbors. We ate cakes, cookies, even soups on occasion, all delivered by Frenchie with a smile and a conversation.

Frenchie was friendly with all of the neighbors. I don’t know how old he was because like many young twenty-somethings, anyone over 30 seemed old to me then. He and his wife didn’t have any children. They spent evenings watching TV and talking to each other. His wife did crochet or knitting, but I can’t remember which. I don’t even remember her name.

Frenchie was the social butterfly of the two. We saw him regularly, as he was the one to knock on the door to deliver the goodies his wife had prepared. What I remember most about him is how happy he seemed. Every day he greeted everyone with a smile, whether he was going to work or coming home. He seemed to me to be genuinely happy. Contented.

My opinion of Frenchie then was that he was a poor fellow. I pitied him. How could he be satisfied in a dingy apartment complex, working for the man managing a parking lot? Didn’t he have bigger dreams? Didn’t he want more?

In May I graduated, and we broke our lease early on the way to bigger and better horizons, never looking back or even saying goodbye. The odd thing is that after a few years on the road to better, I couldn’t get Frenchie out of my head.

As I have travelled through life, and achieved some of the dreams I dreamed in that old apartment, I’ve come to believe that Frenchie knew something I didn’t.

During that year, our allowances were set, so we cooked at home most nights, and shopped at the local produce market, filling up my 1973 Super Beetle with cheap vegetables. We bought a bushel of oysters for a bargain from a guy selling them beside the road, and invited everyone we knew over to help us eat them. It was a three day marathon after which I didn’t want to see another oyster for the rest of my life.

We bought a coupon book from a local high school student and got Two-for-One pizzas at a place called Alubas then walked over to the bowling alley next door and used more coupons to go bowling. We went to the Regal $1 movies or curled up on the sofa bed and watched what was on TV. We cooked, laughed, had friends over, walked around the pond, and fed the geese. We were happy. Maybe we couldn’t appreciate our happiness like Frenchie appreciated his because we were planning for more happiness.

Time and age have helped me to understand Frenchie. He is the richest man I have ever met because he loved what he had. He celebrated his life by being happy with it. He wasn’t longing for something in the distant future like we were. Being rich is obviously about more than money. There are millionaires who don’t believe they have enough. No, being rich is realizing the wealth in what we have. Frenchie knew what he had. This is a tribute to him, and to all the people who teach us that much of the time wealth is right in front of us if we just take the time to pay attention.