Jerry’s Marginalia — The Happiest Boring Man Alive
There is, somewhere in Mr. Germlin’s theoretical future, a quantity of money known only as Ulrics.
Do not attempt to convert an Ulric into dollars.
Do not consult Google.
Do not ask an economist.
An Ulric is not a recognized unit of currency, and the Federal Reserve will probably ask you to leave.
For purposes of Jerry’s Marginalia, an Ulric is simply an irresponsibly satisfying amount of money.
Enough money that the ordinary financial problems of life have been beaten to death with a calculator.
Enough for the Raccoon Den.
Enough for the absurd computer.
Enough storage space that when someone asks, “Do you really need that many hard drives?” the correct response becomes:
“No.”
And then you buy them anyway.
The important part, however, is what doesn’t happen.
Mr. Germlin does not emerge from the Ulric Event wearing a $9,000 suit.
There is no Lamborghini.
There is no diamond-encrusted watch whose primary function is informing strangers that its owner makes questionable purchasing decisions.
No.
Mr. Germlin emerges from Goodwill carrying a plastic bag containing approximately ten dollars worth of clothing.
He looks exactly the same.
Possibly worse.
Someone passing him in a parking lot may briefly wonder whether the man is financially solvent.
Mr. Germlin does not correct them.
Because there is something deeply appealing about having absolutely nothing left to prove.
The bills are handled.
The house is handled.
The emergency fund is boring.
The retirement money is boring.
The investments are boring.
The checking account is boring.
Everything important is so catastrophically fucking boring that there is no reason whatsoever to broadcast it.
The expensive things are mostly at home anyway.
An enormous television.
A desktop computer possessing enough horsepower to frighten the local electrical grid.
A small digital Library of Alexandria.
And somewhere nearby, presumably, a cat wondering why any of this was necessary.
Outside?
Goodwill shirt.
Old pants.
Comfortable shoes.
Possibly checking whether a coupon works.
This is Act Broke taken to its logical conclusion.
Not pretend to be impoverished.
Not deny yourself everything enjoyable.
Simply:
Having money does not create an obligation to look like money.
Jerry has occasionally attempted to explain that if Mr. Germlin ever acquires 25 Ulrics, certain reasonable improvements in wardrobe quality might be justified.
Mr. Germlin listened carefully.
He considered the argument.
He then located a perfectly serviceable shirt for $3.49.
Negotiations ended.
And perhaps that's the funniest part of the entire Ulric fantasy.
The dream isn't really to become extravagant.
It's to become secure enough to remain ordinary by choice.
To walk through the world looking like a man with twelve dollars, while knowing that an unexpected bill no longer gets to ruin Tuesday.
To buy the good computer because you genuinely want the good computer—not because somebody needs to see that you own it.
To sit inside the Raccoon Den, surrounded by ridiculous electronics, wearing a shirt that may have previously belonged to somebody named Earl.
Happy.
Comfortable.
Unimpressed.
Boring.
The most boring motherfucker alive.
And if somebody eventually discovers the truth and asks:
“Wait. You have how much money?”
Mr. Germlin adjusts his $2.99 Goodwill cuffs.
“Ulrics.”
“What the hell is an Ulric?”
Mr. Germlin smiles.
“Enough.” 🦝