The Water Thief (28 page)

“Was she real?”

“I’m not going
to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Charles,
you can’t afford it.”

... I am not
sure where you get this reverence for the proletariat, my friend, but I’ve
heard it said that the best argument against democracy is ten minutes with the
common man. Citizens love to talk about the power of the people, the abuses of
power by fascist and totalitarian régimes like Adolf Hitler’s. But they gloss
over the fact that Hitler was democratically elected—elected, my friend, by
your ‘salt of the earth’ common man.

Indeed, while
they claim to know what they want—some measure of guarantee of free food, water
and shelter—the truth is that they are completely ignorant of their own needs.
Giving a man what he wants is, as often as not, a curse more than a blessing.

I want nothing
more than to be generous, to give to people that which they need. I suffer
terribly when someone dies from lack of food, water, or medical attention. But
what you fail to realize is that generosity is the very antithesis of
civilization. It makes people soft and lazy, increases their expectations and
expends limited resources faster than nature can support (you seem to suggest
that we just let people go around breathing air willy-nilly).

Human beings
naturally reach a state of equilibrium. Give them half a gallon of water a day,
they’ll want a gallon. Give them a gallon; they’ll swear they need two. Give
them two, and they’ll bemoan not having four. They can be equally content with
half a gallon as with ten so long as you manage their perception—their sense of
what they deserve—and their sense of hope—of that which they can reasonably
obtain. The work of managing those expectations falls to executives. That, my
dear friend, is a terrible burden, one lower contracts should consider
themselves lucky they don’t carry.

Value is earned.
Therefore, by definition, anything given away cannot have value. Even food has
value only because it is a limited resource.

I’d love to be
generous. I hate hoarding resources. But as I said before, generosity is the
enemy of the people, of civilization. It is the men who can do anything, the
man who, like myself, takes money from the poor and bread from the hungry, we
are the ones who save society, who save life, by being able to do that which
lower contracts cannot. I do not heed their opinion of me or my work, their
happiness or despair. They are nothing more than a number, the final line on a
ledger sheet, and that is how they know I love them. Because it is for all
mankind that I resist the temptation to be generous.

Generosity is
selfishness. It is betraying your natural instinct to compete for a desire to
play God, for the sense of self-satisfaction, that you have bestowed on a man
more than he earned for himself. It is nothing less than sacrificing all of
society for your own ego….

Customarily acknowledgements are
brief.

But since I’m reasonably sure that
the only people who ever read them are those mentioned in there anyway, I feel
no obligation to shorten anything on anyone’s behalf.

First I’d like to thank my wife. If
she had any brains at all—I mean ANY (and keep in mind, she’ll be reading
this)— she’d have headed for the hills when I told her I was a writer. Let’s
face it, little girls need dental care, fairy-princess costumes, and round the
clock GPS tracking. Whether through my charm (who are we kidding?), or money
(nope) or by trickery (well…), she has stayed with me and supported my career.

Now, when I started writing, I did
what all rookie novelists do; I surrounded myself with inferior writers. It
gives you a boost, makes you feel good about your own skills. But it’s a
terrible waste of time. You need to spend time with authors who are better than
you are. It hurts, but it’s the only way to get good. To that end, I’d like to thank
Philomena for wasting her time with me.

I’d like to thank my sister, Liz.
Her determination and skill is an inspiration in my own life and work.

I’d also like to thank my father
and stepmother who, over my explicit objections, forced me to get an education.

My aunt Emily… I’ve been through
some rough times, and I’m not sure that there’s anybody who’s been there for me
more—everybody should be so lucky.

My Aunt Diane… your friendship
means more to me than you know.

Kathy, Nichole, and Liz, thank you.
Without your meticulous line edits people might realize that I can’t write.

To Nyira: your support in all my
work has always meant more than you know.

Pat, Harvey, thank you both.

Last, but not least, thank you to
John Paine, Scarlett Rugers, and Joe Correa.

Wow, so many more I’d like to
thank… I’m sure I neglected a number of people. If you’re at all offended that
I forgot you, please chalk it up to obscenely high doses of Oxycontin.