To Be a Millionaire pt. 2

"A car wash that will change my life?" Every syllable from the speaker's lips dripped with sarcasm. He was a young man, Italian looking, with oily black hair and a moustache.

Fillmore shivered. 

Then eyed the driver just as cynically. 

He refused to be intimidated.

"I am merely speaking for myself when I declare these facts. If you are so curious as to see if this is true, I suggest you treat -"

"Hey, now." The Italian interrupted, his mouth twisted sideways, as if he were amused. "You're the old man they always talk about in town - with the horrible business you always think is booming - aren't you?"

Fillmore was thunderstruck.

"Preposterous!" he gasped. "They must certainly be speaking of Old William Christie. He's owned William's Wash for decades, and is known for having absolutely appalling employees, and leaving bug splats on your windshield. A horrible business! However, this car wash is one of a kind! People cannot help but come from far and wide! My soap was handmade in Nigeria, my mitters imported directly from Cambodia -"

The Italian interrupted once more, with a snicker. "I knew it was you. They said you do some crazy talk, saying you want to be a millionaire and such."

Fillmore straightened nobly, and nodded his head with a smile. "What they speak is true. I desire to be a millionaire, to be rich - famous, perhaps. This car wash is only a booster to -"

The Italian laughed. Filllmore stared in shock.

The young man's head was thrown back, his white teeth gleaming and black eyes twinkling.

"You are a crazy old man!" he exclaimed. "It takes a lot more to be a millionaire, than just saying you want to be one!"

Fillmore frowned mightily. "If you had refrained from interrupting me, you would know -"

"As a matter of fact," the Italian continued - interrupting once more, Fillmore noted. "My old man makes close to one hundred thousand a year, which is probably a lot more than you've ever made in your life "- Fillmore's insides quivered at the thought of possessing that much money - "but that's not a millionaire. And you know, what? He fought hard to be what he is today. There was some extremities he had to accomplish."

The Italian leaned closer to Fillmore. "You have no extremities as a car wash owner, just a very long wait." His bushy eyebrows raised. "I have a good job, and my parents send me a thousand a week because they're that wealthy, but you know, what? I'm not a millionaire! I still have a loong ways to go if I wanted to do that."

Fillmore fantasized what life would be like if he could receive a weekly allowance of a thousand dollars. His mouth salivated. 

"Do you hear me?" the Italian demanded.

Fillmore blinked himself free of his reverie. He licked his lips. "Oh, erm, yes, yes of course! A millionaire is who I aim to be, and a millionaire is what I shall be!"

The Italian looked at him.

Then sighed deeply.

He shook his head.

"No," he said, quietly, after a moment. "I really don't believe so. Not with your job, not with your reputation, not with your life. You weren't born to be rich, and you won't ever be."

He set his car in drive and rolled up Quick Quack's entrance, where Bobby had meandered out of one of the garage's, muttering "I'll get a car wash just to make you happy."

Fillmore did not hear those last words.

He did not see or hear the exchange between his impatient customer and slow employer. He only stood frozen, heart thudding dully. His body felt numb. The sun still burned and the air still simmered, but he was cold inside.

There had been many people in Fillmore's life that mocked his dream, his aspiration. They told him he would never be a millionaire; he didn't have the brains for it, he was too simple, he was too strange, he had an unsuccessful business, he could never find or keep a good job, etc. Fillmore had always pushed that negativity away. It wouldn't bring him down. He kept on dreaming, and believing, and hoping.

But this Italian had touched that one bitter corner of his heart that no one else had found. The memories of his childhood came flooding back to him. He remembered the empty pantry, and drunk mother, and being so overcome with hunger he ate out of the dumpster.

You weren't born to be rich, and you won't ever be.

Anger stirred. Fillmore's jaw clenched tight. His heart hardened.

His occupation in life would not be defined by his mother's. A millionaire was what he aimed to be, and a millionaire was what he would be.

When the Italian pulled out of the opposite side of the station, his Maserati dripping and shining so beautifully, Fillmore was waiting. He remembered to sound jovial. "Wow! Would you look at this! Just look at this! Come out, come out! And behold this fantastic beauty!" Fillmore waved his hands and beamed proudly. "Didn't I tell ya, kid? Just look at this shine!"

The Italian sighed, but opened his door and stepped out anyway. He surveyed his car with a nod, his moustache twitching. "Nice."

"No, no, no!" Fillmore would not bear the unenthusiasim. "Be excited! Rejoice! Come, come over here!" He moved to the opposite side of the car and bent down to examine the rim. "There is not a speck of dirt or dust in sight!"

"I should hope so." The Italian reluctantly walked over and bent down, as well. His face looked somewhat amused. "Yes, well, that's the least a car wash can do." He ran his finger along the rim and smiled lovingly at his car. "I should be on my way now -"

The rev of the engine sent him bolting upright. "Hey!" he screamed as his Maserati screeched past him and into the street.

Fillmore poked his head out the drivers side window and let out a cheery, "Have an absolutely wonderful day!" The sight of the angry Italian, tearing after him and madly screaming made him chuckle.

The Italian was right. A person could not be a millionaire simply by saying he wanted to be one. And a person could not be a millionare simply by owning a car wash. To be a millionaire, there were some extremities a person must accomplish