By David Himmel

 “He does not possess wealth; it possesses him.”
—Benjamin Franklin

When I was twenty, I went to work for a captain of industry. A titan really.
I met him through the fraternity I had just pledged.
He said, he saw something in me — I had ambition, I had smarts, I had just what he was looking for.
I had reminded him of himself when he was my age.
That was a long time ago. More than twice my life thus far.

I started at the bottom. Unpaid. Grunt work. I was learning the ropes.
Climbing the ladder.
He told me my dedication would take me far. And high — all the way to the top.

 At my college graduation dinner, he presented me with the greatest gift I could have asked for:
Opportunity.
He handed me an envelope. Inside was a two-year contract as an employee in his company. A conglomerate really.
A more than handsome salary. Full benefits. An expense account. A secretary. A company car. And even a $10,000 signing bonus to put towards a home, he suggested
in the way that he would suggest things, which was really more of an order.

When I was thirty, I was promoted to Vice President.
He reminded me of what he saw in me a decade earlier — ambition, smarts, just what he was looking for.
A younger version of himself.
He told me my dedication had paid off. Here I was at the top.

This isn’t the top, I said to him.
He offered a concerned and confused grin and a heavy hand on my shoulder.
Son, he said to me, this—is—the top. There’s nowhere else to go.
You’ve learned all the ropes, made a few ropes yourself. You’ve climbed the ladder, improved each rung on your way up. This is it. 

I want what you have, I said to him.
He pulled his hand away. And his grin went away, too.
You cannot have what I have, he said to me. It is mine. I made it. I imagined it. I built it. What you want is me and you cannot have… me.

But when you’re ready to step away. Retire, I said to him.

Don’t let your ambition get ahead of you, boy, he said to me.
You are mistaking your arrogance for confidence. Perhaps I was wrong about you.
If you want what I have, you’ll have to take it from me. And I won’t allow that.
My ascent to greatness will not be compromised by the likes of you.

Six months later, on my thirty-first birthday, he handed me an envelope.
Inside were my termination papers.
It was the worst day of my life.
And I swore I would always be the kind of leader who lifted people up.
The kind who saw the value in empowering talented individuals to succeed. 

There was plenty of room at the top for everyone. 

✶

When I was thirty-one, I started my own company.
It took me ten years to build it into something profitable. It cost me my first marriage. When my father died, I was in Tokyo signing the papers to make the merger possible instead of at my father’s bedside.
Or his funeral. 

I made a profit every year after Tokyo.
Not just the company, but me. And my employees,
which grew by the hundreds, then thousands each year.

I made millions and magazine covers and thousands of employees breadwinners for their families.
I supported charities and remarried aboard my private 110-foot sailing yacht.
I conceived both of my children aboard my private jet.
I was showered with awards and invitations to join the most exclusive clubs in the world.
My company — a conglomerate really — far surpassed that of my once friend, my mentor.
So, too, did my net worth. 

I was nearly the age he was when we met when I heard the news.
He had died. Finally. At ninety-nine years old.
I never met the woman who replaced him at the top. She was arrested for embezzlement fifteen years later. 

That same year, I met a young man at a fundraising event for my alma mater.
He had just pledged the same fraternity I had joined all those decades years ago.
More than two of my lifetimes. 

I saw something in him. He had ambition, he had smarts, he had just what he was looking for.
He reminded me of myself when I was his age. 

I hired him. Groomed him. Showed him the ropes, encouraged him as he climbed the ladder.
I made him a wealthy young man — one of the wealthiest of his age.
He expanded my empire. He improved life for millions. He made space tourism as common and affordable as a Carnival Cruise. 

After twenty five years of working together, he as my right hand man, he asked me my plans.
My plans for what, I said to him.
Your plans to retire, he said to me.

 I had heard this song before.
I had seen this action before.
I had seen many men brought down by their overly ambitious protégés.

 You’re trying to get rid of me, I said to him.
I looked straight into his eyes and through them. I let my stare find its way through his body to the depths of his soul and I waited for it to freeze.
Then I said to him, My ascent to greatness will not be compromised by the likes of you.