No one was there to watch the kids, food shortages ensued and demonstrations filled the streets. Governors called out the National Guard when police and firefighters joined the picket lines, but to no avail. The cracks were too deep and chaos ensued. Over the next decade and a half sincere attempts were made to reverse the damage but the world economy was in the tank with no turn around in sight. Now was the time he really could have used that island. Remote ranches, gated communities, private stockades were barely enough to keeps the family safe from the hoards of the desperate that controlled the night.

“I just can't decide and Arri, you are no help.” His wife's voice brought him back to the present, saving him from his hopeless realizations.

Blythe Cachefeller dug in her purse for a tissue and Arri took his cue, “Sorry Randolph, perhaps we could come back tomorrow for that private viewing you suggested?” Arri knew without the children his wife would not have much to live for. Her public gatherings and grand adventures were a thing of the past; security would not allow so much as a trip to the Continent. She needed joy in her life and children provided that joy for both of them.

The ride home took them past the outskirts of the urban favelas and tent cities that were the new norm of civic life. These sites had cast Arri back into his troubling thoughts of hopelessness when a caravan of wildly painted “rolling homers” heading north for one of their frequent festivals brought a smile to his face. Blythe exclaimed, “Oh look Arri, they look so happy.” The Rolling Homers were a bright tear in the dull fabric of the dystopian zeitgeist, an era betrayed by a hollow vernacular, the epoch without dialect. (Arri enjoyed making up tortured sentences in his head.)

But it was true, the hordes of dilapidated campers, painted bucket and broom style and helmed by retired people living a last hurrah on meager pensions, eating communally, sharing bulk items, organizing trading fairs of books and clothes, gleaning from farmers’ fields, fishing, gathering, singing and camping in restricted parks where their sheer numbers made them impossible to evict, their gypsy life style was a successful adaption admired by all and envied by Arri. If he lost everything, he knew exactly how he would live the rest of his life, a part time nomad living as simply as possible. But it was just a conceit, being an immensely opulent man required his shoulder to the wheel.

Randolph was very fond of the Cachefeller's. They had adopted seven children through his Home and were exemplary parents. They even named one of the children after him, Scott, to show their appreciation. Whenever he thought of his full name, Scott Randolph, he had to smile. He introduced himself as and went by his last name only. Even today, many decades later, if he used his full name, Scott Randolph, there would be some old person or a buff of old Hollywood Westerns that would say, “Oh, like Randolph Scott,” forcing him to be a dick and answer “No, like Scott Randolph,” or sheepishly agree. It was better to be plain old Randolph.

He had been with the young mothers’ home since its inception. Teaching was his profession of choice. However, along with the conservative economic agenda came the reversal of the progressive social agenda that had so irked the religious right. Gay rights, gay marriage and a women's right to choose were the first casualties. Unwanted pregnancies, especially among teens, became commonplace. His boss and mentor at the middle school where he taught history had taken him aside and let him know that there would soon be no place for gay men like them in education. He was getting out while the getting was good and hoped Randolph would follow his lead. A friend was in charge of staffing at the newly opened home for unwed mothers, he was a shoe in for the director’s job and Randolph was a superb fit for the Education Director position. Things had worked out splendidly and Randolph was, for the past ten years, the Director.

Blythe decided on the girl baby with the dark curly hair and the deep blue eyes that were sure to stay blue. “She looks like a Cachefeller, doesn't she, Arri?” He smiled gently and felt Blythe was right, the child was likely a Cachefeller as he was likely the father. His arrangement with the Home was contractual, since unwanted pregnancies had declined after the ousting of the right to lifers along with the conservatives, he and Randolph concocted a plan to provide a sizable chunk of cash to young women willing to have babies for the rich to adopt. The girls could change their minds but would forfeit the million dollar payday. Once finalized, the adoptions were binding and irreversible with iron clad contracts designed be the team of lawyers hired by Arri and the other rich adoptive parents.

Insemination was provided by the future father or Arri if the father was not pre-selected. Arri remembered this birth mother. She had wanted to meet the sperm donor and have sex to achieve the pregnancy. The lawyers said no way was she to know the identity of the donor. The girl then said, “Well, he can wear a disguise, we can dress as pirates, but I want it to be natural.” Arri agreed of course and wore an eye patch, bandana and a fake beard. The girl dressed like a wench. She was a willing and adventurous lover, exclaiming with delight that it was her first bareback ride and reaching a climax twice. Had it not been for the liability, Arri would have arranged a position for her.

Nothing could bring on a fit of despondency like having these thoughts. How could his life have come to this? Casual sex with whomever he desired, babies, children, nannies, the endless array of staff encompassing the well-oiled clink he inhabited. All so meaningless and yet so necessary. The hours required to maintain the immense wealth he had inherited was a Herculean task, but to say those worded filled his mouth with self-loathing for his self-pity. How dare he try to convince himself that he would have it any other way. If there was a God, his privilege had been preordained, not some accident of birth, which it was, of course. He never asked for it and yet he would fight to the bone to keep it, such was his nature.

Why then was he so resentful, guilty for loving his life, apologetic, undeserving yet never satisfied, wanting more, more, more. He thought again of the lost Island that he could not have, that would cost all the billions in his fortune and would still be too cold, too wet, too isolated. The native trout, the spawning salmon; just more rich food he could not have. All the money in the world does not allows you to eat and drink to excess. Diabetes, heart disease, liver failure, obesity, all the perils of being human cannot be ignored. It's just not … Blythe's voice snapped him out of his anguish.

“Arri, why do you look so sad? We have a new beautiful baby girl, what shall we name her?” “Where's that new nanny, this little girl needs a diaper change?”

Arri stepped up and reached for the baby, “I'll change her, I don't mind.”