It was my grandpa who lured Old Methuselah out from the tannic depths of the lake. We were fishing for marron in the shallow waters of a small bay beside the dam wall, the jarrah forest at our back ... [+]
"Good afternoon, gentlemen—and lady," the pitchman says, giving the little bow he practices when no one's watching. "I'm here with an incredible business and humanitarian opportunity. You're wondering how many do-gooder pitches you must endure before a winner. This is the one. Heart to Heart: a bespoke income-sharing tool connecting the income-plentiful to the income-deficient."
The projector lights up. Title slide: Heart to Heart in a sleek, modestly expensive font. A heart inside a heart inside a heart, five deep. Click.
"It works like this," he says over Slide One. "You pass someone with a sign. They rattle a cup. You don't carry cash—who does? Even if you did, you'd have to fish it out, expose yourself to pickpockets, to awkwardness. Or you worry your money won't go to a good cause—aka drugs—not that you're judging." Papers rustle. A binder closes.
Click. Slide Two arrives: a glossy render of a slim black jacket with a small red heart glowing where a human heart would be. "This is the Compassion Jacket. To transfer money, simply tap your card over the wearer's heart. No demoralizing begging, no loss of dignity. Just one tap to a stylish jacket that income-deficient individuals can pick up—for free—at shelters. Now there's no excuse not to be charitable."
He reads the room. The men lean forward the way men do. The one woman clasps her hands.
Click. Slide Three. He likes this one: spa-blue graphs and soft edges. "Accountability. Our real-time online dashboard shows donations received and how they're spent. We can track and reward people who use your money wisely, and because it's digital, it's harder to fritter away on non-productive purchases, aka drugs, still a cash-heavy industry. With Heart to Heart's Compassion Jacket, you'll know your money makes a difference because we'll know."
The pitchman hears a cough or the clearing of a throat. Don't lose them, he thinks.
Click. Slide Four: revenue climbing in small, polite hills. "As equity investors, you're asking about return. Each tap carries an almost negligible three percent fee—pennies to the donor, millions at scale. Our projections show steady year-on-year growth to full market saturation. You'll be doing well by doing good."
He feels it then: a tug in the room, the moment the moral gears catch the financial ones. He opens his palms. "And now, a surprise. Our Income-Deficient Ambassador, Goddard Ellison, modeling the Compassion Jacket."
The door opens. Goddard enters carefully. The jacket is real, not a render. It sits a size too big in the shoulders. The red heart glows, warmed by battery. Goddard's face is unshaven.
"Afternoon," Goddard says.
The men rise as one organism. They form a half circle. The woman hangs back, arms crossed, then drifts closer.
"Simply tap your card," the pitchman says. "Over the heart."
The first investor taps with the flair of a man who's always first. Cha-ching. Not tinny, but round—the sound design team's proudest child. He laughs. The second investor taps. Cha-ching. Soon the room fills with bright money sounds.
Goddard keeps his hands at his sides. He was told: stand straight, don't make a face that says 'grateful,' make a face that says 'you deserve this.' The pitchman had said it like a secret. People don't mind charity, Goddard. They want to feel good.
The pitchman beams at the room, the jacket, the graph arcing up like a kite string. He beams at Goddard the way a director beams at an actor who nailed the take.
After the fifth cha-ching comes a question about fraud controls. After the eighth, recurring donations—could the jacket remember the card? After the twelfth, everyone is smiling. The pitchman answers fluently. His tongue has been repeating the deck for weeks.
The investors, having tapped, return to their chairs. They nod like men at a ribbon cutting.
"Final thoughts?" the pitchman asks, keeping his voice sunny.
A man wearing a Fitbit gestures toward Goddard without looking at him. "Any plan for the ones who game it? Who won't help themselves?"
"Of course," the pitchman says. "Tiered rewards to nudge positive behavior. Discounts at partner retailers, fast-track housing referrals, skill modules unlocked by responsible spending. Plus, the community dashboard. Success becomes social currency."
"Leaderboards," someone says, pleased.
"Exactly," the pitchman says.
Goddard shifts. The battery warms his chest. In the hallway earlier, the pitchman had straightened the jacket collar and said, "Whatever you feel, let it pass through." Goddard had nodded. He has learned to let things pass through.