I was going over the newspaper the other night, and I came across a funny headline: "World's billionaires feel your pain." It seemed like excellent luck, as I had been craving a bit of satirical commentary.

The article - from Associated Press - was what they call a kicker: take something that isn't really news, and throw it in to make things seem less bleak. Sugar for your medicine. Any way, it turns out that in the midst of all this suffering, joblessness, "economic uncertainty" and a generally poor outlook, Rich People are taking a beating, too.

Sadly for them, 83 billionaires slipped to the lowly status of 'millionaire' last year, bringing the world billionaire total down to 497. It's the second straight year of losses in the billionaire camp: their club was slimmed by 91 in 2000. Of course, these numbers pale in comparison with jobless rates here in the real world. New York City alone has lost roughly 120,000 jobs since January 2001.

What gets me about these billionaire types is that they keep on working. My personal inclination, upon amassing a sum of a billion dollars, would be to drop out. Retire, and find an island. There are too many people shaving years off their lives in the cutthroat world of capitalism, as it is.

What other motivation for earning so much money could there possibly be, aside from buying a beach in the sun and taking it easy for, say, ever?

Old Potter thinks it's because we've come to regard money as more than just the means of buying things. "More and more people," he said to me last night, "are trying to earn as much money as possible - not just enough to live comfortably after they retire."

Potter is the elderly gentleman in apartment 57, and he has a quirky habit of cleaning things, even when they do not belong to him or do not even need cleaning. Two or three times a week my neighbor will remonstrate with Potter about his cleaning of the hallway walls after midnight. When I hear him first, I get to the door and offer him a cup of coffee, just for kicks.

They were painting the halls in my building - first coat on Friday, second coat Monday - so by Sunday night, Potter was a bit on edge. Some joker had gone around putting sneaker tread marks along the bright white walls, and Mr. P - as I sometimes call him - is just trying to keep up. My mention of the billionaires' plight put him right over the top.

"The problem with people today," he told me between sips of my evening blend espresso, "is that they chase something all their lives without ever catching it, or even knowing what it looks like, for that matter."

Mr. P has watched this cruel cycle from the outside for about 30 years. His disability checks cover the rent and groceries, and his need to see things sparkle gives him a reason to get up in the morning.

"Billionaires are actually losers," he tells me. "Complete failures. They start out young with the goal of making it rich, and by the time they get there, they've forgotten what the whole thing is about. You gotta get out of the casino alive before you can call yourself a winner.

"Once you accomplish something, you are supposed to move on, create another challenge for yourself."

Or else, I thought to myself, you become Michael Jordan.

However apt Potter's 'shop 'til you drop' theory of our economy may be, it has to be said that if a guy like Bill Gates cashed in all his stock, the effect would be devastating. Even I have trouble imagining 40 years of uninterrupted relaxation. But maybe that's because I, like everyone I know, have bills to pay.

Nearing the bottom of a third demitasse, Potter held out a highly un-American point of view: "We've exported our way of 'living large' so successfully," he ventured, "that we have actually sparked a worldwide epidemic of largesse - Globesity!"

Having been down this road with Potter before, I knew it wouldn't be long before he retold the story of how the giant cockroach living under his fridge let him in on the Watergate scandal even before Woodward and Bernstein knew.

I quickly, if not rudely, excused myself and locked the door. I brushed my teeth and then hit the hay - skipping my usual snack of milk and cake. As I stretched out toward sleep, I could hear Potter scrubbing and singing to himself, down the hall.