فصل 01 - بخش 01

CHAPTER One - Part 01

Lesson One: The Rich Don’t Work For Money.

The Poor and the Middle class work for money. The Rich have money work for them.

“Dad, Can You Tell Me How to Get Rich?”

My dad put down the evening paper: “Why do you want to get rich, son?”

“Because today Jimmy’s mom drove up in their new Cadillac, and they were going to their beach house for the weekend. He took three of his friends, but Mike and I weren’t invited. They told us we weren’t invited because we were poor kids’.” “They did,” my dad asked incredulously.

“Yeah, they did,” I replied in a hurt tone.

My dad silently shook his head, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and went back to reading the paper. I stood waiting for an answer.

The year was 1956. I was 9 years old. By some twist of fate, I attended the same public school where the rich people sent their kids.

We were primarily a sugar plantation town. The managers of the plantation and the other affluent people of the town, such as doctors, business owners, and bankers, sent their children to this school, grades 1 to 6. After grade 6, their children were generally sent off to private schools. Because my family lived on one side of the street, I went to this school. Had I lived on the other side of the street, I would have gone to a different school, with kids from families more like mine. After grade 6,these kids and I would go on to the public intermediate and high school. There was no private school for them or for me.

My dad finally put down the paper. I could tell he was thinking.

“Well, son,” he began slowly. “If you want to be rich, you have to learn to make money.”

“How do I make money,” I asked.

“Well, use your head, son,” he said, smiling. Which really meant, “That’s all I’m going to tell you,” or “I don’t know the answer, so don’t embarrass me.”

A Partnership Is Formed

The next morning, I told my best friend, Mike, what my dad had said. As best I could tell, Mike and I were the only poor kids in this school. Mike was like me in that he was in this school by a twist of fate. Someone had drawn a jog in the line for the school district, and we wound up in school with the rich kids.

We weren’t really poor, but we felt as if we were because all the other boys had new baseball gloves, ,,,y new bicycles, new everything.

Mom and dad provided us with the basics, like food, shelter, clothes. But that was about it. My dad used to say, “If you want something, work for it.” We wanted things, but there was not much work available for 9- , year-old boys.

“So what do we do to make money,” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But do you want to be my partner?”

He agreed and so on that Saturday morning, Mike became my first business partner. We spent all morning coming up with ideas on how to 1’make money.

Occasionally we talked about all the “cool guys” at Jimmy’s beach house having fun. It hurt a little, but that hurt was good, for it inspired us to keep thinking of a way to make money.

Finally, that afternoon, a bolt of lightning came through our heads. It was an idea Mike had gotten from a science book he had read. Excitedly, we shook hands, and the partnership now had a business.

For the next several weeks, Mike and I ran around our neighborhood, knocking on doors and asking our neighbors if they would save their toothpaste tubes for us. With puzzled looks, most adults consented with a smile. Some asked us what we were doing. To which we replied, “We can’t tell you. It’s a business secret.

” My mom grew distressed as the weeks wore on. We had selected a site next to her washing machine as the place we would stockpile our raw materials. In a brown cardboard box that one time held catsup bottles, our little pile of used toothpaste tubes began to grow.

Finally my mom put her foot down. The sight of her neighbors’ , messy, crumpled used toothpaste tubes had gotten to her. “What are you boys doing,” she asked. “And I don’t want to hear again that it’s a business secret. Do something with this mess or I’m going to throw it out.” Mike and I pleaded and begged, explaining that we would soon have enough and then we would begin production. We informed her that we were waiting on a couple of neighbors to finish using up their toothpaste so we could have their tubes. Mom granted us a one-week extension.

The date to begin production was moved up. The pressure was on. My first partnership was already being threatened with an eviction notice from our warehouse space by my own mom. It became Mike’s job to tell the neighbors to quickly use up their toothpaste, saying their dentist wanted them to brush more often anyway.

I began to put together the production line.

One day my dad drove up with a friend to see two 9-year-old boys. in the driveway with a production line operating at full speed. There was fine white powder everywhere. On a long table were small milk cartons from school, and our family’s hibachi grill was glowing with red hot coals at maximum heat.

Dad walked up cautiously, having to park the car at the base of the driveway, since the production line blocked the carport. As he and his friend got closer, they saw a steel pot sitting on top of the coals, with the toothpaste tubes being melted down. In those days, toothpaste did not come in plastic tubes. The tubes were made of lead. So once the paint was burned off, the tubes were dropped in the small steel pot, melted until they became liquid, and with my mom’s pot holders we were pouring the lead through a small hole in the top of the milk cartons.

The milk cartons were filled with plaster-of-Paris. The white powder everywhere was the plaster before we mixed it with water. In my haste, I had knocked the bag over, and the entire area look like it had been hit by a snowstorm. The milk cartons were the outer containers for plaster-of-Paris molds.

My dad and his friend watched as we carefully poured the molten lead through a small hole in the top of the plaster-of-Paris cube.

“Careful,” my dad said.

I nodded without looking up.

Finally, once the pouring was through, I put the steel pot down and smiled at my dad.

“What are you boys doing,” he asked with a cautious smile.

“We’re doing what you told me to do. We’re going to be rich,” I said.

“Yup,” said Mike, grinning and nodding his head. “We’re partners.”

“And what is in those plaster molds,” dad asked.

“Watch,” I said. “This should be a good batch.”

With a small hammer, I tapped at the seal that divided the cube in half. Cautiously, I pulled up the top half of the plaster mold and a lead nickel fell out.”

“Oh, my God,” my dad said. “You’re casting nickels out of lead.”

“That’s right,” Mike said. “We doing as you told us to do. We’re making money.”

My dad’s friend turned and burst into laughter. My dad smiled and shook his head. Along with a fire and a box of spent toothpaste tubes, in front of him were two little boys covered with white dust and smiling from ear to ear.

He asked us to put everything down and sit with him on the front step of our house. With a smile, he gently explained what the word “counterfeiting” meant.

Our dreams were dashed. “You mean this is illegal,” asked Mike in a quivering voice.

“Let them go,” my dad’s friend said. “They might be developing a natural talent.”

My dad glared at him.

“Yes, it is illegal,” my dad said gently. “But you boys have shown great creativity and original thought. Keep going. I’m really proud of you!”

Disappointed, Mike and I sat in silence for about twenty minutes before we began cleaning up our mess. The business was over on opening day. Sweeping the powder up, I looked at Mike and said, “I guess Jimmy and his friends are right. We are poor.” My father was just leaving as I said that. “Boys,” he said. “You’re only poor if you give up. The most important thing is that you did something. Most people only talk and dream of getting rich. You’ve done something. I’m very proud of the two of you. I will say it again. Keep going. Don’t quit.”

Mike and I stood there in silence. They were nice words, but we still did not know what to do.

“So how come you’re not rich, dad,” I asked.

“Because I chose to be a schoolteacher. Schoolteachers really don’t think about being rich. We just like to teach. I wish I could help you, but I really don’t know how to make money.”

Mike and I turned and continued our clean up.

“I know,” said my dad. “If you boys want to learn how to be rich, don’t ask me. Talk to your dad, Mike.”

“My dad,” asked Mike with a scrunched up face.

“Yeah, your dad,” repeated my dad with a smile. “Your dad and I have the same banker, and he raves about your father. He’s told me several times that your father is brilliant when it comes to making money.”

“My dad,” Mike asked again in disbelief. “Then how come we don’t have a nice car and a nice house like the rich kids at school?”

“A nice car and a nice house does not necessarily mean you’re rich or you know how to make money,” my dad replied. “Jimmy’s dad works for the sugar plantation. He’s not much different from me. He works for a company, and I work for the government. The company buys the car for him. The sugar company is in financial trouble, and Jimmy’s dad may soon have nothing. Your dad is different Mike. He seems to be building an empire, and I suspect in a few years he will be a very rich man.”

With that, Mike and I got excited again. With new vigor, we began cleaning up the mess caused by our now defunct first business.

As we were cleaning, we made plans on how and when to talk to Mike’s dad. The problem was that Mike’s dad worked long hours and often did not come home until late. His father owned warehouses, a construction company, a chain of stores, and three restaurants. It was the restaurants that kept him out late.

Mike caught the bus home after we had finished cleaning up. He was going to talk to his dad when he got home that night and ask him if he would teach us how to become rich. Mike promised to call as soon as he had talked to his dad, even if it was late.

The phone rang at 8:30 p.m.

“OK,” I said. “Next Saturday.” And put the phone down. Mike’s dad had agreed to meet with Mike and me.

At 7:30 Saturday morning, I caught the bus to the poor side of town.

The Lessons Begin:

“I’ll pay you 10 cents an hour. ”

Even by 1956 pay standards, 10 cents an hour was low.

Michael and I met with his dad that morning at 8 o’clock. He was already busy and had been at work for more than an hour. His construction supervisor was just leaving in his pickup truck as I walked up to his simple, small and tidy home. Mike met me at the door.

“Dad’s on the phone, and he said to wait on the back porch,” Mike said as he opened the door.

The old wooden floor creaked as I steppedacross the threshold of this aging house. There was a cheap mat just inside the door. The mat was there to hide the years of wear from countless footsteps that the floor had supported. Although clean, it needed to be replaced.

I felt claustrophobic as I entered the narrow living room, which was filled with old musty overstuffed furniture that today would be collector’s items. Sitting on the couch were two women, a little older than my mom. Across from the women sat a man in workman’s clothes.

He wore khaki slacks and a khaki shirt, neatly pressed but without starch, and polished work books. He was about 10 years older than my dad; I’d say about 45 years old. They smiled as Mike and I walked past them, heading for the kitchen, which lead to the porch that overlooked the back yard. I smiled back shyly.

“Who are those people,” I asked.

“Oh, they work for my dad. The older man runs his warehouses, and the women are the managers of the restaurants. And you saw the construction supervisor, who is working on a road project about 50 miles from here. His other supervisor, who is building a track of houses, had already left before you got here.” “Does this go on all the time,” I asked.

“Not always, but quite often,” said Mike, smiling as he pulled up a chair to sit down next to me.

“I asked him if he would teach us to make money,” Mike said.

“Oh, and what did he say to that,” I asked with cautious curiosity.

“Well, he had a funny look on his face at first, and then he said he would make us an offer.”

“Oh,” I said, rocking my chair back against the wall; I sat there perched on two rear legs of the chair. Mike did the same thing. “Do you know what the offer is,” I asked. “No, but we’ll soon find out.” Suddenly, Mike’s dad burst through the rickety screen door and onto the porch. Mike and I jumped to our feet, not out of respect but because we were startled.

“Ready boys,” Mike’s dad asked as he pulled up a chair to sit down with us.

We nodded our heads as we pulled our chairs away from the wall to sit in front of him.

He was a big man, about 6 feet tall and 200 pounds. My dad was taller, about the same weight, and five years older than Mike’s dad. They sort of looked alike, though not of the same ethnic makeup. Maybe their energy was similar.

“Mike says you want to learn to make money? Is that correct, Robert?”

I nodded my head quickly, but with a little trepidation. He had a lot of power behind his words and smile.

“OK, here’s my offer. I’ll teach you, but I won’t do it classroom-style. You work for me, I’ll teach you. You don’t work for me, I won’t teach you. I can teach you faster if you work, and I’m wasting my time if you just want to sit and listen, like you do in school. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.” “Ah – may I ask a question first,” I asked.

“No. Take it or leave it. I’ve got too much work to do to waste my time. If you can’t make up you mind decisively, then you’ll never learn to make money anyway. Opportunities come and go. Being able to know when to make quick decisions is an important skill. You have an opportunity that you asked for. School is beginning or it’s over in ten seconds,” Mike’s dad said with a teasing smile.

“Take it,” I said.

“Take it,” said Mike.

“Good,” said Mike’s dad. “Mrs. Martin will be by in ten minutes. After I’m through with her, you ride with her to my superette and you can begin working. I’ll pay you 10 cents an hour and you will work for three hours every Saturday.” “But I have a softball game today,” I said.

Mike’s dad lowered his voice to a stern tone. “Take it or leave it,” he

“I’ll take it,” I replied, choosing to work and learn instead of playing softball.

30 Cents Later

By 9 a.m. on a beautiful Saturday morning, Mike and I were working for Mrs. Martin. She was a kind and patient woman. She always said that Mike and I reminded her of her two sons who were grown and gone. Although kind, she believed in hard work and she kept us working. She was a task master. We spent three hours taking canned goods off the shelves and, with a feather duster, brushing each can to get the dust off, and then re-stacking them neatly. It was excruciatingly boring work.

Mike’s dad, whom I call my rich dad, owned nine of these little superettes with large parking lots. They were the early version of the 7-11 convenience stores. Little neighborhood grocery stores where people bought items such as milk, bread, butter and cigarettes. The problem was, this was Hawaii before air conditioning, and the stores could not close its doors because of the heat. On two sides of the store, the doors had to be wide open to the road and parking lot. Every time a car drove by or pulled into the parking lot, dust would swirl and settle in the store.

Hence, we had a job for as long as there was no air conditioning.

For three weeks, Mike and I reported to Mrs. Martin and worked our three hours. By noon, our work was over, and she dropped three little dimes in each of our hands. Now, even at the age of 9 in the mid-1950s, 30 cents was not too exciting. Comic books cost 10 cents back then, so I usually spent my money on comic books and went home.

By Wednesday of the fourth week, I was ready to quit. I had agreed to work only because I wanted to learn to make money from Mike’s dad, and now I was a slave for 10 cents an hour. On top of that, I had not seen Mike’s dad since that first Saturday.

“I’m quitting,” I told Mike at lunchtime. The school lunch was miserable. School was boring, and now I did not even have my Saturdays to look forward to. But it was the 30 cents that really got to me.

This time Mike smiled.

“What are you laughing at,” I asked with anger and frustration.

“Dad said this would happen. He said to meet with him when you were ready to quit.”

“What,” I said indignantly. “He’s been waiting for me to get fed up?”

“Sort of,” Mike said. “Dad’s kind of different. He teaches differently from your dad. Your mom and dad lecture a lot. My dad is quiet and a man of few words. You just wait till this Saturday. I’ll tell him .you’re ready.” “You mean I’ve been set up?”

“No, not really, but maybe. Dad will explain on Saturday.”

Waiting in Line on Saturday I was ready to face him and I was prepared. Even my real dad was angry with him. My real dad, the one I call the poor one, thought that my rich dad was violating child labor laws and should be investigated.

My educated poor dad told me to demand what I deserve. At least 25 cents an hour. My poor dad told me that if I did not get a raise, I was to quit immediately.

“You don’t need that damned job anyway,” said my poor dad with indignity. At 8 o’clock Saturday morning, I was going through the same rickety door of Mike’s house.

“Take a seat and wait in line,” Mike’s dad said as I entered. He turned and disappeared into his little office next to a bedroom.

I looked around the room and did not see Mike anywhere. Feeling awkward, I cautiously sat down next to the same two women who where there four weeks earlier. They smiled and slid across the couch to make room for me.

Forty-five minutes went by, and I was steaming. The two women had met with him and left thirty minutes earlier. An older gentleman was in there for twenty minutes and was also gone.

The house was empty, and I sat out in his musty dark living room on a beautiful sunny Hawaiian day, waiting to talk to a cheapskate who exploited children. I could hear him rustling around the office, talking on the phone, and ignoring me. I was now ready to walk out, but for some reason I stayed.

Finally, fifteen minutes later, at exactly 9 o’clock, rich dad walked out of his office, said nothing, and signaled with his hand for me to enter his dingy office.

“I understand you want a raise or you’re going to quit,” rich dad said as he swiveled in his office chair.

“Well, you’re not keeping your end of the bargain,” I blurted out nearly in tears. It was really frightening for a 9-year-old boy to confront a grownup.

“You said that you would teach me if I worked for you. Well, I’ve worked for you. I’ve worked hard. I’ve given up my baseball games to work for you. And you don’t keep your word. You haven’t taught me anything. You are a crook like everyone in town thinks you are. You’re greedy. You want all the money and don’t take care of your employees. You make me wait and don’t show me any respect. I’m only a little boy, and I deserve to be treated better.” Rich dad rocked back in his swivel chair, hands up to his chin, somewhat staring at me. It was like he was studying me.

“Not bad,” he said. “In less than a month, you sound like most of my employees.”

“What,” I asked. Not understanding what he was saying, I continued with my grievance. “I thought you were going to keep your end of the bargain and teach me. Instead you want to torture me? That’s cruel. That’s really cruel.” “I am teaching you,” rich dad said quietly.

“What have you taught me; Nothing,” I said angrily. “You haven’t even talked to me once since I agreed to work for peanuts. Ten cents an hour. Hah! I should notify the government about you.

We have child labor laws, you know. My dad works for the government, you know.”

“Wow,” said rich dad. “Now you sound just like most of the people who used to work for me. People I’ve either fired or they’ve quit.”

“So what do you have to say,” I demanded, feeling pretty brave for a little kid. “You lied to me. I’ve worked for you, and you have not kept your word. You haven’t taught me anything.”

“How do you know that I’ve not taught you anything,” asked rich dad calmly.

“Well, you’ve never talked to me. I’ve worked for three weeks, and you have not taught me anything,” I said with a pout.

“Does teaching mean talking or a lecture,” rich dad asked.

“Well, yes,” I replied.

“That’s how they teach you in school,” he said smiling. “But that is not how life teaches you, and I would say that life is the best teacher of all. Most of the time, life does not talk to you. It just sort of pushes you around. Each push is life saying, Wake up. There’s something I want you to learn.” “What is this man talking about,” I asked myself silently. “Life pushing me around was life talking to me?” Now I knew I had to quit my job. I was talking to someone who needed to be locked up.