Making Your First Million.pdf - Association of Net Entrepreneurs and ...

Making Your First Million
around in self-important rationalizing, puffing ourselves up, declaring we're working on
the behalf of others but it just ain't so. Spend yourself first on others. Help others to get
what they want. Use your God-given talents to give everyone you meet a helping hand
and you will tap into the unstoppable steamroller of love and synergy. Understand
wealth. Wealth does not come from ripping people off and hoarding bank-notes like a
miser but from helping people out and giving bank-notes like a lover.
Mick was a mate. He was living the high life on the Gold Coast and he invited us up to
sample the high-roller lifestyle. V.I.P. all the way. Executive Suite, breakfast at midday
by the pool, shopping at the Mirage, lunch at 5, show-time at 8, dinner at 10.30, nightclub
till 3.30, gamble till dawn. Stretch limo, Krug champagne. Mick's idea of a real good
time.
Five-thirty a.m. we're in the private gaming room of Jupiters casino. Invitation only. I'm
in bored tourist mode focused more on bed than gambling when my gaze falls upon a
solitary elderly blackjack player. Capturing my focus is a pile of hundred-thousand-dollar
chips, by my world-weary estimate he's fiddling with five to ten million dollars.
We went upstairs to bed and the following evening went to Nicholsons for dinner, so
pukkah they speak to you in French. Pauline ordered an $85 entrée of caviar to test my
mettle (We'd only been together a few weeks at this time and she was intent on plumbing
the depths of my financial resolve), and at the table next to us was the elderly blackjack
player of the morning before. Named Jack. 73 years old. Dining alone. He was in the
process of getting drunk and offered Pauline a glass of '61 Grande Vieille Armagnac.
$1500 a bottle. It was his third bottle. As the night wore on it was plain Jack was the
loneliest person on the planet. The drunker he got the less inhibited he became about his
past and he began bragging about the crooked deals, the bribes, the payoffs. Trying to
enlist our complicity.
As the meal drew to an end we were drawn deeper into Jack's loneliness. We were
preparing to leave when a liveried servant hurried to steady Jack and separate him from
his chair. It was Jack's chauffeur. The chauffeur had stood in respectful silence all night
and now was his time to act. Half dragging, half carrying, he maneuvered Jack to the lift.
We helped. Downstairs at the entry to the foyer, if you have a flash car, they park it in
front of the fountain. We had a week-old Jaguar Sovereign, midnight blue. Parked in
front was Jack's car, a beige Bentley Turbo. Half a million dollars worth of motor car.
The chauffeur poured Jack into the back seat, put on his gloves and cap and drove off.
We followed down the drive out onto Cavill Avenue. As Jack waved his arms about in
the backseat, silhouetted in the glare of oncoming cars, I turned to Pauline and said:
"There goes a bloke with everything the world has to offer. And he hasn't got a thing.
He's terrified of dying, leaving a roomful of unspent bank notes."
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