- I spent yesterday with the Old Billionaire. And as usual
when he and I are together I learned a lot.
-
- "My son the Harvard Grad Genius is driving me crazy,"
he said as he picked me up in his old flatbed truck. "He's suing me!
His own daddy! If he thinks for one minute that I'm going to turn a world
class business I built from scratch over to his overeducated MBA self to
manage however he pleases, he's got another think coming!"
-
- We pulled out of the clearing and went down the Mountain,
turned onto the highway to Paradise. "The wife's car needs new tires,"
he said. "I spent most of last week looking for the best deal. Looks
like Paradise Tire's got it. A hundred dollars a tire, down from one forty-five."
-
- "What's Nettie have to say about all this?"
I asked.
-
- "Nettie's fine with it. She knows it's not safe
to drive around without any tread."
-
- "I meant about what's going on with your son,"
I said.
-
- The Old Billionaire frowned. "She wants Michelins.
But she knows the Goodyears are a bargain," was all he would say.
-
- At the tire shop, Brent, the assistant manager, greeted
us with a smile. "Your tires came in just a few minutes ago,"
he said, taking us to a stack in one of the work bays. "Hope this
tread isn't too aggressive for your wife."
-
- "Those look like they'll eat my poor driveway alive,"
said the Old Billionaire. "'Course, it might be worth repaving if
you got 'em down to, say, seventy-five perS."
-
- Brent laughed. "We're as low as we can go. It's
not our special, it's the wholesaler's."
-
- "Who'd you say that wholesaler was?"
-
- Brent named a name that didn't register with me. The
Old Billionaire nodded. "Toss 'em into the back of the truck while
I write a check."
-
- In just a few minutes we were back on the highway. We
turned onto Church Street, where a sign caught the Old Billionaire's eye.
"That a new furniture store?"
-
- "New store. Old furniture," I said. "Gwen
and I bought a nice old kitchen table there for the Annex last week."
-
- "Well, I just happen to need a nice old recliner
chair," said the Old Billionaire. "Something I can sit and rock
on when I'm hiding from Nettie in the garage."
-
- We parked and went into the tiny store. Portland, the
owner from-of course-Portland, Oregon, came running from the back as soon
as he heard the bell. "Can I help you?" he said. "Everything's
twenty percent off. And if you need me to deliver it I'm there. I got a
great buy on that king-sized bed over there if you make an offerS."
-
- The Old Billionaire looked past the other man, and his
eyes fastened on a big lounge chair in a corner of the store. He looked
it over. Sat down. Pulled the lever. Lay back.
-
- Portland, who was still talking, quickly changed his
patter. "That's my favorite chair in the place," he said. "I've
been thinking about taking it home. Have you ever felt anything so comfy?"
-
- "How much?" the Old Billionaire asked.
-
- "A hundred and fif-make that one twenty-five. One
fifteen and it's yours."
-
- "Thanks, but no."
-
- The Old Billionaire and I left the store. "Too bad,"
he said. "The chair's perfect. But that old boy in there made me way
too nervous. I could never sit in it without thinking I was smelling his
salesman's sweat.
-
- "The fella in the tire store's a different story.
He's got an air about him. Confidence. Makes the buyer like and trust him
right away. He'll be in business forever. This other one's too desperate.
He and his place'll be gone in two months."
-
- We got into the flatbed. The Old Billionaire reached
for the ignition. Stopped. Sighed.
-
-
- "Reckon it's time," he said.
-
- "What do you mean?" The way he said it worried
me. "Time for what?"
-
- Another sigh. He stared straight ahead. "Time to
do the right thing," he said tightly, "and turn the business
over to my kid."
-
- "Because that's the reason you built it up in the
first place?" I said, feeling wise.
-
- "Because here I am, one of the richest men in the
world, spending a week looking for bargain tires so I can bust my back
mounting 'em myself. And buying some that're on special-from a wholesaler
I own!"
-
-
- Copyright C 2007 by Larry Brody. All rights reserved.
-
- Author Larry Brody's weekly column, LIVE! FROM PARADISE!
appears on his website, www.larrybrody.com. He has written thousands of
hours of network television, and is the author of "Television Writing
from the Inside Out" and "Turning Points in Television."
Brody is Creative Director of The Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts, the
world's first in-residence media colony. More about his activities can
be seen on www.tvwriter.com and www.cloudcreek.org. He welcomes your comments
and feedback at LarryBrody@cloudcreek.org. Brody, his wife and their dogs,
cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County, Arkansas. The other residents
of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination.
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