Coffee with my Inner Millionaire
It wasn’t easy to find him. It wasn’t even easy to come up with the idea of looking for him. Some people are in touch with that part of themselves that wants to be rich. Not me.
But I have become frustrated, not with my life, which is truly terrific, but with the fact that to get my car to start I sometimes have to stick a kebab skewer into the gear shift.
So I dug around in my head, called in a few favors from my subconscious, and got a meeting with him. He suggested a Capital One Café, of course. I said: if I’m buying, we’re going to the diner on the corner.
He looks a little like me, but younger and less anxious. Better clothes, but that’s a low bar to clear in my case.
“What do you want to know?”, he asked, looking around the restaurant like he was thinking about buying it.
“I don’t talk to a lot of millionaires — how formal do I need to be here?”, I asked. “I mean, you’re a product of my imagination, and I always imagine that rich people are going to be brusque. Are you going to leave in a huff over some slight, real or perceived?”
He sighed a little, like this conversation had already lasted too long and I was being infantile. “Let’s…
