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 nine 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, such as doctors, business

owners, and bankers, sent their children to this elementary school.

After grade six, 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 six, 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. Even then I knew

that really meant, “That’s all I’m going to tell you,” or “I don’t know

the answer, so don’t embarrass me

A parternship formed

The next morning, I told my best friend, Mike, what my dad had

said. As best as I could tell, Mike and I were the only poor kids in this

school. Mike was also 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, new bicycles,

new everything.

Mom and Dad provided us with the basics, like food, shelter,

and 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 nine-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 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, because it inspired us to keep thinking of a way to make

money. Finally, that afternoon, a bolt of lightning struck. It was an

idea Mike got 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 at 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 their toothpaste

so we could have their tubes. Mom granted us a one-week extension.

The date to begin production was moved up, and the pressure was

on. My first partnership was already being threatened with an eviction

notice 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 nine-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 in

which the toothpaste tubes were 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. They melted until they became liquid, and with my mom’s pot holders, we poured the lead through a small hole in the

top of the milk cartons.

The milk cartons were filled with plaster of paris. White powder

was everywhere. In my haste, I had knocked the bag over, and the

entire area looked 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?” my 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, no!” my dad exclaimed. “You’re casting nickels out of lead!”

“That’s right,” Mike said. “We’re 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

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 cleanup.

“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 don’t 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 for 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.

“Okay,” I said. “Next Saturday.” I put the phone down. Mike’s dad

had agreed to meet with us.

On Saturday I caught the 7:30 a.m. bus to the poor side of town.

Mike and I met with his dad that morning at eight o’clock. He

was already busy, having 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 stepped across the threshold of

the 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 that

was filled with old musty overstuffed furniture that today would be

collectors’ items. Sitting on the couch were two women, both 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 boots. He was about 10 years older

than my dad. They smiled as Mike and I walked past them toward the

back porch. 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 as you

arrived, 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, 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 my dad 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?” he 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 six 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.

“Okay, 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 your 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

the opportunity that you asked for. School is beginning, or it’s over in

10 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 10 minutes.

After I’m through with her, you’ll ride with her to my superette and

you can begin working. I’ll pay you 10 cents an hour, and you’ll work

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 said.

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