The Millionaires Read Online Free PDF Page B

I see on the bed? A knockoff Calvin Klein comforter? Plus the Martha Stewart faux-antique crackle-paint on the dresser, and
     the table that’s now sporting the imitation Ralph Lauren tablecloth, perfectly set for two. Don’t think I missed that sweetheart
     touch. And while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, it’s like the existence of show towels, bro—the whole thing’s a symptom
     of a deeper problem.”
    He repeats the last few words to himself. “
Symptom of a deeper problem.
” Stopping in the kitchen, he pulls out his notepad and jots them down. “
For some, life is an audition,
” he adds. His head bobs in place as he puts together a quick melody. When he gets like this, it takes a few minutes, so I
     leave him be. On his notepad, his hand suddenly stops, then starts scribbling. The pen scratches furiously against the page.
     As he flips to the next sheet, I spot a tiny, perfect sketch of a man bowing in front of a curtain. He’s done writing—now
     he’s drawing.
    It’s the first thing that came naturally to him, and when he wants to, Charlie can be an incredible artist. So incredible,
     in fact, that the New York School of Visual Arts was willing to overlook his spotty high school record and give him a full
     college scholarship. Two years into it, they tried to steer him into commercial work, like advertising and illustration. “It’s
     a nice living,” they told him. But the instant Charlie saw career and art converge, he dropped out and finished his last two
     years at Brooklyn College studying music. I yelled at him for two days straight. He told me there’s more to life than designing
     the new logo for a bottle of detergent.
    Across the room, I hear him wandering through the rest of the apartment and sniffing the air. “Mmmmm… smells like Oliver,”
     he announces. “Air freshener and loafer whiff.”
    “Get out of my bathroom,” I call out from my bed, where I’ve already opened my briefcase to flip through some paperwork.
    “Don’t you ever stop?” Charlie asks. “It’s the weekend—relax already.”
    “I need to finish this,” I shoot back.
    “Listen, I’m sorry about the vanilla joke…”
    “
I need to finish this,
” I insist.
    He knows that tone. Letting the silence sink in, he curls up on the foot of the bed.
    Two minutes later, the lack of noise does the trick. “Sometimes I hate rich people,” I finally moan.
    “No, you don’t,” he teases. “You love ’em. You’ve always loved ’em. The more money, the merrier.”
    “I’m serious,” I say. “It’s like, once they get some cash—bam!—there goes their grasp of reality. I mean, look at this guy…”
     I pull the top sheet from the paper pile and wing it his way. “This moron misplaces three million dollars for five years.
Five years
he’s forgotten about it! But when we tell him we’re about to take it away from him—that’s when he wakes up and wants it back.”
    He reads the letter signed by someone named Marty Duckworth—“
Thank you for your correspondence… please be aware that I’ve opened a new account at the following New York bank… please forward
     the balance of my funds there.
”—but to Charlie, it still looks like just another normal wire request. “I don’t understand.”
    I wave the short paper stack in front of him. “It’s an abandoned account.” Knowing he’s lost, I add, “Under New York law,
     when a customer doesn’t use an account for five years, the money gets turned over to the state.”
    “That doesn’t make sense—who would ever abandon their own cash?”
    “Mostly dead people,” I say. “It happens in every bank in the country—when someone dies, or gets sick, sometimes they forget
     to tell their family about their account. The cash just sits there for years—and if there’s no activity on the account, it
     eventually gets labeled
inactive.
”
    “So after year five, we just ship that money to the government?”
    “That’s part of