MJ DeMarco - Wealth Exposed: This Short Argument I Overheard Made Me A Fortune... Can It Do The Same For You?

Wealth Exposed

This Short Argument I Overheard Made Me A Fortune... Can It Do The Same For You?

MJ DeMarco

Viperion Publishing Corp.

Copyright 2020 MJ DeMarco

All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are based on a true story. However, names, likenesses, and similarities have been altered to prevent any identification to the real persons, living or dead. Any similarity to any one person, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Viperion Corporation
Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to the man or woman who desires more than a job, a weekend, and an elderly promise called "retirement." Make it happen!

The Eighteen Minutes That Changed My Life

The First Meeting...

If your life needs a course-correction for fortune and the freedom that comes with it, the next eighteen-minutes might be your jerk at the wheel. It was mine. True story. Well not entirely, names and descriptions have been changed to protect the innocent.
So, if youre ready to confront yourself with the hard questions, congratulations: youre ready to confront the comfortthe comfort that keeps you comfortably mediocre among the ninety-nine percent (99%).
For me, it was Deja-vu.
Over a decade earlier, a short encounter with a multimillionaire changed my life. A young man driving a Lamborghini Countach admitted to my teenage self that he was an entrepreneur, specifically an inventor. That chance meeting set me on the path to be an entrepreneur, a career choice I made early in life.
More than ten years later, another encounter with a multi-millionaire would once again, change the trajectory of my life. Except this time, he wouldn't steer me toward a career, he would tell me how to succeed at it. And calling it an encounter would be deceptive. I witnessed the event as an unwitting eavesdropper.
It was 1996. Or maybe 1995. Im not sure. But I was sure I was already five business failures deep and hopelessly circling the drain. In other words, I was two arsenic pills away from meeting my maker or spending an eternity as a fool.
After many years as a struggling entrepreneur, I was now twenty-five years old a broke nobody working fare-to-fare in a meaningless job as a limousine chauffeur for a small company in Chicago. The hours were long and the pay insulting. The job, however, gave me some latitude to pursue my entrepreneurial dreams, and by all measures, keep the failures growing. Yes, the confidence was gone. Worse, my seemingly insurmountable credit card debt was a monthly reminder of those failures: a failed jewelry business, a failed audio business, and a failed importing business. All had left their scars on MasterCard and Visa. Meanwhile, my friends and college peers were living the high life: they had decent jobs as sales representatives and assistant managers, the drove new Acuras and Audis, some, even mortgaged new homes.
One afternoon I was dispatched on an airport transport for a new customer from Barrington Hills, an affluent Chicago suburb home to many athletes and CEOs. The name Gary Patel, however, didnt imply quarterback, it implied neurosurgeon, or businessman who owned a chain of 7-Elevens. Sorry, this was before political incorrectness was politically incorrect.
Once my credentials were approved by the guard stationed at the gated entrance, I drove in. The scene was colorfully idyllic and appeared staged like a Hollywood set. Towering oak trees canopied a pristinely manicured road centerpieced by a lush lagoon with spouting fountains. If there was a lawn uncut, a shrub untrimmed, or a flower unbloomed, I didnt see it. The road escorted me to a contemporary estate that looked like a giant kidney bean made of steel. Paneled in glass and columned in girders, a large portico loomed out from the main structure overshadowing a large circular drive. One hundred-percent Tony Stark, zero-percent Dr. Patel. As I pulled into the driveway, a white convertible Ferrari stood sentry underneath the portico, an unstated proclamation that power does indeed, live here.
I exited my limousine and rang the doorbell expecting a grand serenade of Vivaldis Four Seasons . Instead I heard a standard *ding*, the same tone of my mothers home, the home I still resided within at the generous age of twenty-five.
The door opened and a smiling young man with long hair and cowboy boots stood before me. Not Axle Rose hair, but Michael Bolton. If youre too young and don't know who that is, think Yanni, but frizzy and receding. Dont know Yanni either? Ugh, how about Fabio? Dont know him either? OK, perhaps my audience is younger than I thought. Think Jared Leto, but permed, sun-dried, and ridiculously floofy even for the early nineties.
So back to Gary.
This distinguished man of Indian descent in my mind was nowhere to be found. Instead, this guy looked and dressed like one my college buddies blitzed on four highballs while two-stepping at country bar. All that was missing was his blue eyes and his girlfriend Reba. Two suitcases sat stacked behind him.
Mr., uh, Patel? Gary? I asked.
The young man smiled. Yes.
My mind betrayed my face and flared confusion. Gary astutely noticed and said, Expecting someone else?
I smile sheepishly but say nothing. He continues, Dont worry about it. In twenty-years we might not be able to discuss stereotypes like this, so better get it out of our system. He gestures to his bags. Just two. His voice was more Chicago over Texas, firmly baritone and didn't offer insight if he was gardening or roping steer on the weekend.
After depositing Gary at Terminal One at O'Hare Airport, I hurriedly returned to the livery holding area and parked. I picked up my brick phone, a technological marvel at the time, and called Stanford, my boss. He owned the company and was a displaced Londoner who had hoped his British accent would be well-received by Chicagoans in the people-moving trade. It wasbusiness was booming. I asked, Whos this rich guy I just dropped off? His parents own that place?
No, Stanford said flatly, hes the CEO of an administrative staffing company.
I narrow my eyes, befuddled. I clarify, Like a temp agency? I calculate the disconnect and dont allow Stanford to confirm. So, his parents own the business?
Stanford muses, Bollocks, how the hell do you think I know this? Im not the Daily Mirror .
Having never heard of the Daily Mirror , I assume its a British-based business magazine featuring esteemed businessmen. I profess whimsically, Sorry Stan, your royal accent has a way of getting people to talk to you. You have the gift of gab and you like knowing whos riding in your limo. I just assumed.
Stanford laughed. Then, Well, he ventured nothing about his background. A pause. Then a trailing, But...
But what? I interjected.

I did a search on the chap and found a few stories about him and his operation. Said he started his company at Uni, dropped out by his junior year to pursue it full-time. His adoptive parents didn't fancy his entrepreneuring, sounded like a bunch of bloody toffs if ya ask me. Fought him tooth and nail on it. Wanted him to be a surgeon. He wanted to be a businessman. When he refused, his parents sacked all support, emotionally and financially. Even mentioned they went back to Mumbai.
A pause followed by lip smacking. I wondered what type of grease Stan was inhaling, KFC or McDonalds. Stanfords idea of nutrition was a strawberry donut. Once the chewing subsided, he continued, Said he had to put himself through Uni, worked odd jobs, did a lot of couch surfing. You'd fancy the tale. So no, his parents dont muck in his business. The house, the Ferrari, its all his.