" "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 do not necessarily mean The Rich Don't Work for Money 35 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 de- funct first business. As we were cleaning, we made plans on 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 construc- tion 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 clean- ing 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 be- come 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. "OK," I said, "next Saturday," and put the phone down. Mike's dad had agreed to meet with Mike and me. At 7:30 Saturday morning, I caught the bus to the poor side of town. The Lessons Begin "I'llpay you 10 cents an hour." Even by 1956pay standards, 10 cents an hour was low. Michael and I met with his dad that morning at 8 o'clock. He was already busy and had been at work for more than 36 Rich Dad, Poor Dad The Rich Don't Work for Money 37 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 this 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, which was filled with old musty overstuffed furni- ture that today would be collector's items. Sitting on the couch were two women, 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 books. He was about 10 years older than my dad; I'd say about 45 years old. They smiled as Mike and I walked past them, heading for the kitchen, which lead to the porch that overlooked the back yard. I smiled back shyly. "Who are those people?" I asked.