Rich Dad Poor Dad. Robert T. Kiyosaki

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      The Lessons Begin

      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.”

      20 YEARS AGO TODAY...

      DECISIVENESS

      The world is moving faster and faster. Stock market trades are made in milliseconds. Deals come and go on the Internet in a matter of minutes. More and more people are competing for good deals. So the faster you can make a decision the more likely you’ll be able to seize opportunities—before someone else does.

      “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.

      Thirty Cents Later

      By 9:00 a.m. that day, Mike and I were working for Mrs. Martin. She was a kind and patient woman. She always said that Mike and I reminded her of her two grown sons. Although kind, she believed in hard work and kept us moving. We spent three hours taking canned goods off the shelves, brushing each can with a feather duster to get the dust off, and then re-stacking them neatly. It was excruciatingly boring work.

      Mike’s dad, whom I call my rich dad, owned nine of these little superettes, each with a large parking lot. They were the early version of the 7-Eleven convenience stores, little neighborhood grocery stores where people bought items such as milk, bread, butter, and cigarettes. The problem was that this was Hawaii before air-conditioning was widely used, and the stores could not close their doors because of the heat. On two sides of the store, the doors had to be wide open to the road and parking lot. Every time a car drove by or pulled into the parking lot, dust would swirl and settle in the store. We knew we had a job as long as there was no air-conditioning.

      For three weeks, Mike and I reported to Mrs. Martin and worked our three hours. By noon, our work was over, and she dropped three little dimes in each of our hands. Now, even at the age of nine in the mid-1950s, 30 cents was not too exciting. Comic books cost 10 cents back then, so I usually spent my money on comic books and went home.

      By Wednesday of the fourth week, I was ready to quit. I had agreed to work only because I wanted to learn to make money from Mike’s dad, and now I was a slave for 10 cents an hour. On top of that, I had not seen Mike’s dad since that first Saturday.

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ