My father had taken an aggressively early retirement because, as he put it, his boss was a moron.
Ron had spent twenty-seven years at that logistics company. During those years, he survived fourteen regional managers.
According to him, every one of them was an idiot.
At some point, basic mathematics suggests the common denominator might not be upper management.
My mother viewed money as a temporary visitor.
If her checking account contained five hundred dollars, she would reliably spend five hundred and sixty, treating the overdraft fee as an unavoidable tax on her vibrant lifestyle.
They refinanced their mortgage twice, drained the equity, and then Ron invested what remained into his friend Marty’s “revolutionary” mobile barbecue concept.
The concept was an unventilated grill duct-taped inside a rusty utility trailer.
Marty called it Smoke Wheels.
The fire marshal called it an illegal hazard.
The insurance underwriters laughed until they hung up.
