The Millionaire Who Lives Like the Corner Store Guy
Or: How I Accidentally Discovered That My Retirement Dream Is Apparently a Converted Garage.
You ever have one of those days where you start watching a movie and somehow end up questioning your entire approach to wealth?
Well, congratulations. We've arrived.
It started with a movie called Wild Bill (2011). Somewhere in the Wikipedia rabbit hole, I stumbled across an unusual reference in the plot description.
Naturally, curiosity took over.
One search led to another, and eventually I found myself looking at The Mule (2018), starring Clint Eastwood.
And there he was.
Earl Stone. An elderly gentleman with a questionable relationship with money, a penchant for spending, and a lifestyle that made me reconsider some things.
Watching this man's spending habits got me thinking:
What the hell would I do if I had stupid amounts of money?
Would I buy a mansion?
Nope.
A Lamborghini?
Absolutely not.
Designer clothing?
I'd rather wrestle a raccoon in a dumpster.
I'd probably look like the guy who owns the little corner store down the street.
You know the type.
- Drives something that predates modern automotive technology.
- Wears the same $12 shirt every Tuesday.
- Has a television that's older than some employees.
- Eats sandwiches behind the counter.
- Knows exactly which customers owe him $3.75.
- Has absolutely no interest in impressing anybody.
Except there's one tiny detail.
His bank account looks like somebody accidentally entered a telephone number into the balance field.
The apartment comes first
Now, let's get something straight.
I'm not saying I wouldn't want a nice apartment.
Quite the opposite.
I'd still want my own place. A comfortable apartment, a decent kitchen, a bathroom that doesn't require negotiating with anybody, a big television, internet, and room for the cats.
My own keys. My own schedule. My own four walls.
That's the dream.
But here's the funny part: if the circumstances called for it, I'd happily settle for a properly converted garage.
A bed, bathroom, shower, kitchenette, air conditioning, television, and internet?
I'm good.
I don't need marble countertops or a staircase that looks like it belongs in a European palace.
Give me somewhere comfortable, private, and peaceful.
The mansion can go bother somebody else.
The financial camouflage doctrine
Imagine having several million dollars and deliberately maintaining the appearance of somebody who just finished counting his loose change.
Not because you're struggling.
Not because you can't afford better.
But because you genuinely don't need better.
Why would I need to advertise my financial situation?
Why would I need everybody knowing what I own, what I earn, or what's sitting in my investment account?
I could drive an old vehicle, wear inexpensive clothes, eat at home, and live modestly.
Meanwhile, my financial accounts are quietly committing acts of mathematical obscenity.
The Department of Personal Boundaries
There's another component to this philosophy.
Money buys options.
And one of those options is privacy.
I don't need everybody knowing where I live.
I don't need to entertain visitors just because they know where I live.
I don't need to explain why I dress modestly or why I drive an old vehicle.
I can smile at somebody without issuing them an invitation into my personal affairs.
In fact, I believe there's already an official regulation addressing this matter:
FORM 47-B — SECTION 9 — BRAVO
Unauthorized assumptions of personal access are hereby rejected.
A smile is not a security clearance.
Please direct further inquiries to the Department of Petty Affairs.
The millionaire nobody notices
Here's the funny thing.
Some people spend their entire lives trying to LOOK wealthy.
I think I'd rather spend mine being financially secure enough that I never have to prove anything.
No lifestyle competition.
No expensive toys for validation.
No unnecessary obligations.
No keeping up with the Joneses.
Hell, the Joneses can keep the damn mansion.
I'll be over here in my apartment, eating a sandwich, watching television, and wondering why the electricity bill went up $4.17.
And if I eventually end up in that converted garage?
Well, at least the cats won't complain about the square footage.
Meanwhile, my investment portfolio is quietly doing things that would make an accountant develop a nervous twitch.
Final thoughts: What have I been doing wrong?
Maybe nothing.
Maybe I've spent too much time thinking about what financial success is SUPPOSED to look like.
Perhaps my version of wealth isn't a sprawling estate, a collection of luxury vehicles, or a wardrobe that requires its own insurance policy.
Perhaps it's simply having enough money that I can live modestly without ever having to worry about whether I'll make it through the month.
The ability to walk away.
The ability to say no.
The ability to close the door.
The ability to wake up tomorrow and decide that absolutely nothing needs to be done today.
And if somebody asks how business is going?
"Eh. We're getting by."
Meanwhile, the bank account is committing financial obscenity.
Some people dream of living like kings.
I dream of having a comfortable apartment, with a converted garage as a perfectly acceptable backup plan, enough money to never be financially cornered, and two cats who believe they own the entire operation.
I don't need to look rich.
I need to BE financially secure.
There's a difference.
Signed,
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Acting Director, Department of Petty Affairs
Chief Financial Observer, Raccoon Division
Authorized Interpreter of Form 47-B, Section 9, Bravo
P.S. The raccoons have been instructed not to disclose the investment portfolio. They are terrible at keeping secrets, but excellent at looking impoverished. 🦝