He tossed it on the table next to my overpriced burger.
“Open it.”
I wiped my hands and opened the book. The pages were soft from decades of handling.
I looked at the final balance.
$342,000.
I stared at the number. Then I stared at his bowl of beans and hot dogs.
“How?” I choked out. “You were a foreman. You never made big money.”
“I didn’t make it,” he said sternly. “I kept it.”
He sat back down.
“You think you’re broke because you don’t make enough money, kid. You make more in a year than I made in three. But you’re bleeding to death.”
He pointed at my phone.
“You pay to watch movies. You pay to have people bring you food. You pay for music. You pay for coffee that costs an hour of labor.”
“It’s about convenience,” I argued weakly.
“It’s about looking rich while you’re getting poor,” he shot back. “We weren’t richer back then because times were easier. Times were hard. We were just harder.”
He leaned in close.
“You don’t have an income problem. You have an expense problem. You are trading your freedom for ‘treats.’”
I looked at the burger. I suddenly wasn’t hungry.
That $28 could have been a day of retirement. That $7 coffee every morning could be a down payment in five years.