He's a modest man. He’d probably would hate the fact I'm writing about him, so I'll keep it to first names: David.
He’s modest, but rich — very, very rich. You wouldn't know it, of course. Frankly, he dresses like an absent-minded professor. The threads on his suits are worn. His ties are hopelessly out of style. He looks like he sleeps in his clothes and even awake, looks like he sleeps all the time.
I think most people have no idea who this little old man is. Just that he seems to wander... a pile of newspapers tucked under one arm, sometimes — not all the time — a cup of some cheap coffee in the other.
David doesn't do Starbucks. He doesn't seem to do fancy restaurants. Clearly doesn't buy fancy clothes. He doesn't seem much impressed with that stuff, even though he could well afford that stuff.
In a room of Wall Street loud mouths, this day, David doesn't say a word this day — barely a word any day. He smiles and nods, as others boast and brag.
They pontificate. He ponders. Then he leaves.
I've heard younger, yuppie types snicker at this doddering Mr. Magoo shuffling off to his next event — unaware of who he was or how much money he has. And, more importantly, all the money he gives — without notoriety, without fanfare, without a single soul, even the recipient, knowing.
David likes it that way.
He’s a short, hunched man who stands tall on his money. But taller still on something his younger, clueless critics couldn't comprehend: his character.
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