Two months ago, he seemed to have it all: the proverbial trophy wife, the fancy Manhattan digs, the even fancier Hamptons get-away.
Then it all went away. My buddy went bust.
And when I bumped into him last night, he suddenly was looking every day his paunchy 50-something years.
The same paunchy 50-something who had no problem getting the stunning, jaw-dropping mate after he unceremoniously dumped the dutiful wife.
She stuck with him for more than 21 years. The jaw-dropper babe? Apparently little more than 21 days after this whole financial mess blew up.
He was wiped out. She just walked out.
And, in a story I've seen repeated again and again, the former very rich guy becomes the very lonely guy.
No one's calling. Not the wife he left to fend for herself or the grown kids he left to fend for her. A doorman who now looks the other way, knowing full well his big tipper has to move away.
And suddenly this man who thought himself hot and sexy looks cold and, well, just old.
Friends gone. Family gone. Hot trophy wife long gone.
In little more than two months — two months — a fortune left on the table and now gone.
A future that once seemed so bright now dark.
And he's studying his options — his firm gone, his sense of self importance long gone.
I asked where he was headed. He said back to his apartment.
"But I thought you lost the place," I said.
"I did," he responded. "I just have to meet the mover to get an estimate on packing up."
And he walked on, looking every bit the aging white male he refused to acknowledge he ever was or ever would be.
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