$100M OFFERS
The room was pitch black. My shoes stuck to a floor covered in dried soda and crushed bits of candy. My nostrils were
full with the smell of stale popcorn. We had showed up too late to get good seats and ended up pressed near the front of the theater. Just a few rows in front of me, the movie’s blazing projection occupied my entire field of view. In the reflected glow, I could see the outlines of Leila’s family’s faces. They may as well have been hypnotized.
I envied them. They sat, entranced, soaking in their paid time off for Christmas. Must be nice.
Anybody else would have missed it but Leila, my girlfriend at the time, knew me too well. Anybody else would have thought I was watching the movie, but Leila could tell I was staring blankly at the screen, my eyes not tracking the movie. My face was pale. My cheekbones and jawline appeared gaunt. Weeks of chronic stress had killed my appetite.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I didn’t answer.
She rested her hand on mine to get my attention. I didn’t react. Within moments, her fingers tightened around my wrist, and she looked at me, her eyes searching for mine. “Your heart is racing,” she whispered, concerned.
Without asking, she took my pulse.
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It was 100 beats per minute. Nearly twice what it should be for a fit 27 year old male at “rest” in a cool, dark room.
“What’s going on?” she asked more forcibly, but still whispering.
The truth is, I was terrified.
A few hours earlier . . .
I looked like a giant. I sat scrunched up in a children’s miniature play chair. My knees almost touched my chest, even with my feet firmly planted on the old beige carpeted floor. My laptop felt hot sitting atop my steeply angled knees. Dolls and toys were scattered around me. They stared at me with wide eyes and toothy grins, motionless. I had been their entertainment the past few weeks.
I was in Leila’s parents’ house. They had recently become grandparents and used this spare bedroom as a playroom when the grandchildren visited. I didn’t have a place to live. So they were letting Leila and I stay there “as long as we needed.” They had let me use the children’s playroom as my office for my “business”, which at this point felt almost as make-believe as the stories they had told their grandchildren in this room.
I literally felt like I was playing dress up. Except the stakes were real. And this was my life.
My ears were hot and red from the phone being pressed against them for what felt like hours. I kept switching hands because my arms would tire from holding the phone up for so long.
“I’m sorry Mr. Hormozi,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “we have to hold onto these funds for the next six
months. We’ve seen some irregular activity, so this is precautionary.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, $120-grand,” I said. “A ‘precaution’!?”
“I’m sorry sir, our underwriting team―”
“Yeah, I heard you,” I said, cutting him off. “I don’t accept that.”
“Sir, it’s not up to me it’s just our pol―”
“What am I gonna tell my salesman, who has a baby and another on the way? Are you going to tell him he’s not going to be able to buy his pregnant wife and newborn food? Are you going to pay his mortgage for him?”
I was seething.
“Sir―” he began again, with unphased apathy, just trying to deliver the news.
“It’s not yours to take.” My aggression was quickly turning into desperation. “Shit, just send me half so I can pay my employees,” I pleaded “It’s Christmas Eve for fuck’s sake.”
“Sir, we’re going to be holding onto the entirety of your funds for the next six months per your agreement . . . ” The voice
faded into the distance.
Fuck.
I hung up and checked my accounts. $23,036.
I owed my salesman a $22,000 commission check for $120,000 in sales I never got.
Without wanting to give myself the opportunity to think about it, I wired it to him.
-$22,000 Payment Successful.
Balance $1,036.
Fuck
