Sweet Home Carolina

Every day, I watch the millionaire next door step outside in his underwear for the newspaper. He comes out in a bathrobe, a white shirt, boxers–usually some sort of blue–and slippers, bends at the hip, and retrieves the bundle like a lumberjack might gather firewood. He can do these things. He’s a millionaire. I usually see it all happening from my office window on the second floor of my house; a bird’s-eye view of former Fortune 500 CEO with a mug of Folger’s in one hand and, in the other, a carefully-selected ordinary existence in the form of a thin yellow plastic bag filled with news of a world of which he’s not a part. He tucks the paper under his arm, stands at the edge of the driveway while surveying the gated neighborhood, takes a sip from World’s Greatest Dad, and turns back into the three-story colonial.

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