I like to reassure friends who are down on their luck.
I tell them, very sincerely, “If I win the Mega Millions jackpot—say a billion dollars—I’m buying you a cup of coffee.”
They look at me the way you look at a man who has just offered you a single peanut at a buffet.
This surprises me, because I already buy them coffee.
At home, I run a highly efficient, cost-controlled caffeine operation: a $300 espresso machine (easy to clean, which matters), a proper grinder, a milk steamer, and five pounds—about $50 worth—of dark Guatemalan beans from Fresh Roasted, roasted within the last week.
Five pounds of beans yields roughly 225 cups of coffee. That comes to about 22 cents a cup. Even after milk, electricity, and wear and tear, I’m still comfortably under 50 cents.
I am, in short, a philanthropist operating on a razor-thin margin.
To qualify for free shipping, I keep the order just over $50. This requires discipline.
Every morning, I make coffee for Kate.
She takes the second pour, because she knows I’m still catching up. For the first twenty years of my life, as a good Mormon, I didn’t drink coffee.
I am now 84.
There is ground to make up.
So when I offer my friends a billion-dollar coffee, I expect gratitude.
Instead, I get analysis.
They grow quiet. Their eyes narrow. I can tell what they’re thinking: “He wins a billion dollars and we get coffee?”
There is, unmistakably, resentment.
Which is unfair, because I am an extremely generous man.
So I expand the offer.
“Fine,” I say. “You may take three family members on a three-day vacation anywhere in the world. I’ll cover the hostel. Up to $99 a night. And naturally, during this dream vacation, you’re free to buy your own coffee.”
Nothing.
So I escalate.
“I will also provide a private Lear jet.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Faces lift. Spirits rise.
But I believe in transparency.
“Fuel costs money,” I explain. “Landing fees can be significant. If the airstrip is more than five miles from your hostel, I’ll cover an Uber. Five-mile maximum.”
We stall again.
Hope flickers.
So I deliver the closer.
“And you may keep the Lear jet.”
Now they beam.
Gratitude floods in.
They look at me as if I’ve finally revealed my true nature.
What they don’t know…
…is that I buy three Mega Millions tickets.
All with the same numbers.
I never mention this.
So when I win, Kate and I quietly hold two additional winning tickets—ensuring that no one, anywhere, ever receives the full jackpot.
Not even me.
But that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
They will never know how generous I truly am.
Or how frugal.
Or how cunning.
Unless, of course, they read this.