The 5 AM Club

The artist looked a little shocked. “Okay.”

“All that matters on your last day on Earth is the potential you’ve leveraged, the heroism you’ve demonstrated and the human lives you’ve graced,” the homeless man said eloquently. He then grew quiet. And let out a deep breath. “Anyhoo. Incredible that you’re coming. We’ll have a cool hang.”

“May I bring my paintbrushes?” the artist asked politely.

“Only if you want to paint in paradise,” came the homeless man’s reply with a wink.

“And what time should we meet you outside this place tomorrow morning?” asked the entrepreneur, placing her handbag onto a thin, bony shoulder.

“5 AM,” instructed the homeless man. “Own your morning. Elevate your life.”

Then, he disappeared.

CHAPTER 6

A Flight to Peak Productivity, Virtuosity and Undefeatability

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become.” —Steve Jobs

“I’m so tired,” the entrepreneur muttered with the energy of an ancient turtle on a vacation day, while holding a monstrous cup of coffee. “This journey might be harder than I thought. I’m starting to feel like I’m walking into a whole new world. Like I told you yesterday after the seminar, I’m definitely ready to change. Set for a new beginning. But I’m also feeling uneasy about all this. I didn’t sleep much last night. Such eerie – and sometimes violent – dreams. And, yes, this experience we’ve agreed to might be dangerous.”

“Well, I feel like death, man,” said the artist. “I hate being up this early. This was a terrible idea.”

The two brave souls were standing on the sidewalk outside the hall where The Spellbinder had worked his legendary skills – and broken many hearts with his collapse – the day before.

It was 4:49 AM.

“He won’t show up,” barked the artist roughly. He was dressed in black with a ruby red polka-dotted bandana on his left wrist. Same boots as yesterday. Those Australian ones. He hurled a mouthful of spit into the desolate street. He squinted at the sky. And then he folded his tattooed arms.

The entrepreneur had a nylon duffle bag over her shoulder. She styled a silk blouse with bohemian sleeves, designer blue jeans and a pair of sandals with high heels – the kind you see off-duty supermodels with sunglasses the size of Greek island sunsets wearing. Her lips were scrunched together and the lines on her face were arrayed in a series of interesting intersections.

“I’d bet the homeless man’s a no-show,” she said with a sneer. “I don’t care about his watch. It doesn’t matter that he could be so articulate. It means nothing to me now that he reminded me of my dad. God, I’m exhausted. He was probably at the seminar because he needed a place to rest for a few hours. He probably knew about the whole 5 AM Club morning routine because he heard – and stole – that bit of The Spellbinder’s presentation. And the private plane he talked about was probably part of his favorite hallucination.”

The entrepreneur had returned to her familiar skepticism and hiding within her fortress of protection. The hopefulness of the day before had clearly dissolved.

Just then, a pair of strikingly powerful halogen headlights pierced the wall of darkness.

The two companions looked at each other. The entrepreneur managed a smile. “Okay. Maybe instinct really is much smarter than reason,” she muttered to herself.

A gleaming Rolls-Royce, the color of coal, pulled up to the curb. With swift efficiency, a man in a crisp white uniform leapt out of the sedan and greeted the two with old-school civility.

“Good morning to you, Madam. And to you as well, Sir,” he enunciated in a British accent as he placed their bags into the vehicle with one skillful swoop.

“Where’s the derelict?” asked the artist with the tact of a hillbilly who’d never left the woods.

The driver couldn’t help but laugh. Quickly, he regained his composure.

“So sorry, Sir. Yes, Mr. Riley dresses in very unassuming attire, shall we say. He does that when he feels the need to ‘get gritty,’ as he classifies the practice. He leads a remarkably exclusive life most of the time and is a man accustomed to getting anything he wants. Everything he wants, to be more precise. So, once in a while, he does things to ensure his modesty and humility remain in check. That’s part of his quirky charm, I might add. Mr. Riley asked me to give these to you.”

The driver pulled out two envelopes, made of the highest quality paper. On opening them, the entrepreneur and the artist saw these words:

Hey, cats! Hope you’re awesome. Didn’t mean to spook you both yesterday. I just needed to keep my boots on the ground. Epictetus, one of my favorite philosophers, wrote: “But neither a bull nor a noble-spirited man comes to be what he is all at once; he must undertake hard winter training and prepare himself and not propel himself rashly into what is not appropriate to him.”

Voluntary discomfort, whether by dressing as I did or by fasting once a week or by sleeping on the floor once a month, keeps me strong, disciplined and focused on the central few priorities my life’s built around. Anyhoo, have a tremendous flight, and I’ll see you in Paradise soon. Big hug.

The driver continued, “Please remember that appearances can be misleading and clothing doesn’t convey one’s character. Yesterday you met a great man. Looks really do not reveal the quality of a person.”

“I guess neither does shaving,” proclaimed the artist, kicking a black boot against the shiny Rolls-Royce symbol at the center of one of the wheels.

“Mr. Riley would never tell you what I’m about to tell you as he’s far too courteous and decent. But the gentleman you refer to as a ‘derelict’ happens to be one of the wealthiest people in the world.”

“Are you serious?” asked the entrepreneur, her eyes widening.

“I most certainly am.” The driver smiled politely as he opened a door, waving a white-gloved hand to welcome both passengers into the vehicle.

The seats had that marvelously musky smell of new leather. The wood paneling seemed like it had been prepared by hand, by a small family of finicky craftspeople who’d built their reputations around this singular obsession.

“Mr. Riley made his fortune many years ago, in various commercial ventures. He was also an early investor in what has now become an internationally admired company. Discretion prevents me from mentioning the name and, if Mr. Riley found out I was speaking of financial matters with you, he’d be exceedingly disappointed. His instructions were simply to treat you with the utmost of care along with assuring you of his sincerity and reliability. And to deliver you safely to Hangar 21.”

“Hangar 21?” the artist asked as he eased languidly into the opulent vehicle like a rock star accustomed to this method of transport or a hip-hop artist ready for a weekend roll.

“That’s where Mr. Riley’s fleet of jets are kept,” stated the driver succinctly.

“Fleet?” questioned the entrepreneur, her beautiful brown eyes alive with an immensely curious look.

“Yes,” was all the chauffeur would allow.

There was silence as the driver sped through the early morning streets. The artist looked out the window while rolling a bottle of water in one hand absentmindedly. He hadn’t seen the sun rising in many years. “Very special. Truly beautiful,” he admitted. “Everything’s so peaceful at this time of the day. No noise. Such peace. Even though I feel tired right now, I can really think. Things seem clearer. My attention isn’t a mess. It feels like the rest of the world is asleep. What tranquility.”

A cavalry of wispy amber rays, the ethereal palette of the daybreak and the quietude of this moment left him encouraged. And awestruck.

The entrepreneur studied the driver. “So, tell me more about your boss,” she requested, restlessly toying with her device as she spoke.

“I can’t tell you much more. He’s worth multiple billions of dollars. He’s given most of his money to charity. Mr. Riley’s the most fascinating, generous and compassionate person I know. He also has incredible willpower, along with having ironclad values, such as honesty, empathy, integrity and loyalty. And, of course, he’s also a real oddball, if I may be so bold as to say so. Like a lot of the very, very, very rich.”

“We’ve noticed,” agreed the entrepreneur. “I’m interested, though. What makes you say he’s odd?”

“You’ll see,” was the stark response.

The Rolls soon arrived at a private airport. No sign of Mr. Riley. The driver accelerated up to an ivory jet that looked immaculately kept. The only color it bore appeared on the tail. In the hue of a mandarin orange, three characters read “5AC.”

“What does ‘5AC’ stand for?” asked the entrepreneur tensely, gripping her gadget tightly.

“The 5 AM Club. ‘Own your morning. Elevate your life.’ It’s one of the maxims Mr. Riley has conducted his many business interests under. And now, with regret, this is where I must bid you adieu. Au revoir,” he said before carrying the luggage over to the sparkling aircraft.

Two handsome crew members chatted near the metal stairway that led up to the cabin. A tastefully refined blonde flight attendant handed the entrepreneur and the artist hot towels and offered them coffee from a silver tray. “Dobroe utro,” she said, greeting them in Russian.

“It has been a great pleasure to meet you,” the driver called up to the jet, as he got back into the car. “Kindly convey my best wishes to Mr. Riley once you see him. And do have fun in Mauritius.”