Catching the Wolf of Wall Street: More Incredible True Stories of Fortunes, Schemes, Parties, and Prison by Jordan Belfort

Author:Jordan Belfort [Belfort, Jordan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Non-Fiction, Biography, Business, Azizex666
ISBN: 9780553906011
Google: zBcP-i41kcEC
Amazon: B001NLKSI4
Barnesnoble: B001NLKSI4
Goodreads: 7034424
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2009-02-24T05:00:00+00:00

“Can't you just come over with a straitjacket and take her away?” I asked George. “I don't see any other solution.”

Those weren't the first words I'd uttered to George that afternoon, but they were close to the first. The first were: “I'm in deep shit, George. The Blow-Job Queen is threatening to commit suicide, and my dick is so sore from all the blow jobs that it's ready to fall off!”

George and I were sitting in his French country kitchen on opposite sides of his bleached-wood table, while his wife, Annette, a five-foot-tall, beautiful Brooklyn firecracker with strawberry-blond hair, perfect Irish Spring skin, and a ferocious Brooklyn accent fixed us coffee. Actually, it was more than coffee (it was donuts, muffins, coffee, and freshly cut fruit), because Annette never did anything half-assed, especially when it came to achieving her life's primary mission, which was to make George's life as comfortable and wonderful as possible. And, in truth, George deserved it.

At sixty-two, he was twelve years older than Annette and served as living proof that a leopard can change its spots. Those who hadn't heard from George in the last twenty-two years would warn you: “If you see this guy walking down the street, cross it and don't make eye contact. He's angry and dangerous, especially when he's drunk, which is always. And if he does happen to beat you up or simply hold you upside down by your ankle and shake you for a while, don't bother calling the cops, unless you tell them that it was some six-foot-tall, two-hundred-fifty-pound guy named George who assaulted you. This way they'll know to bring tranq-darts!“

Whatever the case, George eventually got sober, and spent the next twenty-two years of his life redeeming himself. He made his first fortune in real estate, his second fortune in drug rehabs, and, along the way, helped more recovering Hamptons alcoholics than any other ten men combined.

Ironically, the first time I met George was on TV, when his menacingly handsome face popped onto my screen at three in the morning, while I was in the midst of a cocaine binge. George was doing an advertisement for his rehab facility, Seafield, and he was saying things like, “Are you stoned… drunk… high? Where is your family

right now? You need help; Seafield has the answers…”. My response to that was to throw a bronze sculpture through my TV screen, putting a premature end to George's commercial.

Yet I remember thinking at the time that the face on my TV was the sort I would never forget—those gruffly handsome features, those piercing brown eyes, that perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair—which was why it didn't take long to recognize him when I ran into him six weeks later in Southampton, in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. And now, eighteen months after that, he was much more to me than just a sponsor. In point of fact, he was like a father.

“I can't just come over with a straitjacket,” said George, with a few shakes of his enormous head.

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