Chapter Seven – The Rolling Start
By the time I was thirteen and a half, the waiting was over. I had been patient, careful, deliberate. But now, it was time to show my hand.
I drew the blueprint of the telescopic handle and the trolley suitcase. Crude, perhaps, but clear enough. When I laid it out in front of my parents, the reaction was everything I had hoped for.
They were stunned.
My father leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with recognition. A man working in Hollywood, he was no stranger to travel. He had watched executives, producers, and actors lug heavy suitcases through airports, their backs straining, their tempers short. He understood instantly what this design meant.
"This," he muttered, almost to himself, "could change everything."
My mother, sharp as always, didn't miss a beat. Her lawyer's instincts kicked in. She studied the drawing with care, already thinking in terms of patents, loopholes, protections.
"Do you realize what you've made?" she asked.
Of course I did. I had lived with it my whole life before this. But I just smiled, playing the role of a bright, inventive son.
Together, the three of us became a team. My father, with his Hollywood connections, smelled opportunity. My mother, with her legal training, began the paperwork to secure the patent. And me — the silent architect — stood back, letting them take the lead. It was the perfect sync.
It took a year. A year of filings, approvals, savings being pooled, favors being called. My father scraped together enough to start a small assembly line and incorporate the company in the U.S. My mother closed every loophole she could find, ensuring that the patent was airtight.
At first, they wanted to file the patent under my name.
But I shook my head. "That will draw too much attention. People will ask too many questions about me. Let it be under yours. You're the businessman."
I insisted. And then I made them an offer.
"Buy it from me for sixty thousand," I said. "But give me a ten percent stake in the company."
They hesitated — perhaps confused, perhaps even amused at how their thirteen-year-old son spoke like a seasoned negotiator. But I pressed gently, framing it as a gift back to them. "It's my way of repaying the love you've given me. After all, you're my parents. You gave me life."
In the end, they agreed. My father bought the design, I secured my first pot of gold, and I still held a stake in the company that was about to take off.
The launch was quiet at first. A few test runs, a handful of early buyers. But then my father made his move. With his connections, he slipped the trolley into a film set — a star using it casually in a travel scene. Not long after, people began to notice them at airports. Businessmen, actors, and frequent travelers saw the ease of the rolling suitcase and felt envy.
Word spread. Advertisements followed. Soon, the buzz grew louder and louder.
The company was no longer just a small assembly line. It was becoming something bigger, something that could grow into an empire.
And me? At fourteen, I had sixty thousand dollars in my name and a company stake that could one day be worth millions.
It was my first victory. The first proof that I could bend history to my will.
The game had officially begun.