Chapter one
The floor
Every version of the Tom Cummins story starts below zero. His own arithmetic for it: “Somebody started at zero? How about I was like minus 30.” He grew up in Las Vegas and came out of childhood barely able to read. At eighteen, a tour boy in a day-one-era Vegas timeshare operation, he watched closers sell vacations in thirty-minute conversations. “I made the decision I want that skill.”
At twenty-two, the life he was living caught up with him. On a Thursday morning he played back a tape of himself from the night before, certain he had sounded brilliant, and heard only gibberish. That Sunday he was arrested, facing two life sentences. The turn came in jail, awaiting trial, in a single look around: “I’m not them. I’m not that. I am human. I am sane.” Out on bail, it took roughly three years to get clean.
At twenty-five he moved to Los Angeles and started his first company, three employees: “me, myself and I.” Within about five years it was on the Inc. 500. Then it was gone. He built again, and lost again. What he did next is the hinge of the entire story, and it is small: a written financial plan for the week, every dollar in and every dollar out, on paper. He has run it fifty-two weeks a year ever since, and he has never missed one. Write the rule down once. Follow it forever.






