But dad, you can't do this. I'm your only son. Your blood. Blood means nothing when the soul is rotten. You'll have one last chance to prove there's something left to save in you.
What chance? You're going to work as a delivery rider in the company. Minimum wage, eight hour shifts, a bike, a helmet, no privileges, no cushy safety net, and certainly no name dropping me. Dad, you can't be serious. Me, a delivery guy.
I have an MBA. I drive a Ferrari. You drove a Ferrari. The car was repossessed this morning along with your penthouse, your Rolexes, and everything bought with company money. Where am I supposed to live?
One-bedroom walk-up on the edge of town. 800 a month taken from your paycheck. You'll have 600 left to live on. 600? Dad?
That's impossible. I spend more than that on a dinner. My haircut alone is 300. My car payment is more than that. You can't be serious.
This is insane. I can't live on that. Then you'll learn to cut your own hair. And you'll learn to cook, wash your laundry, and clean your place. You'll learn how 90% of hardworking Americans live.
Dad, please. I get it. I learned my lesson. I'll never mistreat a senior again. I promise.
Your promises are worthless. For 32 years, you had infinite chances to show compassion, humanity, character. You chose cruelty. Now you have six months to prove you can change. And if I refuse, if I walk out and get another job, you can try.
But you forget I know every major business owner in this city. One call from me and no one hires you into an executive role. Your rich friends will vanish the second they learn you're broke. Ryan, man, did you see the old guy video? It exploded.
2 million views. You're famous. Ralph, listen. I need to talk. My dad disinherited me because of last night.
You're joking, right? Your dad wouldn't do that over some random old guy. I'm serious. I lost everything. I need help.
Look, you know I love you, but our friendship was kind of based on cash, right? No offense, but a broke guy doesn't fit in our group. Call me when you fix this with your dad. See, your friends have already shown who they are. Edward won't be far behind.
Edward. Ryan, man. What's this you're spreading? That your dad cut you off? This is hurting my brand.
People are saying we hang with someone who's bankrupt. Image is everything in my business. I can't be associated with well, the poor. You're starting to understand how the real world work. Dad, I know I messed up.
I know I was cruel, but you can't destroy my entire life over one night. I didn't destroy your life. You did when you chose to be a monster. I'm just stripping away the veneer and showing you who you really are. And if I refuse to be a delivery rider, then you go to the street.
Literally, you'll learn what it's like to be one of those useless old men you despise. Ryan, a word of advice. Take your father's offer. 6 months isn't forever, and at least you'll have a roof and food. When do I start?
Monday, 6:00 a.m. Company uniform, helmet, bicycle. You'll deliver food through the city's toughest neighborhoods. You'll see how the people you've always scorned actually live. A bicycle?
I haven't ridden a bike in 20 years. Then it'll be good exercise. And Ryan, if you try to cheat to use my name for perks, or if you fail to complete your 8 hours, I cut you off payroll that moment. Then you'll really meet the street. Oh, and one more thing.
Brooke called this morning. She's re-evaluating the relationship after hearing about your new financial situation. It seems her love was pegged to your bank account. She left you exactly 7 minutes after she learned you were broke. A personal best for superficiality.
Dr. Mendes, is my father really going to do this to me? Ryan, I've known your father for 20 years. I've never seen him so determined and so disappointed. He truly believes this is the only way to save your soul.
And if I can't do it, if I can't last 6 months as a delivery rider, what will failure mean? Then you'll learn what it is to be truly poor, truly desperate, truly invisible. You'll become one of those useless old men humiliated last night. Sir Ryan, we need to escort you to collect your personal belongings from the apartment. Move out deadline is 6 p.m.
Frank perfection. There was no one left to call. My friends disappeared. My girlfriend abandoned me. My life of luxury evaporated like smoke.
Monday at 6:00 a.m. my new life begins. And I will find out whether there is still time to regain not just a lost inheritance, but something far more valuable. My self-respect and my father's love. And Ryan came back. Wake up, princess.
Your golden carriage is waiting outside. Hey, Playboy, get that soft butt up. There's no breakfast in bed here. Grab a uniform over there. Medium should fit your delicate frame.
Work shoes on that shelf. Forget your thousand Italian loafers. You need protection here, not charm. A regular worker. Another face in the crowd of invisible people I always scorned.
This uniform turns me into a number, a function, a nothing. Let's go, Cinderella. Team meeting in the yard. Folks, we've got a new colleague today. Prince Ryan came to see how the real world works.
Let's welcome him. Rule one, 40 deliveries per day is your target. Miss it, we dock your pay. Miss big, you're out. 40 deliveries in 8 hours.
One delivery every 12 minutes, including travel, address hunting, stairs, and the ride back. That's impossible. Rule two, bike breaks, your problem. Lost or stolen, your problem. You crash and get hurt, your problem.
This company isn't your nanny. Man, you sure you want this? The first week here kills any rich boy. I've seen many try to play working class and quit on day two. Rule three, the customer is always right.
Even when they're wrong, even when they treat you like trash, even when they stiff you on tips, you smile and say thank you. Customer complaint equals instant termination. Rule four, no phones on shift. Family emergencies get solved after 6. Girlfriend calling her problem.