In September 2013, he drove across Los Angeles — alone, in that van — to a warehouse downtown where they keep giant pallets of cash. He loaded up 14 Tumi suitcases, each packed with $1 million in bills, and drove them back without telling anyone except his assistant and a couple of security guys.

That night, he invited 14 of his closest friends to dinner.

When they sat down, there was a suitcase at every place setting. Clooney stood up and said: “I came to LA, I slept on your couch. I’m so fortunate in my life to have all of you and I couldn’t be where I am today without all of you.”

Then he told them to open the bags.

He had already covered all the taxes. Every single dollar was theirs to keep.

These were the people who had let him crash on their couches when he was broke. Who had loaned him money when he had nothing. Who had been there through 35 years of struggle before the world knew his name.

His reasoning was simple: “Without them I don’t have any of this. And I just thought — basically if I get hit by a bus, they’re all in the will. So why the f*** am I waiting to get hit by a bus?”

A florist van. Fourteen suitcases. Fourteen people who showed up before the fame did.