a questionable life Page 3

  Time was obviously not the issue—it was money. My father’s tirades always centered on my mother’s inability to bring any money into the household. He reminded us both of this fact on a continual basis.

  “It’s all up to me to bring home the money,” he said, lowering his intensity to plead for mock sympathy. “Without me, where would you two be? On the street is where you would be! When do I get some help?”

  We had heard this rant from my father with unfailing regularity, but it had never stopped my mother—she refused to quit. But today’s rant was more hostile, and we both knew why. My father had evidently discovered a secret she had kept from him—a secret that originated with the parish priest.

  “Who are you trying to please?” the priest asked my mother.

  Without knowing my father’s relentless opposition to my mother’s sewing, Father Romano had decided to take action. He wanted my mother to display one of her baby quilts in a Philly craft show.

  “You have a talent that is God-given,” he told my mother. “You aren’t glorifying your talents—but glorifying the gift God gave to you. Who are you trying to please?”

  “But you don’t understand,” she said. “I do it for a child—not for any other reason.”

  “There’s a time for humility, and there’s time for sharing,” he said. “You need to share your gift with the world.” Embarrassed to tell Father Romano about my father’s disdain for her sewing, she allowed him to show the quilt.

  The baby quilt won first prize in the craft show. After seeing it on display, a member of the planning committee for the 1976 Bicentennial celebration invited my mother to work as part of a quilting team. Their objective was to create the Philadelphia Quilt, a massive thirty-foot square containing images of historic landmarks in the city. It would be on display during the Bicentennial and thereafter at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Again, Father Romano insisted she participate.

  “This is something that will live on for years,” he said to her. “It’s obvious God wants you to use your talents. This is more than a gift—this is part of history and will be seen by thousands of people. You must do it! Not for you—but for God!”

  She finally agreed to take part, but never told my father about her participation. It was the only time my mother had ever kept a secret from him—and the secret was now exposed.

  “Why did you lie? It’s one thing to give a blanket to a family, but you’ve lied to me!” my father shouted with a level of rage neither my mother nor I had witnessed in the past. “You’ve been spending your time away from home working on a big blanket with a bunch of women. And for no money!”

  We knew how he unearthed her clandestine project before he told us. Unexpectedly, a photo of my mother and several of her partners working on the Philadelphia Quilt appeared on the front page of the Lifestyle Section of the Philadelphia Inquirer. Afraid and embarrassed, she had tried to hide it from my father, but one of his drinking buddies at O’Malley’s Saloon had evidently called his attention to it. Seeing the photograph had led to this epic explosion of cursing and swearing.

  “You’re wasting your time and my money!” he yelled, pounding his hand on the nearest wall as he paced the living room. “You weren’t doing anything worthwhile sitting on your ass for hours, working on fancy blankets and then giving them away. Now you found a new way to waste your time. Now you’re a big shot—in the newspaper. All that means is that everyone knows what a waste you are. Aren’t you special?” Pausing for a breath and refocusing his threats, he pointed his finger at my mother, who sat motionless and expressionless. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “I want you to promise me you’ll stop this waste of time! Your life is a waste!”

  Backed into a corner, my mother responded. Leaping from her chair she was suddenly standing face-to-face with him, staring into his eyes without any appearance of fear. With a voice nearly as stern and cold as my father’s, she said, “I’ll not stop quilting—it’s one of the few things I do that makes me happy. Joseph, your mother would be ashamed of you. Shut your mouth and leave this house—now!”

  Fearing what would happen next, I wished I could disappear. But her response worked. He shut up and went to the garage to sulk and drink.

  After she heard him walk out the back door, she looked at me and said, “Jack, never give up on your dreams no matter what happens. If you don’t have dreams, life isn’t worth living.” She put her hand on my shoulder and then seemed to freeze. As if embarrassed by her show of emotions, she sat down in the chair and cried. I stood frozen not knowing what to do.

  My father never said another word about her time spent quilting. He remembered what she said.

  And I remembered her advice. I had dreams. I had already decided what I wanted to do in life. I wanted power and wealth. I wanted to be in control. I wanted to be something that would make my father and mother proud.

  I wanted to be a banker.

  It was hard to believe that dream had come true. But now the dream seemed more like a nightmare. I remembered what happened when I told my father about my career objective. A scar remained from one of the few honest moments I shared with him.

  Nothing is permanent.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  4. What Do You Want to Be?

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE?” my father asked with his sarcastic laugh. He had heard me clearly but was acting surprised. I realized I had made a mistake being honest.

  “A banker,” I said. I had returned home from school and was excited to share my vision of a career as a financial intermediary. I thought my father would be impressed with his teenage son’s ambition—he wasn’t.

  At first laughing and now almost scowling, my father said, “Bankers are crooks. They feed off other people’s misery. They’re like buzzards, pecking away until there’s nothing left but bones. Or they’re like a leech, sucking people dry to make money for people who are so rich they don’t even count their money. They pay someone else to count it! Is that what you want to do in life? Count their money? Be a buzzard or a leech?”

  Before I could defend my dream, he continued with his rant.

  “I hate bankers!” he said using his loudest and harshest tone. “So does everyone else in the world. The only people who like bankers are other bankers.”

  I would never forget his words. His tirade stayed in my memory because despite his urgings, I became a banker. But was he right? I hated where I was at and what I was doing. My well-thought-out plans for my life had seemed to fail.

  “What holds me back?”

  The question was haunting me. I had encountered my fair share of obstacles, but I had always found a way to get what I wanted. But my situation at Merchants was different. Surrendering to an unworthy foe was out of the question. “Jack Oliver never quits,” I said, using my oft-repeated phrase that helped motivate me. But it didn’t help—I still felt stymied. Maybe it wasn’t Merchants that was making me feel trapped, I reasoned. Was it my failure to achieve? Arriving back in my dingy apartment, I pulled the book Benny had written from the cluttered pile of hardbacks and paperbacks by my recliner. I opened it to a place I had previously marked, forgetting why I had marked it:

  Many times we get our emotions confused with reality. I’ve heard many people say they want to climb higher, feel free, and see the horizon, but they find themselves anchored, unable to lift off and reach their dreams. They ask themselves, “What holds me back?” Think about a kite. A kite appears to soar, climbing with the wind. What a sensation! The thrill of defying gravity, flying high and seeing a view of the world you would miss if you were on the ground. You want to go higher, but realize you can’t. Why?

  There’s a string attached.

  Now I remembered why I had marked the passage. The “strings” and “attachments” Benny addressed were issues I fought with. The metaphor of the kite fit me perfectly. It also made me think of my father. I felt pride in my achievements—but I felt trapped in the success I had created for myself. I definitely h
ad a lot of strings attached.

  The strings went far beyond my career. I had been separated from my wife, Tina, for three months. My two teenage children, Jessica and Joshua, were like strangers. I had a girlfriend, Cassie, I spent most of my off-work hours with. But even my relationship with her had slowly deteriorated over the past few months. While Tina had blamed her for our separation, it wasn’t Cassie—it was me. I had given up hope. In my surrender I had given each of them a string, one they could pull at will. I felt like a kite. The wind was dying down, and I was in a downward, out-of-control dive.

  While we had never seemed to get along, I missed Tina. “Why am I missing her?” I asked myself. Sitting back in the recliner with the first of my evening drinks in hand to take the edge off the pain of my life, I thought about how we met.

  Like so many things it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “What are your plans?”

  Until recently, this had been one of my favorite questions. I had always been a planner—everything had to have a plan. I had a plan to attend the University of Pennsylvania. I had a plan to obtain my MBA from Wharton. I had a plan for my career. I even had plans for the type of cars, clothes, and homes I wanted to possess. Yes, Jack Oliver was a planner.

  While so many things in my life were planned, relationships definitely weren’t one of them. Relationships appeared to be one of those things in life that did not want to be scheduled and planned. They just happened. I was in the last year of graduate school, and I was lonely. My plans changed when I met Tina.

  Tina was practically the exact opposite of me. She was athletic. I wasn’t. She could walk into a room and heads would turn. No one ever noticed when I walked into a room—I looked like a banker. Tina was taller, fitter, and outgoing. I was shorter, out of shape, and more comfortable in my introverted personality. She was politically a left-wing liberal. I was a far right-wing conservative. I loved Nixon, she loved McGovern and Mondale. She came from a wealthy family—I didn’t. Music, food, hobbies, you name it; our choices always differed. But the extremes that existed between us created a source of energy that fueled our interest in each other. Whether it was curiosity or some other force of nature it was magnetic. And I was the negative.

  I fought to control my feelings. To deal with the challenge of someone invading my world, I developed a new plan for my future. Until I got everything I wanted, love was on hold. Once I achieved what I wanted, I would have women falling over one another to get my attention. There would be time for love and sharing. That was my plan.

  But then there was Tina.

  “What would you suggest?”

  It was the first question I asked Tina. The question, like so many things in our relationship, was not sincere—it was just a way to get what I wanted.

  I met Tina in a record store, Books, String & Things, near the University of Pennsylvania campus where I was a graduate student. Tina was working at the record store part-time while she finished her graduate degree in political science at Temple University.

  It was a Saturday afternoon, and Bill Clemmons, my roommate at the university, persuaded me to walk down to the record store with him. Bill was anxious to buy the new Led Zeppelin album. I was not as anxious. I didn’t enjoy the early seventies music of the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, or the Who. I liked country music. That left me doomed to listening to music I enjoyed only when no one else was around. Country music wasn’t cool in 1974, at least not in Philadelphia. So there I was walking into what I viewed as a “hippie head shop,” a real fish out of water.

  As I walked in the store I saw a young woman standing in front of the jazz album section. She was tall—taller than me—with long, strawberry blonde hair that meshed perfectly with her blue sundress. I saw a name tag identifying her as an employee but could not read the name. Her eyes, focused on a customer in front of her, were amazing. They were the bluest eyes I could imagine, sparkling and piercing at the same time. I was immediately smitten. Trying to be as cool as possible, I worked my way around the store’s bargain stacks of albums to get close enough to hear her voice. I can’t remember ever wanting to hear what a woman sounded like, but at that moment it was all I could think about. As I got closer I could hear a voice that was smooth and calming, with a rich, deep quality, full of confidence. Her voice was just like the rest of her—beautiful. She was telling the lucky guy about a new jazz fusion album she highly recommended.

  Right or wrong, I thought a person who loved jazz had to be very intelligent. So, when I heard her velvet voice describing the music on the album it signaled a person of incredible intelligence. Beauty and brains, I thought as I stood looking down at the albums. I’ve got to talk to her! Looking at the album bin in front of me, I realized I was challenged finding common ground to initiate a conversation with a beautiful woman who obviously loved music that was a far cry from Buck Owens. How could a guy who enjoyed listening to Merle Haggard and Glen Campbell impress her? I suddenly felt shorter and fatter.

  I could only think of one jazz musician, Miles Davis. Like a moth flying into the burning flame, I was ready to go where I had not ventured in my life. As soon as she finished talking with the jazz-loving customer I made my move.

  “Hi. I’m interested in buying a Miles Davis record but really don’t know much about his music,” I said clumsily, connecting with her blue eyes. “I heard you talking, and you obviously know jazz. What would you suggest?” I immediately wished I could have spoken more eloquently. I took a quick glance at her name tag: TINA.

  “Well, Bitches Brew is my favorite Miles Davis album. What other types of music do you like?” she asked.

  I was not ready for her response. Bitches Brew? Is that a song? Still in semi-shock, I let out an honest “I really like Johnny Cash.”

  Tina laughed and said, “I doubt if you would like Miles if you like Johnny Cash, but I may be wrong.” After pausing to flip her hair back, she asked, “Are you flirting with me?”

  For whatever reason, I could not lie to her about my intentions—I was flirting. “I’m going to be honest. I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I said. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee after work?”

  “You don’t do this very often do you?” she said and smiled.

  “No, honestly, I don’t. Otherwise I would have scars and bruises from getting slapped,” I said, laughing and gaining more confidence.

  “I don’t see any scars or bruises,” she said, looking me over with a sly grin.

  “So, is that a yes?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Tina said. We both laughed.

  We met for coffee and immediately became a couple. The stark differences in our personalities, beliefs, and even physical appearances formed the magnetic current that pulled together two totally different people. We married one year after that first meeting. Neither of us knew how we were going to make ends meet.

  The two of us were never very good at agreeing on a joint plan. And that never changed.

  Being different can be exciting, but having differences is a problem, I thought. I loved Tina with all my heart. But I soon realized love was not enough. I didn’t know how to share my life. Worse, I became a less-than-honest person.

  Now, Tina wasn’t with me. I had lied to her.

  I had also lied to myself.

  The most harmful lie you can tell is a lie to yourself.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  5. Who Do I Believe?

  WHO DO I BELIEVE? I thought, as I poured another drink. It was a question I asked myself a lot. I didn’t trust anyone. I had heard too many lies to assume anything a person said was honest. There was always a hook—something the other person wanted and would lie to get. As I took a drink and felt the warm sensation of the alcohol melting away my inhibitions, I remembered that it wasn’t just others I distrusted. I didn’t trust myself.

  With a Houdini-like mastery of the art of escape, I recalled my history of self-deceptions. But the past had finally caught up with me. I took an
other sip to gain more clarity. Dishonesty had ruined my relationship with Tina. Now I was facing a choice in which I could not afford to be anything other than honest—especially with myself. Was working with Benny a realistic option or just a distraction? Now’s the time to be honest, I thought.

  Benny was over seventy years old—close to my father’s age if he had still been alive. I rarely thought about my father, but now seemed like a good time to open up the mostly painful wounds of my relationship with him. I couldn’t ignore the fact that thinking of Benny made me think of my father. Shutting my eyes I visualized my old man. One of the most consistent images of him was his time in front of the television watching the evening news.

  I was sitting with my father as he watched Walter Cronkite on the CBS Evening News. It was part of my old man’s evening ritual. The year was 1968. It was election year. In politics, my father was ahead of his time. He was Archie Bunker before there was an Archie Bunker. My father’s ultraconservative political perspective would have made Archie proud. Likewise, my father enjoyed Archie’s character, thinking it represented the norm. He never understood why Archie got so many laughs when he talked about religion, racism, and politics. My old man believed Archie was right.

  “If Richard Nixon loses to Hubert Humphrey, we may as well turn the country over to the communists,” my father said. “Humphrey is like every Democrat—he has no backbone.”

  I was barely eleven years old, but I had a voracious appetite for reading about the lives of American presidents. History fascinated me. Before I thought about the risks, I ventured into the uncharted waters and asked my father a political question. “Did John Kennedy, Harry Truman, and Franklin Roosevelt have backbones?”

  He gulped his Schlitz beer to wet his throat and paused before telling his barely teenage son about backbones. “Jackson, those men were different. Humphrey and the Democrats you see now aren’t the same Democrats you’re asking about,” he said, using my complete first name, a tactic he unfailing adhered to his entire life. He had named me after the Confederate general Stonewall Jackson, a very unusual choice for the son of an Irish plumber in Philadelphia, but it was something he enjoyed saying to make a point and remind me of his control.