a questionable life Page 4

  “Nixon is a person you can trust,” he said, continuing with unbridled confidence. “You can bet your life that Nixon will never lie, cheat, or steal. Nixon will go down in history as the greatest American president. You can read about him someday in those books you read about presidents and realize your father was right. Nixon’s for the working man. Take my word on it, Jackson, life is a job—you have to work hard and never quit! Take what you can before someone else takes it. Trust me Jackson—I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Life is a job” was one of my father’s favorite expressions. He believed it. But I didn’t want a job—I wanted a career. I had never wanted to be like him. If Benny was similar to my old man and the rest of his generation, how could I work with him? We’d be complete opposites. Just like with Tina, opposites may initially attract; but they didn’t do very well long-term. Not in my world.

  “What have you learned?” my father often asked me, mocking my desire to achieve more than a high school education. “You spend all your time in school reading books about life. The only way to learn about life is to live it outside of books.”

  Attempting to learn the way my father had learned would have been impossible. My father’s father had died long before I entered the world. A first-generation Irish immigrant to the United States, my grandfather passed through Ellis Island with nothing. After failing to achieve the American dream, he left his wife and son with the same thing he had brought entering the country—nothing.

  My grandfather departed from his family following an Oliver family tradition. He put a .38 revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger, the same departure his father before him chose to escape the challenges of the world. The only positive thing I can say about this bit of family heritage is that they were evidently good shots. My father found his father dead on the kitchen floor when he returned home from school. My father kept the gun.

  He never returned to school. With an eighth-grade education, the role of breadwinner fell on his thirteen-year-old shoulders. He became a plumber’s assistant, learning his craft from a person I viewed as my substitute grandfather, George Schmidt. Without any children of his own, “Old George,” as most people knew him, looked at my father as his de facto son. George operated Schmidt’s Plumbing Service from a storefront shop where he had started the business in the early 1920s. Old George had weathered the Great Depression and a World War by being both frugal and excellent in his work. He passed along these traits to my old man, along with the enjoyment of alcoholic beverages and gambling.

  Joseph Oliver basically inherited, in name alone, George’s business after George passed away suddenly of a heart attack in 1963. Not too surprisingly, he had died at a poker table in a back room of O’Malley’s Saloon. When Old George died, it was the only time I remembered seeing my father cry.

  After George died, my father followed the same practice of keeping the business a two-person proposition: him and an apprentice. The apprentices changed so often I can’t recall any of them lasting more than a couple of years. Working for my old man was not easy. He demanded hard work, but paid little. He never told them they were doing anything right, but took every opportunity to criticize. At least he was not any different at work than he was at home.

  “You can’t find good help anymore,” he said routinely after witnessing the departure of another apprentice. “People won’t listen. I’m the boss—I know more than they do. Just do what I say is all I ask!”

  As each apprentice left, they started their own businesses and took a slice out of the revenues. The continuing erosion of his business over the years spurred my father to drink more and then joke about what he would do if things got too rough on him.

  He had two fantasy getaways. In his first get-away-from-it-all fantasy, he would buy a train ticket, one-way, and go to Alaska. Alaska was a place holding some kind of magic for my old man. He had never been to Alaska and was not a fan of ice-cold weather. He certainly wasn’t a nature lover. Why he fantasized about Alaska, I could not imagine.

  He had a second, much more disturbing fantasy, given his father’s exit from this world.

  “If things get really bad, I’ll just take a nice long walk to the Ben Franklin Bridge,” he would begin. “I’ll take my time—enjoying every step along the way. Then I’ll walk out on the bridge to the middle to enjoy the view, then climb up over the rails and stand on top with nothing between me and the river. I’ll be in control. I won’t be afraid. Then I’ll jump head-first just like I’m in the Olympics, straight down into the river. I’ll do a dive better than Tarzan could ever dream of doing. If I die, at least I’ll die the way I want to.”

  He understood no one could survive a dive from the bridge. Unlike his Alaskan getaway, when he discussed his Tarzan dive, he was always sober.

  “What’s wrong with my life? You think you’re smarter than your old man, don’t you, Jackson? Try walking a few steps in my shoes and see how smart you are.”

  I never liked my father’s shoes or the idea of retracing his steps. I was totally the opposite of the son my father wanted. He wanted a son who was athletic. I enjoyed playing sports, but I was fat and slow. I didn’t like to lose, and I especially didn’t want to be used as the reason my team lost. But as a student, I got straight As. I loved math and the sciences. I took pride in my grades. My father didn’t understand. “You can read till your eyeballs pop out of your skull, Jackson, but you’ll never make a living from reading. I never dreamed I would have a son like you.”

  At least he was honest, I thought to myself. He wanted a son who aspired to be his apprentice, learn the plumbing trade, and take over for him when he decided to quit. That was not for me. The thought of crawling under floors with sewage ready to spew in my face suffocated me. Even worse was the idea of hearing him remind me a hundred times a day that he knew more than me.

  Instead of trying to please him, I had decided to best him. I wanted to show him my way was better. While I had never said it aloud, I wanted my father to respect me for being different. If he would not say he was proud of me, at least I would earn his respect with my accomplishments. That was my plan.

  I had never let up or let go of that strategy as I progressed through school and tried to make my plans a reality. I held onto the belief that I would reach such an unquestionably high level of success that my father would be forced to finally say, “That’s my son. He’s a success—I’m proud of him.” But I had fooled myself. It didn’t work out that way, I thought as I drained the glass of the last drop of fluid with a single gulp. I remembered the last time I saw my father alive.

  Happiness is not a solitary act.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  6. Who Are You Fooling?

  “WHO ARE YOU FOOLING?” my father asked. “The rich get richer, and people like us just hang on to what we’ve got.”

  We were standing on the front porch of my parent’s home. I had visited my mother and father infrequently after entering the University of Pennsylvania. Maintaining a 4.0 GPA took time. That was part of my excuse. The other was my part-time job at PT&G, which helped support me, along with student loans. Even though my parents lived less than thirty minutes from Penn, I left home and lived on campus. I had minimal tolerance for my father’s criticisms of my life, especially when he was drinking. Seeing my father drunk was now the rule instead of the exception.

  “You’re fooling yourself if you believe you’ll be one of them,” he said garbling his words. “The rich will never accept you—you’re still Jackson Oliver from Southwest Philly, son of a plumber, and they’ll never forget it. You’re no better than a slave to them. The only thing you’ll be like them is heartless—willing to do anything to get what you want.”

  This was a radical change for my father. “Life is a job” was not working for him now. A failing business had given him reason to drink and gamble more. Neither one was helping. He believed he had failed in his “Life is a job” mantra.

  “I’m not heartless,” I said
defensively. “I’ve worked hard for everything I have.”

  You could not fault my father’s work ethic or his honesty. He had never cheated anyone. He was a hard worker and had achieved a lot for someone with only an eighth-grade education. While he had not fully admitted it, he was implying he was a failure in not only his job, but also in life.

  “Cheaters aren’t lazy, Jackson—they work hard,” he said. “It’s their job.”

  He always had an excuse—he had been cheated. Bankers had cheated him by not lending him money when he needed it, and now I was a banker. His former apprentices had tricked him and taken his business.

  “I don’t cheat,” I said. “I’m different.” The years had made me impatient with his taunts. My old man treated the people he hired like animals. He was cold and uncaring with everyone he met.

  “They’re heartless, and you’re going to be like them,” he said, shaking his head side to side. “You’re not the type of son I thought you would be. You would do anything to get ahead—anything.”

  My goal had been to earn his respect, but now, standing on the front porch looking at my father, I had a different perspective; I felt sorry for him. Maybe I was like him. Was I heartless? No, I have a heart, I thought. I have feelings. “I’m not like them, and I’m definitely not like you,” I said. “Why can’t you admit you’re jealous of what I can become?”

  “You can become anything you want, Jackson,” he said, turning to enter the house as the outward anger subsided. “But if you aren’t happy what’s the point?” He looked unhappy, as if he had given up. But I wasn’t going to let him have the final word.

  “I’m happy. The point is you’re jealous,” I said defiantly. “Admit it—I’m going to be more successful than you, and you hate the thought of it. And you hate me for it.”

  “No, you’re wrong, son,” he said, stopping to turn and face me before stepping inside the house. We made brief eye contact. “I don’t hate you. What I hate is the thought you’ll be like me. That’s what I hate.”

  I walked away, vowing I would not speak to him until he apologized and admitted I was successful.

  I kept my promise.

  “How could I be like him?” The question had survived many years. While I did not know it was the last time I would see him alive, the conversation was a deciding factor in making me the successful, but unhappy person I was now. I did not heed his warning. I never tried to be like my father, but in so many ways, I was seeing his image in the mirror.

  “I’m not like him!” I said as I left my parent’s home and drove back to campus in my Volkswagen Rabbit. I was still angry. Fueling my rage was the fact that I could not find the right response to a drunken old man’s words. I am educated, socially connected, and have the rest of my life in front of me, not behind me like him, I thought, as I navigated my way through the heavy traffic. The old guy sounded as though he had given up on his life. I never want to be like him. I still have hope.

  “He’s jealous,” I said as I moved onto the freeway, pulling every bit of horsepower available from the Volkswagen’s engine. “It’s what I can become that bothers him.” I looked off to the side to see the skyline of modern Philly. “Jack Oliver—you have potential. Philly is yours for the taking!”

  If there was one comment that echoed through most of my life, it was “Jack Oliver has great potential.” While I was not the most popular person in high school, I made an impression on my fellow classmates. In the senior poll for Person Most Likely to Succeed I was the hands-down winner. Everyone knew I had the potential to do great things in my life. I reminded them if they forgot. I was a fan of potential. I would rather be named Person Most Likely to Succeed than Best Looking or Most Athletic.

  Planning’s the difference, I said, continuing the conversation with myself as I weaved between cars to be positioned for a quick start at the next traffic light. Being first in line at the light was always important to me. I’m driving like I’m living, I thought. I’m getting ahead by staying in front. I’m thinking ahead. Looking at the cars behind me in my rearview mirror gave me an advantage.

  One big advantage was that from a relatively early age I knew what I wanted to do. Unlike thousands of other young people in my generation, I did not want to be an athlete, politician, movie star, or astronaut. Those were just silly dreams that only one in a million may realize. The few who said they wanted to be a doctor or lawyer did it to sound important, I thought. I wanted something I could obtain—a position of power and respect—a banker. There weren’t as many people queuing up for jobs as bankers, which allowed me a clearer path. “It fits,” I said as I forced my way between cars to access my exit ramp, ignoring the sound of the horns blowing at my driving tactics.

  I was not being selfish or heartless as my father had implied. I increased my speed to pass a Cadillac. There was nothing wrong with wanting more. My plan was rational and realistic, I reminded myself. No one was going to help me. Life was a game, and it was me against everyone else. Unlike my father, if I lost, I knew I had no one to blame but me.

  That is the American way, I thought, looking up at a billboard for the Platinum Lounge touting “Philly’s Sexiest Girls.” I was playing the game the way the game was meant to be played. “I’m not greedy,” I said out loud staring at the silhouette of the PT&G office tower, a place I wanted to rule in the near future. To reinforce my belief, I leaned over to see myself in the rearview mirror and smiled. I had potential. I had a plan. I was prepared. All I had to do was win the game, I thought as I drove through the campus entrance heading for one of the more remote parking lots.

  I didn’t want anyone to see me in the VW Rabbit . . . I was embarrassed.

  I was not the person I hoped to be. I had missed my mark—barely. But almost doesn’t win in the game of life, I thought, looking around at the four walls of my small apartment. “Life is a game.” I remembered the first time I had heard the term. The person who said it inspired me to become a banker; and the person I am now.

  “Who inspires you?”

  I remembered the classroom assignment as if it were yesterday. Ms. Faulkner, my twelfth-grade English teacher, had asked us to write a brief essay about the person who inspired us the most. While others moaned and groaned, I felt very comfortable with the task. One person stood out. The person had encouraged me to choose my profession, changing my life forever. He was the president of a large Philadelphia bank. He had visited our eighth-grade class and spoke about basic economics and how a bank functions. Everyone thought he was boring—except me.

  He inspired me.

  His name was Chad Jefferies, the president of Philadelphia Trust & Guaranty. Actually his full name was Chadwick Arnold Jefferies IV. “I don’t like being called Mr. Jefferies because that’s my father’s name, and he’s dead,” he said with a smile in his introductory remarks. “I’m afraid of being mistaken for a ghost so please call me Chad.”

  No one else laughed, but I remembered what he said. I understood the thought of not wanting to be like your father. I thought that Chad was very young to be a bank president. I guessed he was probably in his thirties, younger than my parents and most of my teachers. He answered my thoughts by explaining in his introduction that he “inherited the job” from his father, the former president of the bank. At least it was not a plumbing business he inherited, I thought to myself. Some people have all the luck.

  What I learned later was that Chad’s father had inherited his job from his father. This hand-me-down bank presidency went much deeper into their family history. The Jefferies name was one of the most prominent names in Philadelphia business history, spanning back over one hundred years. Chad was tall, and immaculately dressed in a dark gray suit that included a vest and pocket watch, the gold chain dangling. To my classmates, Chad was a rich guy who was forced into coming to our class to bore us with a talk about banking. But I was not bored. I was impressed.

  I was focused. I used my role as editor of the school’s junior high newspaper to in
terview Chad. The way some people would climb the gate at Graceland to get a glimpse of Elvis, I wanted the opportunity to tell him my career objective. After asking a few basic questions, I told Chad that I wanted to become a banker.

  “That’s interesting. I rarely hear young adults talking about being bankers,” Chad said.

  “Young adult” made me feel even better about Chad. I asked him what I could do to prepare for a banking career.

  “You need to be an excellent student,” he told me. “Banking requires a person to know a lot about everything.”

  Asserting my qualifications I told him I was an excellent student. To further my cause I talked about my job delivering papers and how I invested the money in coins. Trying to impress him, I rattled off several of the more valuable coins in my collection. To my surprise, he did not seem to know anything about coins. But he was impressed with my knowledge of money.

  “Your name is Jack?” he asked, as if he had forgotten my name after the introductions only a few minutes earlier.

  “Yes, sir—Jack Oliver.”

  “Jack, I think you’re starting off on the right foot to be a banker,” he said.

  I told Chad of how he had influenced me when he spoke to my eighth-grade class a year before.

  “Jack, when you’re old enough come to PT&G, and we’ll give you a job. Tell them you know me. Just keep making As and working hard.” Then he said it. “Life is a game. You have to know more and work harder than anyone else to win,” Chad said. “I have a gut feeling you’re that type of person.”