Anyway, on the way back upstairs from my dungeon of a laundry room, walking past the slightly undulating pool and the plethora of palm trees outside on the street, in full view, I suddenly thought of my dad. But the thought was very specific: that he had made it possible for me to have this languorous day in comfort and safety. And I realized that if he were still alive, I would likely still not be giving him credit.
He would say, "I was right to convince you to work for the government, wasn't I?" I had wanted to give up the law entirely and become a television writer. Or a radio host. I wasn't an idiot. I knew I would need a job even to do either, but I also knew that once I started a legal career anywhere, I would become immersed and by default give up my dreams. And what I had seen of the "law" as mutilated by its practitioners up to that point had made me anxious and nauseous daily.
By the time he asked me one or another version of his question intended to obtain my concession to the wisdom of his not so gentle push on my psyche for practicality rather than what he perceived to be the fantastic, I had been working at the Bar as a prosecutor for well more than a decade. I would respond, "Well, we'll never know because I never allowed myself to take the chance on writing or radio.. I was afraid and I just gave in".(or some such reply). And we'd end up in an argument because while being a prosecutor at the Bar was possibly the ONLY thing I could comfortably manage, and keep a reasonably clear conscience (I found not possible as I worked for those in private practice before the Bar), it was, ultimately, 25 years of institutional and personal turmoil, the end result of which I found myself despite my consistent excellent reviews out on my ear with several other colleagues, also with consistent excellent reviews. It was a bit of an ignominious conclusion to dedication and loyalty, disposed of by those immortal words, "We're going in a different direction."
By the time that happened, Dad had been dead a bit over three years, and so I couldn't offer any "I told you so's". But here's the thing. By then and today, walking back to my apartment with my laundry, I didn't and don't want to. By the time of the demise of my managerial state, I had worked my way up the ladder with concomitant benefits in status and pay, albeit not of the nature that one makes in big firms (nowadays, as private organizations struggle, folks now suddenly envy the public sector with its lower pay but better benefits). I had become a good teacher and spontaneous speaker. I could survive without this job. Dad's remonstrations It about handling finances, also against which I railed, had hit their mark. I didn't want to hang up a shingle now, any more than I had when I was younger, after seeing what corners lawyers cut in order to make a dime (it is a myth that lawyers as a group make a lot of money; only a very small percentage do--the aforementioned big firms). And the practice had become more debased by the time I was liberated from my job.
I did take some classes for voice over work, and I enjoyed it, and was good at it, but I wasn't up for paying a lot of money to professionals for the one in a million chance of making money. Maybe it is true as one teacher said that you had to have "fire in the belly" and I haven't got fire about such things anymore, having seen and heard things that suggest that even if someone has the fire, there are a lot of human machinations which get in the way, and can torpedo the aspirant. I have written a memoir, but it needs a complete revamping (I got some very good notes) and I just haven't been ready to tackle it.
The good news is that because Dad set me on a road to relative security in my dotage (assuming I don't mess it up which for a variety of reasons I worry I could), and assuming God will allow me a long life, I can still write, or try to be an extra at Central Casting. Or I can just do my laundry without worrying where my next meal is coming from.
Either way, Dad made that possible. I am sitting on my terrace of the condo that dad bought over a weekend in 2002 and lived in for six years. It has a nice vibe this place. And somehow I credit that to him as well. Lots of pieces of him are here, photos, a diploma, a couple of maracas that he played ore than sixty years ago in the little apartment in the Bronx that looked like a night club.
The item that caught my eye as I brought in my laundry, was his mandolin.
The other has long since fallen to pieces and I had to throw it out. But this is the one that he would take up to accompany his favorite Greek, and Italian tapes.
He would be playing it now, in this very apartment, if her were here. His pipe would be in his mouth, ashes dropping to his pants, and somehow he'd manage to interpose the question again,
"Was I right about convincing you to go work for the Bar?".
Two peas in a pod that we were, equally resistant to being wrong, I would probably gripe a bit, and give him grudging credit.
But from this vantage point, today, the answer is, "Yes, you were right., dad".
I know he's heard me. He is very pleased.
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