by Tom Blair
After my Santa Barbara meltdown I tried to remember my blessings and not allow my emotions to be taken hostage by some random occurrence. But one spring afternoon at National Airport I abdicated the control of my anger. I needed to be in Boston for a 3:00 p.m. meeting. As usual I darted out of my office later than intended for a scheduled noon departure on Northwest. A little extra gas and I was pulling into National; entered the line for airport short-term parking, and, one by one, drivers inched to the ticket dispensing machine, pulled a ticket, watched the gate rise, and proceeded. Then my turn. I pushed the large red button, no ticket. Twenty feet away I spotted a parking attendant in a booth; a quick honk stole her attention. At a pace slower than the plodding of a death march, she approached the ticket machine and rendered her pronouncement: “It’s out of tickets.”
“No problem. Can you just hand me one from the booth?” I asked.
“No, I need my supervisor’s permission.” With the speed of a receding tide, she sidled back to her booth. There she picked up the phone. Something was said. I waited. It was hot in the car. There was no retreat; cars were lined up twenty deep behind me, steel guardrails on either side. Ten minutes to noon. Not much time.
I waited another minute and walked up to the booth. I smiled and asked, “How are we coming?” In a monotone she responded, “My supervisor is coming.”
“Does the supervisor have the tickets?” I asked.
“No, I do, but he should be here.”
Back to my car. Visions of the important Blue Cross executive sitting in a conference room wondering where I am. Perhaps the plane would be late departing. Several of the cars at the end of the line surrendered. There were only a half dozen or so behind me. Again I asked the attendant for relief. No response, no concern. She was reading a novel. Another five minutes. I started to gnaw on the steering wheel. Then, with no supervisor in sight, the attendant strolled to the dispenser. She handed me a ticket.
Incredulously I asked, “Why couldn’t you have done this twenty-five minutes ago?”
She answered, “You’re holding up the line.”
I responded with a rich and full inventory of expletives such as not heard since the Nixon tapes were edited.
I missed the flight. I was an hour late to the meeting and aged at least two years on the flight up to Boston while contemplating the cursing and table-pounding Blue Cross executives. However, I was the one who’d had the tantrum. I’d treated the parking attendant with less compassion than dictated by the Holy Scriptures. While some of my Manhattan friends would criticize me for not having pistol-whipped her on the spot, I did verbally mug her. By the time I was on the flight home that night, after a successful meeting in Boston, guilt settled heavily on my shoulders. Here I was, an executive with a robust salary, an impressive home, an exotic car, expensive suits, and a wonderful family, screaming at a young woman who made less in a day than I probably made in an hour. By the time my flight screeched onto the runway at National Airport I had myself convinced she was likely working two jobs to support her children and sick husband, only pausing to teach Bible school after singing in the choir.
I had been a bully. In a letter he composed to a friend, Robert E. Lee made an eloquent statement as to what distinguishes a bully from a gentleman. I stumbled upon it while helping Jennifer with an American history project.
The forbearing use of power does not only form a touchstone, but the manner in which an individual enjoys certain advantages over others is a test of a true gentleman.
The power which the strong have over the weak, the employer over the employed, the educated over the unlettered, the experienced over the confiding, even the clever over the silly—the forbearing or inoffensive use of this power or authority, or a total abstinence from it when the case admits it, will show the gentleman in plain light.
The gentleman does not needlessly and unnecessarily remind an offender of a wrong he may have committed against him. He cannot only forgive, he can forget; and he strives for that nobleness of self and mildness of character which impart sufficient strength to let the past be but the past.
The much-anticipated family trip, the trip of my repentance, redemption, and restitution for the missed Thanksgiving, was an Oscar winner in the category of conspicuous excess. A remarkable trip—well, terrific for 80% of the family. Andrew, David, Jennifer, Alice, and me in the Air France Concorde lounge. Then off to Paris. Three days of perfect weather and all the stupid tourist things that are great: “Say hello to the Mona Lisa, kids.” A short flight into Heathrow, then two cabs to the Ritz: “Victor, may I introduce my children?” The Tower of London, Dover sole, Westminster Abbey, Dover sole, Big Ben, Dover sole, and the changing of the guard. From London a train Cheltenham, then to Liverpool. In life it was larger than suggested by the brochures. The pier was overwhelmed by the QE-2, shorthand for the ocean liner Queen Elizabeth II. Across the gangplank, a quick photo with the captain, a QE-2-emblazoned life ring on the wall behind, then to our staterooms, first-class staterooms.
EMILIE, 1628: Then down to our quarters, one deck below. The stink was worse than of all the barnyard animals in the hottest month of the hottest summer. No person could suffer this smell.
The first day of our crossing, crossing being the expression confirming that one was shredding a large bundle of disposable income for transportation, was full of enthusiastic discovery: libraries, casinos, spas, pools, piano bars, and fine dining. The last hour of the crossing was the most memorable: sailing past the Statue of Liberty, around the tip of Manhattan (“Kids, there’s the AIG building”), then pirouetting in the Hudson River and snuggling against a West Side pier.
The four days between the first day and the last hour were boring, punctuated with naps and eating. Two days into the crossing I would have written a big check to be picked up mid-Atlantic and whisked to a traffic jam with honking horns. In my cosmos of contentment, the perfect QE-2 cruise would be to board in Baltimore mid-afternoon, cruise north, enjoy an elaborate and formal dinner, sail in past the Statue of Liberty, disembark, and spend the night at the Four Seasons in Manhattan.
The business gods rewarded me for taking my family to Europe and back; the BUPA contract was signed within a week of disembarking in New York. It would be a good year for me and my company. Quickly Concorded back to London for a signing celebration dinner with a six-pack of BUPA’s management team. Great sea bass at the Park Lane followed by ports, Cuban cigars, and male bonding. It was closer to dawn than dusk by the time I was horizontal at the Ritz. Was able to sleep until late morning before catching a limo to Heathrow and shuffling onto Concorde. For most of the flight home I relived the effort that I’d put forth in bringing BUPA’s pen to the agreement. The fact that it was a struggle made the flight home a savoring event. Tried not to think of Spain; before long I would need to get my derriere into Madrid and start rummaging through their health-care system. Deplaned at Dulles. Alice was at the gate to meet me. She never came to the airport to meet me. My mother was dead. She died of a heart attack.
The funeral was rushed and unexpected. I should have spoken, but I didn’t. Some minister spoke. He didn’t know my mother. He kept using phrases like, “I’m sure if I had known her …” If it weren’t for Alice, nothing would have been done correctly. My father was in a daze. My sister was totally distraught. I was embarrassed and just didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t wait to get out of Des Moines. If I wasn’t in Des Moines I wouldn’t have to think about Mom being dead. That’s not right. I didn’t want to think of all the times I didn’t call or visit.
JOHN, 1941: It took about a year from when I saw the doctor’s car till Ma passed. She died, but she really didn’t die. She got bedrid and slept more and more each day till one morning she just didn’t wake up. Sort of like a drop of water in the sunlight. You look at it and you see it, but it just keeps getting smaller and smaller and then it’s not there no more. Pa made a box for Ma out of sidings from the old chicken coop. Billy and me dug the grave, took mos
t of a day. Got a piece of oak board and rounded one edge for a marker. Used a red-hot spike to burn in her name and dates. Tried to get the letters and numbers real straight and perfect.
As I began my second year of my Herculean effort to achieve Hank’s challenge, a mob of business priorities and problems each fought to be my number one concern. Is HPA still on track? Is the just-signed BUPA contract being implemented effectively? Who are the key players in the Spanish health-care industry? By the way, do you know a competent interpreter? Why are our HMO membership numbers down? Should we use Hutton or Bear for our debt offering? Why did my corporate counsel resign with only two weeks’ notice? Where did all our surplus working capital disappear to?
Time became by far my most critical resource. There just wasn’t enough of it. Since the rotation of the earth wasn’t going to slow, I needed to squeeze more out of twenty-four hours. I built myself a helipad on the side of our property in Round Hill; spent a little extra money and made it out of cobblestone to match our sweeping cobblestone driveway. Went a little crazy and used a darker cobblestone to form an “H” in the center, denoting a helipad from the air. With the helipad in place I could be elevated directly from my side lawn and then an unwavering straight line to the Wall Street heliport; I was in AIG offices two hours after I kissed Alice good-bye. I chopped more than two hours from the drive to National Airport, waiting for the shuttle, jetting to La Guardia, and limo’ing into the city. I gave myself an extra two hours. I put twenty-six hours in the day.
It was likely around my twentieth trip to London that my horns started to protrude. Staff were implementing the deal with BUPA and I wanted to confirm all was tranquil with my new big British client. Alice was with me and the concierge at the Ritz got us tickets to a play that he confidently reported was quite fabulous. Only in Great Britain can a grown man say “quite fabulous” without grinning.
The Ritz Rolls-Royce dropped Alice and me off at a West End restaurant for a pre-theater dinner. Probably Dover sole. By the time I finished a week or two in London I’d eaten enough Dover sole to have the fish added to the endangered species list. After dinner, a short walk to the theater. As always, Michael, the head concierge at the Ritz, had us in one of the first rows, center. The play was Little Shop of Horrors. A musical comedy, a life-changing comedy.
In Little Shop, a nerdy guy, Seymour, worked at a flower shop, nurturing an exotic plant never before seen—a bizarre plant, with both mystical powers and primeval needs. The powers being that it could speak and had the ability to grant any wish. Its primeval need being human blood for its nourishment. Each day, in a deep and foreboding voice, the plant would demand “Feed me.” With every serving of human blood the plant grew, and as it grew it required more and more blood.
At first Seymour could satisfy the plant with a pinprick on his finger. For these meager blood offerings his wish was granted. Being a guy, Seymour’s wish entailed something tall and blonde with large mammary glands and taut Ligaments of Cooper.
The plant kept growing, kept demanding more blood, kept repeating, “Feed me.” Not wanting to risk losing the blonde, Seymour fed the plant more and more of his blood. Finally, as the plant’s size increased by several magnitudes, Seymour was forced to sacrifice whole humans to satisfy the plant’s daily need for blood.
The music was great, the acting was polished … but the play left me scared. Clearly AIG was the plant and I was Seymour. Every year AIG’s earnings had to be compounded at the same high, heroically high, rate. To maintain the same rate of growth we needed more and more earnings, earnings derived from human blood and human sacrifice. Business travel, missed birthdays, missed piano recitals, missed softball games, each of these only being a drop in the pond, but the ripples combining to distort the picture of the happy family. Over the next several days I thought long and hard about the play. I rethought Wall Street: “Don’t measure a man’s worth by the size of his wallet.” I thought about “Feed me.” Could it be? Had I sold my soul to the devil for the promise of cars, houses, and planes?
For the first few days after Little Shop of Horrors I tried to convince myself everything was okay. Great wife, three healthy kids. I suppose that alcoholics convince themselves that they don’t have a problem. Slowly my thoughts turned from questions and doubts to answers and certitude. I was risking the family to impress Hank and to win Seymour’s blonde—the stock options. Why was I compromising my family to have a higher net worth? Took me a while to understand. It was a three-letter word. It started with an “e,” ended with an “o,” and had a “g” in the middle. But surrender was not easy. I’m a competitive guy. While I was wealthier than 95% of the population, why not more than 99%? I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to accept it. I kept coming up with reasons as to why I was on the corporate jet, being whisked off to the next critical business meeting.
It was after seeing Little Shop of Horrors that Alice crushed me with the weight of my mammoth ego. During dinner at Old Angler’s, a leisurely dinner being my cover for drinking an entire bottle of a superb red, I was replaying yet again for Alice my defense: I worked hard for the family, I struggled mightily to give them everything they wanted. Then a simple question: Alice asked where might the tennis rackets and tennis balls be? Since years ago I had spent over $75,000 to have Pat build a tennis court on our Round Hill property, why no rackets and tennis balls that would allow the family to play? Her observation leaving no escape, the tennis court was a broad brushstroke on my carefully painted mural of success, it was not for family enjoyment … no one in our family played tennis.
A few weeks after Little Shop of Horrors shook my resolve, and a few days after Alice performed her egoectomy on me, I was in LA, with a charter flight scheduled to transport me, Star Trek-style, back home. Before departing LA, I changed my destination, instructed the pilots to divert to Des Moines. I decided at forty-plus years of age it wasn’t too late to seek fatherly advice. Gave my father a ring and told him I would be stopping by. Pulled into the Des Moines FBO around noon and stole a cab to Dad’s house. We sat in the living room and talked. Dad asked about the kids. I was surprised that he knew so much about each one. While we spoke I grabbed a couple of quick glances at the outdated TV in the corner of our living room. The one Mom got so many years before so she could flirt with Dino in color.
Then the reason for my visit; I told Dad that I had a tough decision to make. Told him that I was torn between giving up my job to spend more time with the family or pressing on to hit a grand slam home run. Being an actuary, with the need to work with unambiguous data and information, he asked if a grand slam home run was my way of saying that I wanted to make more money. I said yes. Then Dad asked a question that shocked me because of its directness and its clarity: “What is your net worth?” If I had known he was going to ask, I would have considered how to respond in a manner that made the figure diminutive, hidden under a blanket of obscurities. But because the question was direct and precise, I gave a direct and precise answer. It shocked me when I said the number.
Dad sat silently; then he recalled our family vacation in ’55; that summer the family loaded up our Chevrolet Bel Air and drove to California for an actuarial seminar Dad was attending. After a couple of days in LA, Dad and Mom took my sister and me to the just-opened Disneyland. We were the first kids in Des Moines to go there. Dad asked if I remembered that on the trip we would stop along the road and look at various tourist attractions, asked if I remembered stopping to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine that somebody proudly displayed in front of their store. I told him that I did. He paused for a few moments; then he told me that struggling to accumulate more money than was required for family happiness had no more merit than working mightily to wrap the biggest ball of twine. Neither effort was worth jeopardizing family tranquility.
On the way back to the FBO I called the pilot. Told him we would be going to Teterboro, not Washington. I wanted to meet with Hank. Next a call to sweet Alice, told her I wouldn’t be home as p
lanned, but I would for certain be only a day tardy. As always she was understanding, but quickly added that regardless of any happening, I had to be home the next evening; it was my birthday and she and the kids had a life-changing present for me … life-changing? A two-hour flight, a limo to the lower tip of Manhattan, and I was checking into the Vista Hotel at the World Trade Center. After responding to a dozen or so business faxes that greeted me at the reception desk, and after another call to Alice, I walked over to the North Tower and took the express elevator up 106 floors to Windows on the World. Slipped the maître d’ a twenty-dollar bill so I could steal a table by the window. Had to perch myself at the bar for close to an hour waiting for a table to clear. With a dry Smirnoff martini and a promiscuous bowl of peanuts, I watched the shadow of the Statue of Liberty begin to stretch to the east as the sun set. I stared past Brooklyn toward Europe; the sky was turning from gray to black. Thought of my trips to England. I wondered if there would be any more.
By the end of my second martini a table opened next to my recently purchased window, a window with a view up Manhattan toward Long Island. Over a thousand feet below, a loose weave of dotted lights extended north and disappeared on the horizon. In the middle a black rectangle, Central Park, the bucolic preserve for joggers and muggers. Spent close to two hours with an overpriced Chardonnay, a pedestrian sea bass, and much contemplation. It had been fourteen years since the family had squeezed into our tired Ford Maverick and headed toward Washington, towing a U-Haul trailer full of hopes and fears. It had been a great fourteen years. We’d had a goal, and both Alice and I put our shoulders to the wheel to achieve the goal. We built a successful company and earned financial security for ourselves. And we did this while raising three clean-cut kids who always said “please” and “thank you.”