My Dad, father to six of us...me being the youngest and by no means the smartest...as I saw him and knew him, he always had the utmost faith in any individual’s ability to succeed…

 

(Chapter Two...Eleven years later…this would be non-linear narration)

 

I had an interview with Murlas Financial for a job as a commodities broker. I knew nothing about this sort of work, except that I seemed to have skills that allowed me to sell water to a drowning man. At least this is what I heard so often from various people like my Dad.

As I sat in the interview (1986, age twenty), the potential boss ran down all that would be involved in my job, how I’d work very hard under high levels of stress, but make tons of money while possibly risking becoming a coke-addicted asshole by age 35.  35? Shit, that’s a long way off, I’m thinking, maybe I can just have a mild habit, be a bit of a jerk, and retire at 29?

Toward the end of the interview, he asked me, “How much income would you like to make annually?”

I thought about it for about three seconds.

“$50,000 a year.” (Remember now, this is 1986)

He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“That’d put you in the bottom 3% of our brokers.”

Three seconds more dragged by.

“Well then, what’s the top 3% make? I dunno shit about this stuff, but that’s where I’d wanna be.”

He sat back up, more quickly than he had previously retreated, and smiled.

“Listen kid, here’s the way it works. We don’t call you. You call us. You have 72 hours to make a decision as to whether you want this job. Here’s my card, I have your information. If we don’t hear from you we assume you’re not interested.”

I took his card, stood up, thanked him and left, probably a bit puffed up for knowing I can impress a fat man behind a desk.

 

The next day, I’m sitting with my Dad at home talking about things  in general and the phone rings. I pick it up, “Circle residence.”

 

It’s the guy from the commodities firm.

 

“Hey, I just wanted to follow up on our discussion yesterday. So, are ya ready to work for us?”

 

“Um, I thought you weren’t going to call me, I was supposed to call you.”

 

“Yes, but...you’re just the kind of guy we’re looking for…young, driven, smart.”

 Well, true, I was young.

I probably bobbed my head side to side and sighed before breaking it to him, as was my fashion.

 

“Nah, I’ve decided that I want to go into music, be a guitarist, maybe sing too, write some tunes…but hey, thanks for the offer.”

 

I’m waiting at this point for the explosive laughter and a line about how stupid I am. There’s a long pause and a definite tension, the pause on the other end of the line, the tension in the room I’m sitting in. I try not to look at my Dad.

 

“Well. Phil," says commodities guy, "I’ll tell you what, you’re just the kind of guy who could make it in music. Best of luck to you, and I look forward to seeing you out there.”

 

Goodbyes. We hang up. Not such a bad break up afterall. But there's this long silence while I imagine my Dad is trying to figure out what to say. This is where the obligatory sigh comes in, followed by…

 

“Tiger, did you just turn down that job as a broker?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Sigh number two, longer and more breathy...

 

“You know son, one in 10,000 makes it in the music business!”

 I didn't respond well.

“Well then,” said I with quite the ornery tone of voice,” I dunno what the other 9,999 are gonna do, but this is my fucking choice! If you don’t support what I do, well...well, shit…don’t ever offer me another word of advice, or, aahh...a fucking dollar when I need it, or any other kind of help goddammit!”

 

I stormed out of his room and down to the family room where I was residing while between apartments (for three months), grabbed my guitar and started writing a song. Within an hour or so, I’d written a song that was strangely enough, not full of angst. It was about the intuition I always had when things were going well, that the other shoe was going to drop. Hmmm.

Once I was done running it through enough times to remember all the changes and such, I set down my guitar and turned on the t.v. Now, this old farmhouse become suburban home we were in didn’t exactly possess the best sound proofing, so you could hear through all the ductwork and I guess my Pops  picked up on my tune-crafting.

Shortly, a sheepish (and therefore, highly out of character) knock came on the door. I responded.

 

“Whadya ya want?!”

 

“Uh, Tiger, can I come in?”

 

I think I grunted more than anything, but he got the idea it was safe and entered anyway. I sat moping and staring angrily at the television, probably watching Cheers or some shit.

 

“That song I just heard you playing all this time, did you write that?" he asked.

 

“Mmhhm.”

 

I watched out of the corner of my eye, trying not to care, as he nodded and smiled.

 

“Tiger, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. You’re absolutely right, music is what you should do.”

 

I hope I thanked him, I think I did. But, he never had a negative word to say to me about being a musician ever again. Until the day he died, he offered nothing but support…when he recalled who I was, that is. But that’s another story.