Off the Mark

4/5/18

Old man with a fake knee: pissed off about that - everything else too. Kid next to him wearing army fatigue jacket, intentionally torn jeans listened to hip hop dreaming- no,planning how to meld it into his tenor solo at the club in Bushwick.

The old guy was a punk in a business suit. Young guy was no Prince but had his head on straight - no addictions - cravings for sure, he took to the saxophone or drum set or guitar or mixing software when the urges threatened. Reggae, Reggaeton, classic rock, Top 40, Afro Cuban jazz, Blues. Had an ear for style; could hear something once - even a five-part fugue, play it back note perfect: Mozart in jeans. Twenty-one, fresh out of Berklee - writing his tenth musical. First one when he was ten. If he were a white dude would his career have happened already? Nah. Just wasn’t his time yet. He meditated- daily from the age of 14. Had read “Zen and the Art of Archery.” Knew his moment would come - he knew his moment - every day, every moment- he was present for the process: had process in his pocket.

The old guy had Wall Street in his pocket - along with a mixed bag of cocaine, lap dancers’ phone numbers - lots of self-disgust. Actually he had kicked the cocaine years ago. Still liked to torture himself by calling himself a no-good, lousy drug addict. No matter that just about everyone on The Street was a user. No matter that he had risen above it, kicked the habbit. A bright spot in his dark universe: He was so centered about his recovery - on that score, he didn’t have a compulsion to brag about it. He sought no approval, no applause, no compulsion to proselytize. No bravos needed. Just feeling more alive was enough. A gift from the gods. Yet- still he was stuck in cognitive distortion hell. The bad stuff outweighed the good.

His wife was a saint. Maybe that was the problem or part of it. He had a whore-Madonna complex; no sense of humor- couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. Filled him with rage every time he saw loud teenagers laughing.

Retire, go on vacations. You old punk. Stop making everyone’s life a misery.

He didn’t just live for making money - and pleasures with women -but that was most of it.

He once volunteered in a Hurricane Emergency Center. That was the highlight of his old age. Now he was too pissed off, too sour to help anyone. He delighted, in a perverse way, in his misery. Poor little rich man- he mocked himself, sometimes to tears. When he tried to get comfort from his wife, she said “You cry all the time.” That made him rage-ful. He said nothing; but gave her a look. She continued, “you cry at movies.”

That seemed off the mark.

Nineteen fifty seven: started as an office boy at a firm no one remembers. Twenty years old, a hustler with a brain and laser-like focus, a hunger stoked by the poverty of his youth. Rage fueling nonstop energy: worked all day, BA in accounting at night, City College. MBA over the next seven years, CPA and law degree on the way; Junior partner at 33, partner at 35. Millionaire at 39.  Started his own firm at 41.  The firm he started with- bought it out at 42. Now he was 79. No less energetic- we’ll maybe a little. He was only happy when he was “in it.” In the fight of it, in the flow, in the process. The lap dancers and jazz musicians he socialized with couldn’t keep up with him. He still built things, companies, model airplanes, ham radios and six kinds of machines. Business and busyness were great… but…

Only his son - his pride and joy centered and calmed him. He lived for the boy. Of course his son was 39 by now.