A Note to Who Came Before

I'd been out of college 11 years, still trying to find my way in the working world, when I fell into the most rewarding professional experience of my life. I do not expect it to be equaled, or surpassed, before I die.

Having talked my way into a public relations job in New York City just four years before-I went in as a secretary, a position I didn't want in the worst way, and, during my interview, proclaimed myself, in the very strongest of terms, a writer, and said I would only take a secretarial position, if it were offered to me, if I would be given a crack at an assistant account executive slot when it came up; five months later, after enduring the wrath of a succession of managers who had no business acting in that regard, I was promoted and taught the business by an old-fashioned, died-in-the-wool guy who wanted to recreate me in his image and succeeded only in getting me ready for the opportunity that was to come-I had grown tired of a position that offered me no growth or satisfaction. Outreaching to a generally meager collection of trusted industry contacts, I was given the telephone number of a manager at another public relations agency who might be looking for somebody pretty soon.

I called Bruce, the man who was soon to become one of my mentors, and had a great conversation. He wasn't looking for somebody just yet, he said, but he would keep me in mind. He encouraged me to call in a couple of weeks if I hadn't heard from him.

I held out about three weeks, as I recall, which, in retrospect, seems like a lifetime that only a younger person can withstand. I called my future mentor again. He asked me to come in and meet with him.

Our meeting was energetic. He sat behind his desk, asked me questions about my ideas about public relations. I regaled him with my storehouse of useless knowledge about commercials and promotions and such. He seemed impressed. After about a half hour, he began to hesitate as he spoke, looked over at the phone, started to say something, stopped suddenly, smiled. I had a pretty good feeling he was going to offer me a job right then and there. But all he did was thank me for coming after telling me that something might be coming up soon, and asking me to expect a call from him. I'd heard that many times before from lesser men, but something told me this was different.

My memory tells me he called the next day. It was pretty soon after, anyway. He asked me to meet him and his associate the next morning for breakfast at a local Manhattan hotel. This seemed a good sign.

I arrived at 7:30 am, looking pretty spiffy in my suit and tie, and was greeted by Bruce and his associate, John, an equally jovial and sincere man who would become kind-of my boss, and, more importantly, my other mentor.

I don't remember Bruce saying much as we ate our eggs and bacon (or was it sausage) and drank our $10 glasses of orange juice. What I remember is me and John, passionate about everything under the sun, and most especially about big band music, chatting back and forth about this and that. "You like big band?" he asked. "Sure," I said, "I just got a reissue of the 1939 Benny Goodman Carnegie Hall concert on CD." "How is that?" he asked, chewing his food like it was his last meal. "Pretty great," I told him. "You know, my air conditioning guy is going to install my CD player for me and that's one CD I'd love to get and…" There was more, much more, about Goodman, about jazz (he was an expert and had written on the subject and he did most of the about-jazz talking, every word lifelike and animated), and we hit it off like kindred balls of fire. All the while, Bruce sat smiling, proud, nodding, enjoying the show.

We finished breakfast, we all shook hands, and I was told we'd talk. Bruce called me a few hours later and offered me a job. The breakfast was a test run-an audition, if you will-to see if I would get along with John. I did, and all was well with the world.

I'm telling you this story because I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes us tick as we grow older. I've just had a birthday, and I'm within a millimeter or so of hitting my mid-century mark, so I'm sort-of consumed with taking stock of things, all things, actually, how I look at my life and those around me, and how and why I like the things that I like, that help to define me.

I think a lot about how people relate to each other. I think a lot about why people relate to each other, and why they might not. I think about how we all fit in this chaotic, dangerous world. I think about what drives people to basically be nice or rude, or smart, or a bit of each. I think about interests that I have outgrown, or that have outgrown me. I think about things that used to turn me on, and now bore me silly. And I wonder why that is.

These, and other things, are what I think about these days, and in the midst of all of this thinking, the professional experience I had 16 years ago in the borough of Manhattan came to me. That I might not have gotten that great job if I hadn't hit it off so swimmingly with John, which happened chiefly because we were both music geeks, albeit from very different generations and tacks, has occurred to me. He never liked rock music very much, while I took a broader approach. But that love of music struck a particularly strong chord between us, bound us together, drawing us together for the two years I worked for him and Bruce, at which point I was hired away by a client and moved to work here in the Washington, D.C. area. I felt bad about leaving John and Bruce-I still remember Bruce doing a quick pivot in front of the couch in his office, signaling both his huzzahs and disappointment all at once.

I kept in touch with John for a good long while after leaving New York-he even stopped in to visit when he was in town to spend some time with, I believe, his niece-but time has a funny way of driving a natural wedge between people, just something along the lines of the natural order of all things, and we haven't spoken in a few years. Maybe I'll call him and strike up the band a bit.

But, mostly, I'll use what we had all those years ago as a benchmark for what I do and achieve in the next part of my life. I believe that everything happens for a reason, and as I contemplate my coming days, I'm going to hum a few big band bars with John somewhere in the back of my mind.

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