MY GREAT LIFE

Yesterday we flew from Los Angeles to New York. As we left our home in Brentwood to go to LAX we met the mailman at the end of our driveway. He handed our delivery to my wife Marie who sat in the passenger seat. Ten minutes later as we sat in traffic on the Freeway she handed me a letter from our son Jesse. It looked like all his others, printed, in pencil, but legible. The traffic cleared before I got a chance to see what it said. I gave it back and stepped on the gas. Marie read it out loud to me.

“ I’m ditching the apartment in Lima.      Deme’s pissed. She’s fantastic and I love her to death, but I can’t take that screwed up city anymore. It’s a filthy anthill. But she’ll survive. I don’t pay much towards her rent anyway. It costs her more to keep me than I put up. Pedro and I are moving next week to a mining town that’s going up in the Amazon. Don’t worry. We’ll find jobs when we get there.”  Pedro and Jesse got to know each other when they worked on a Peruvian ocean liner a few years ago and have been friends ever since.

I squeeze the steering wheel, shake my head and tell Marie, “That god damned jungle is packed with snakes, head hunters, guerrillas, coke dealers and God knows what else. Why in hell doesn’t he come home? He’s smart and with his connections he could have a fabulous life. But if he stays out there much longer he’ll get killed – for sure.”

“I don’t like it any better than you do Joe,” she says, “But he’s what he is. He’s not going to change. He’s made it this far living his life his own way. Quit worrying and relax. Get real. He’s not going to die.” 

That was yesterday. This is tonight, June 21, 1996.

As I worry about Jesse I’m interrupted by Marie and our daughter. Candi flew up from her home in Atlanta this afternoon to be with us. Her husband Tim couldn’t make it. He’s on a business trip to China. And Jesse of course couldn’t, or wouldn’t, join us.

They’re bickering.  “Cut it out.”  I whisper as I sit between them in the center of row five. We’re at the Royal Palladium in Manhattan where the America Advertising Association 1995 Awards Ceremony is being held.  

“But Dad she won’t let up” Candi whispers.  Then, her voice getting louder, she adds, “What’s wrong Mom? You should be happy for Dad. You sound like Jesse. And you know he’s totally lost it.” 

“I am proud of your father” Marie says, her hand cupped over her mouth to keep the people in front from hearing her. “But he’s not perfect, even if you think so. And my darling, your brother hasn’t ‘lost it’ just because he’s abandoned our life style for a simple one.”

I put an arm around each of their necks, gently pull their heads to my face and whisper, “Stop. This isn’t the time or place to get into it. Please. Let’s just get through the ceremony.

Tomorrow you can argue all day about me if you want.”

“Joe, your great,” Marie whispers. “I just think you go to far sometimes”.

Two curious heads from row four turn and look at us.

I take my arms off the back of Candi’s and Marie’s necks and put on a – Don’t blame me- look for them.

Then, to avoid their peering eyes I stare up at a ton of crystal and gold chandelier hanging high above.

In about an hour the Reagan Award will be given for last year’s finest ad. It’s named for our nation’s 40^th president, but not because he was a successful political leader. Instead it’s because in the fifties and sixties Regan was a great T.V. salesman of soap and electronics, a terrific model for us in the business. 

I’m the dark horse—the only one of five finalists who’s not a partner in a Madison Avenue giant. My nomination shook the industries’ foundations.

If I win there’ll be a sea change. The Big Apple’s position in the ad business will go down the toilet.