A friend told me this story of his friend several years ago. For
some reason it has stayed with me. It is presented as he related it
with a change of names and a few minor alterations to protect their
anonymity:
A friend told me this story of his friend several years ago. For some reason it has stayed with me. It is presented as he related it with a change of names and a few minor alterations to protect their anonymity:
It was a complete surprise when Vern Black showed up at my home in 1990. The last time we had spoken had been 10 or 12 years previously and it had not been a good meeting then. He had pressed me for the loan of $250 “to seal a deal that could have us both on Easy Street.”
Despite my misgivings, I gave him the money for old time’s sake and hoped that for once a deal of his would turn into something beneficial. I heard of him a few times through mutual friends for awhile after that and was sad that old habits formed in his youth seemed to have bested him and destroyed any chance he might have had to validate his early promise.
We had been fraternity brothers years before in the Midwest and of a galaxy of sharp young men he seemed to be the one destined to do the most with his life. He graduated with honors and within two months had found a place in a prestigious Wall Street firm.
You couldn’t help but like Vern for his happy, if a bit cocky, attitude toward life and his willingness to help out any friend who needed help.
Within two years he had married a lovely young woman and had progressed in the firm. No one had any indication of trouble on the horizon until he announced he was looking for a job “with more promise.” A rumor arose that he had been asked to leave because of having showed up several times with a narcotic buzz.
He managed to find something but quit within two months. His wife tolerated it as long as she could but finally left. When he found my address and got the loan, he hurried away soon after. When he turned up in 1990 I didn’t recognize him at first. His eyes looked like a tortured angel’s, but he didn’t look away.
Nether of us mentioned the $250 but he told me he had hit the bottom and was trying to get straight. He had dried out several times but it hadn’t taken. “I need a job, anything. I’m going to make it this time, Jim. I’m going to make it for the kid.”
I was doubtful, but Vern stood there stolidly until I said I would help. While going through the want ads, he found a listing for a short-order cook. The next afternoon he returned and said he had the job. We found a cheap hotel near the restaurant and I paid a month’s rent.
He stayed. Within a few months he had repaid the loan and told me that the owner had promoted him to assistant chef. “I owe it to the kid,” he said.
We ran into each other just after Christmas and he said he had spent his holiday serving food to homeless people. His smile reminded me of the old days.
We saw each other sporadically over the next few years and he always mentioned his promise to the kid. “I’m keeping it too,” he said. “I’ve been dry for more than three years; I’m making it.”
I last ran into him at a diner. Over coffee, he talked about the job, the help he had received, and his new life. “I didn’t let the kid down.”
“Is he your son, Vern?”
He looked at me for a long time before he answered.
“We never had children. The kid I’m talking about was me when I was a boy and the whole world seemed bright and golden.”
