Imagine asking a favor of a good friend of your father's, a man who worked closely with your dad for many years. You ask him to identify someone who can work beside you in, say, a candle shop. The man searches and searches and one day he comes to you and says, "The search is over. I like you and I like candles and I will work beside you in the candle shop." So you say, "Great, that'll be fun. We'll work together. Why didn't I think of that?" But maybe inside your head you're thinking, "You chose yourself?"
Because the thing about you and your dad is that even though you went to the same high school and college and both like sports and the Maine coastline and he used to work in the candle shop and now eight years later you're working there, you don't have all that much in common.
Except this friend. Now you have him in common. But you're thinking maybe you'd like to do things differently in the shop. Like not have the friend there. So you phone your dad and he starts telling you how great your brother's doing in Florida in, say, a fruit shop. And you think, "The candle shop is way more important than a fruit shop. Why do you care so much about little brother and his fruit?" But you don't say anything because you're just glad your dad picked up. Usually he screens.
Instead you say, "Dad, your old friend would like to help me in the candle shop," and he says, "That's terrific. He is a great old friend and he is a good choice." And you tell him, "Yes, but the choice was his. He chose himself." Your dad says, "He will be a big, major help in the candle shop." Then there is a pause and your dad says, "Son, you need him in the candle shop." You can't even remember the last time your dad called you son.
So let's say you start working in the candle shop together with the friend. Things are going pretty well: the work's not too demanding, you get driven around in a big car, and you can order whatever you want to eat anytime of day or night.
Then one day after you've been working together nearly eight months, something bad happens. I mean really bad, like everyone knows about it. A man who can't read, floating on a log off the coast of Argentina knows about it.
When it happens, you are reading a story in an interesting voice to some children. You're not at the candle shop that day, which is good, because the candle shop is targeted for destruction. But you are not destroyed. You survive.
And when you see what is destroyed, you tour the wreckage and show that you feel terrible. And your customers see this and feel better. And you've never been so happy to be working in the candle shop. Those days after the bad thing happens are the best of your life.
Then customers start asking, "What are you going to do about this bad thing? How will you respond?" Your dad tells you, "Keep calm and focus on the candle shop," but his friend wants to wipe the people responsible off the face of the earth. And a lot of their relatives too. You ask, "But isn't that just revenge?" The friend shrugs: "So what's wrong with revenge?"
You do what he says to do. Which may be a mistake. Your dad starts screening your calls again and friends of your dad begin saying bad things about you and even about your dad's friend (even though he is their old friend too).
Suddenly working in the candle shop is very unfun. It's almost like you're going out of business. Even though you're still there. Actually, you have four more years. You've never really liked working, particularly when people say you're doing a bad job. Your customers are angry. Some stand outside and say mean things about you. Very mean things. People only come into the shop to return things. They accuse you of selling crummy candles. You tell them, "Hold on, it wasn't my idea to sell candles; I only do it 'cause my dad did." "No," they say, "you're different from your father. He may not have been the best candle seller, but you are definitely the all-time worst." It seems like the further you get from those good feelings you had when the bad thing happened, the further your customers get from their feeling of liking you. Now no one likes you. The guy on the log off Argentina doesn't even like you.
So you end up alone and misunderstood. You can still eat whatever you want whenever you want, but you can't wait to stop working in the candle shop. And your customers can't wait for you to stop either. One day you're sitting in your large, ovular office and you say to your father's pal, "I have no friends." And he says, "That's not true. You'll always have me."
