I got the job. For the next year and a half, Tony and I worked together--I as his administrative assistant--at the company he had started just a few years prior, InterTrain. Two separate desks in a single, large office.
You can learn a lot about a person sharing a space like that for the better part of 547 days.
We set goals for the company, and worked toward them. He tried to get me to make direct sales calls, I learned I hated making direct sales calls. He taught me strategies for giving presentations and training people--tell them what you're going to tell them, then tell them, then tell them what you just told them--and how to cope with the mental fatigue after an 8-hour day of being "on". He was the first to clue me in about cybersecurity, about how our online activities can be tracked. Most significantly, it was him and my time with his company that solidified my decision to enroll in classes for Computer Information Systems, which subsequently led me into the career I have today.
Sharing space as we did, I also had the opportunity to meet his family--his wife at the time, his (then) 2-year-old son, as well as being one of the first to hear the news of his second son's pending arrival--and his friends. There were conversations about hopes and dreams, anger and disappointments. He took me to my first Gates BBQ, warning me they would yell as soon as I walked in the door. Heading to TN to visit a friend after a day of work, he expressed his concern about the dangers of driving tired and he made sure I would be safe. He helped me to frame teenage angst in a way that was productive rather than destructive. He told me to leave certain situations alone, and I did. He believed in me, and I wanted to prove he wasn't wrong to do so. I hope I have.
Tony and I hadn't spoken in over a decade--maybe 12-13 years--when I heard the news of his death. We didn't have a falling out or any dramatic parting of ways. Our paths simply diverged. Despite the length of time, I was still devastated at the picture of his casket being lowered into the ground; still heartbroken to discover a story ended so soon; still felt the emptiness of the realization he isn't somewhere in the world--just an email or a phone call away--, even if he hadn't been in my world for quite some time.
The years between that interview and now have lent a certain degree of cynicism and wariness to my outlook--a typical progression of growing older--but Tony exists before all that. In my mind, he is 32-years-old, starting out, unafraid, proud, strong, smiling, a cool car, a view of the lake, a world of potential... and I was young, lost, impressionable, lucky to find someone willing to help rather than hurt.
I used to write back then, and he used to record music in his home studio. I listened to his music and he read my words. I remember sitting in that office one day as he told me my writing had "a way of cutting through all the bullshit of life and hitting him right here (he motioned to his chest), right in the heart." He went on to say that he would want me to write his obituary.
We smiled, maybe even laughed, at that. We were young. We were starting. Nobody was dying.
I gave up extensive writing years ago, but, for you, Tony, I will try once again to find the words. I searched the internet and found no evidence of an obituary worthy of or accurately representative of your life. I have some catching up to do, but I will create one, adding to it as I learn more.
I wish I could have told you good-bye, Tony. I would have said thank you one last time. All that I have... so many roots stretching back to you and to that little office in Independence, MO. I hope you knew my gratitude, I hope you remembered it... You changed my life. You changed the world.
“There's no way to know what makes one thing happen and not
another. What leads to what. What destroys what. What causes what to
flourish or die or take another course. But I was pretty certain as I
sat there tonight that if it hadn't been for Eddie, I wouldn't have
found myself on the PCT. And though it was true that everything I felt
for him sat like a boulder in my throat, this realization made the
boulder sit ever so much lighter. He hadn't loved me well in the end,
but he'd loved me well when it mattered.”
--Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail
