When the wedding invitation arrived I was happy for Tony. He was forty-four and went through women like leased cars, getting a new one every three years. We had been classmates at Harvard Business School, and he was one of the few that had stayed in touch since I'd dropped out to write songs and a novel.
Last summer Tony and his fiancée, Fiona, came to hear me sing in a seedy Greenwich Village club. I made twenty-five bucks in tips that night; ten from Tony. He wasn't a typical Captain of Capitalism either. He was on a fourth start-up, the first three failed. I don't know how he kept afloat financially, maybe his folks had money -- many at the B-school did -- but Tony still lived in the same funky place near Central Square next to Pepe's, a Mexican take-out, and drove an early 90's Nissan.
I doubted my wife Jenna would go. She was in her tenth year of a PhD program at Yale. Her dissertation was no closer to being done than my novel. Although she had supported my career change, she’d made few sacrifices, keeping at her research without the pressure of a part-time job. When I'd ask about her progress, she'd bring up my failure to complete the novel.
I asked if she had interest in the wedding. and she said she couldn't because of a conference in Philadelphia.
"I can't go alone," I said.
"You want me to get a job, don't you? I've got to show my face. You're lucky I'm not going -- do you know how much a new dress costs?"
I called Tony and told him how happy we were for him. "We're checking the calendar," I said. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
The acknowledgment card sat beside my computer for months. On the last day to respond I checked the 'can't attend' box. I couldn't face explaining my situation to him or other alumni. I'd send a toaster from Crate and Barrel.
Later that same day, Tony called. "I've written something for Fiona. I'm not a poet or anything. Could you put it to music? You know, make a song out of it."
"Sure," I muttered, gritting teeth. Tony still talked about the Hootie and the Blowfish concert from eight years ago. I could only imagine what he had in mind, but what the hell, he needed a favor.
The poem came via email and was better than expected, requiring only minor revisions. Within a week I wrote the music, recorded it, and mailed it off. Two days later Tony called all excited. "You have to play this at the wedding."
"You want me to sing at the ceremony?"
"Yes. And the rehearsal dinner."
"But -"
"No buts."
End of Part One
I Am Not My Job (903 KB)
