Seeing Bill Clinton was amazing. He was charismatic and inspirational...just as you'd expect. But what was more astounding, was that I was there…sitting in a room with some of the most influential attorneys in California, appellate judges and other ritzy movers and shakers...all of them oozing wealth and success. The CEOs and CFOs at my table dazzled with their flashing cuff links, silk ties, and suits that obviously cost more than five months of my rent. As I joked with their gorgeous, diamond clad wives, and drank their expensive wine, I realized, I was more used to being one of the people waiting the tables….and that on Monday, I’d be relegated back to my little office, plugging away at my files, making my own copies...and living my much less glamorous life. But I still drank it in while I could…pretending to belong, as I sat there in my $30.00 dress, hot off the clearance rack of J.C. Penny's. Nodding and smiling at the casual mention of a winter home in Whistler, the summer home in Palm Springs, the shopping trips to Italy, all of this with the smell of expensive perfume in the air, and the Secret Service shuffling quietly in the background.
But the best part of the night, was after the festivities. My Dad turned to the fancy executives who were our hosts, and his co-workers, and said, “Excuse us…. But I have to take my daughter out for a drink.” And there we were, in a quiet swanky bar, sitting next to one another. When the waitress arrived, I ordered a Zinfandel. He ordered a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. My eyebrows shot up, and I stopped the waitress, and said… “Wait, I’ll have what he’s having.” And there we were. Me, Dad, and Johnnie.
As I sipped my scotch, I said to him, “You know, I only recently learned to drink scotch.” He shook his silver head at me, and said, “That’s something I should have taught you a long time ago.” And I nodded.
“How long do you think you’ve got to live?” I asked. He held up his hand, and spread his five fingers wide, indicating five more years. And whether it was his diabetes, his "mini-strokes" or his heart, it didn’t matter; the result was the same. “That’s what I thought,” I said. I looked him in the eyes, put my hand on his knee, and said, “I’ve been coming to terms with your death for awhile now, and I figure, if I prepare for it now, then it won’t break me when it happens…do you know how fucked up that is? ”
Then, we spoke of everything; his death, my fear of it, and how I will deal with his passing. We spoke of god, the lack thereof, life and mom. We discussed our family, his choices, and the hereafter…if any there was. Everything I wanted to ever say to him, I did. We talked of his funeral, his refusal to retire, of how I’m afraid mom will go first, and how he's afraid of the same thing.
Over the soft clinking of ice, there was no room for any resentment, frustration or judgment over his choices, or how I was raised. There was only a quiet coming to terms, and learning to be at peace with who he is, who I am, who I am because of him, and how we two have become.
