JANUARY 2001

ROCK BOTTOM

At the start of 2001, Judy and I were headed to a divorce.  In addition, I was alienated from my dance studio. 

SSQQ had been voted the best Swing studio in the city two years in a row, 1998 and 1999.  However, the effects of Carnell's vicious rumor had been devastating.  In 2000, attendance in the SSQQ Swing program had dwindled to half its former size.  My bitterness was so intense, the studio was no longer the fun job it had once been. 

My anger at seeing the studio lose its prestige was not my only problem.   Due to the bitterness I felt over all the email complaints, over the past year I had reduced my interaction to a minimum.  I withdrew from students as well as my wife.  After teaching class, I left immediately.  Fortunately, my apathy did not matter.  Salsa and our effective web site helped the studio overcome the loss of Swing business. 

FLASHBACK to 1959

THE MISTRESS

The Christmas Eve decision to divorce was tough for me to handle.  My failed marriage had sentenced my daughter to seven years of shuttling back and forth till college beckoned.  Sam deserved better.  She was putting up a brave front, but I knew this weird Dad's home-Mom's home set-up had to bother her.  I seriously questioned the wisdom of this plan, but for the life of me I could not think of a better solution.  Well, actually I could.  I suppose I could let Sam live with her mother and resign myself to seeing the girl every now and then.  However I was strongly opposed to making that sacrifice.  I had a firm reason to want Sam with me as often as possible.  And what might that reason be?  When I was 9, my father abandoned me.  Why?  My father's mistress. 

By an odd coincidence, I was the same age as Sam when my parents split up.  My father's mistress was responsible for the divorce.  She was my father's secretary.  Big surprise, right?  Dad was obsessed with her, but my mother stubbornly refused to grant him a divorce.  There was no love lost, but my mother knew she faced serious economic risk.  Mom was the one who had dropped out of college to support my father while he got his degree.  Mom feared facing a lifetime of secretarial jobs for which she was temperamentally unsuited (she wanted to be the boss, not the menial).  Unfortunately, my mother's premonition was alarmingly accurate.  Due to a strong preference to do things her way, Mom rarely lasted more than a year at her many jobs.

Given her fear, why did Mom give in to my father's demand?  She did it for me.  After a year of listening to my parents scream at each other night after night, I fell to pieces.  I was an only child with no friends, no neighbors, no relatives to turn to.  My only refuge was my bedroom where I spent many a night crying myself to sleep.  I turned into a serious discipline problem at school and my grades were barely above failing.  Ordered by the school to do something about me, my parents sent me to their therapist.  The psychiatrist offered a surprising suggestion.  Send the boy to St. John's, an expensive private school here in Houston with a reputation for academics and discipline.  His theory was that a difficult challenge would straighten me out. 

My mother faced a dilemma.  My father could pay the expensive yearly tuition at St. John's.  Or he could improve his child support and make it easier for Mom to make ends meet month to month.  Here at the start of his career as an electrical engineer, he could do one or the other.  Which would it be?  The St. John's option was a very expensive option.  The tuition was way beyond Dad's middle class income, so he strongly objected. 

"For Christ's sake, Mary, the psychiatrist is out of his mind.  Richard can't even pass Third Grade in public school.  What makes you think the boy can handle St. John's?  I say forget it.  I won't do it.  I am not going to waste my hard-earned money."

My mother put her foot down.  "I know about your mistress, Jim.  I will take you to the cleaners unless you do the right thing."  Panic-stricken, my father folded on the spot.  He agreed to pay full tuition at St. John's for three years plus child support of $100 a month in return for the much-desired divorce.  Unfortunately there would be a heavy price to pay for this Devil's Bargain.  How many ways did this decision backfire?  Everyone suffered and I mean 'Everyone', including the mistress. 

No doubt my mother gulped.  She was taking a real chance choosing what was right for me over what was best for her.  Mom had sacrificed the financial security she deserved for helping my father get his career started.  Considering she was terribly in debt during the next nine years till I left for college, Mom was a candidate for a nervous breakdown more times than I care to remember.

What about my father?  He went nuts trying to send his misfit son to a rich kid's school on a modest salary.  Nor did his new marriage get off to a rosy start.  Although the mistress got her man, she complained bitterly.  Dad had promised her the comfortable life of a stay-at-home mother.  Guess what she got instead?  The mistress got a cheap wedding ring and a short honeymoon.  There was no money for a down payment on a house plus any thought of children had to be postponed.  But the worst part was being forced to keep working at her crummy job to avoid considerable debt caused by the overwhelming St. John's tuition.  The thought that every penny she made was going towards the education of some brat the woman could care less about infuriated her no end. 

Be careful what you ask for.  My father had exchanged one bitter woman for another.  Was it worth it?  Who do you suppose the former mistress took her anger out on?  Me.  And him.  Forced to listen to a nightly tirade of bitching over the lousy deal he had made to get his divorce, Dad was given a new choice.  He could grow a backbone or he could appease the shrew and retain his sanity.  He chose to abandon me.  Over the next nine years, I saw my father four times a year.  He was as predictable as the Four Seasons.   Once in February, once before summer, my October birthday, and Christmas.  Each visit lasted an hour over lunch.   And get this.  My father's office was less than a mile from my school, five minutes by bicycle.  I understood that my stepmother hated my guts, but my father could have seen me any time he wanted during the day.  Good grief, I was just down the street!  He didn't even have to drive, I would go to him.  Dad could have given me ten minutes, fifteen minutes and the shrew would have never known.  No such luck.  I was told not to bother him.  What about the phone?  Don't call him at home and only in an emergency at the office.  Nor did he call me at home for fear my mother might answer.  So how did my father contact me for our seasonal lunch?  He left a message with the St. John's receptionist.

What about me?  I am sorry to say, but my mother was unfit for the role of solitary parent.  She consistently put her needs before mine.  Leaving me alone to fend for myself, my mother dedicated many a night to the pursuit of men, many men.  She had a bad habit of bringing them home with her.  Nor could she keep a job.  Every couple months I came home from school to find the electricity turned off.  Or the gas.  Or the water.  Unable to pay rent, when Mom got too far behind, we moved in the middle of the night.  11 homes in 9 years.  That wasn't the worst part.  If my mother went nuts... a real possibility... I would be forced to live with my father and youknowwho.  It was my worst nightmare.  Mom wasn't much, but she was all I had. 

My father stopped paying after three years.  Fortunately, the school was so pleased with my work, they gave me a scholarship to complete my nine years of elite education.  And so I gained a school and lost a father.  Considering how worthless Dad turned out to be, it was probably for the best.  But how was I supposed to know that at the time?  The problem with a lucky break is that sometimes it is a double-edged sword.  I grew up feeling so inferior to my wealthy classmates, I cannot tell you how many times I wished I could have a father for encouragement and advice. 

Oh, one more thing.  Remember that psychiatrist who recommended sending me to St. John's?  Guess what?  It was a brilliant suggestion.  Once they discovered the damage caused by my mother's neglect and my father's disappearance, several St. John's teachers stepped in to help raise me.  And what an incredible education!  I graduated with honors in the top five of my class.  I have the mistress to thank for one of the luckiest breaks of my life.  Funny how that worked out.  Was it Dumb Luck?  Or was it Fate?

JANUARY 2001

SAMANTHA

So why have I shared the story of the Mistress?  Several reasons. 

First and foremost, St. John's taught me the value of an elite education.  For this reason, at the first opportunity Judy and I enrolled Sam at Duchesne, a private Catholic girl's school noted for strong academics and a nurturing faculty.  It was a smart move.  During the 14 years Sam attended (including Pre-K and Kindergarten), she got an elite education identical to my 9-year St. John's education.

Second, in a manner very similar to my St. John's experience, Duchesne provided much-needed stability following the divorce. 

However, the main reason to share the Mistress story was to explain why my guilt left me inconsolable.   Completely against my will, I was forced to watch my daughter follow in the same awful footsteps of my own difficult past.  Only child, broken home, no neighborhood friends, dependent on a school to keep my daughter glued together.  I had prayed to help Sam avoid a similar fate... only to fail.

 When I was Sam's age, I missed my father terribly.  I never wanted my daughter to miss me.  Fortunately, there was one thing I had power over.  Knowing how tough it had been for me to grow up without a father, no doubt one can see why it was so important to share custody with Sam's mother.  Half a father on a consistent basis had to be better than piecemeal.  Yes, I was a far better father to Sam than my own father had been to me.  However it still crushed me to know I had let Sam down.  Well aware of the pain caused by my own broken home, I knew full well the problems Sam faced.  As consequence, following the separation I suffered the inevitable tidal wave of guilt over my failure.

So how did the grand two-household experiment work out?  The days following the Christmas Eve decision were sad, but not bitter.  In fact, things stayed the same for all of January.  Despite our disappointment, Judy and I remained amicable.  Continuing to live under the same roof for four weeks, we put up a united front for the sake of our daughter.  Whenever Sam was at school, we hammered out the details.  After reaching a decision on the division of property, the road was paved for an uncontested divorce to be finalized in May.  Judy agreed to continue teaching dance, so over the Holidays she rented an apartment near the studio and moved there in late January.

What about Sam?  The traditional thing to do is let the mother take over full-time.  My childhood scars said otherwise.  Half a father had to be better than two weekends a month.  I was deeply grateful to Judy for acknowledging I deserved custody as much as she did.  Judy would keep Sam on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday night, then take her to school on Wednesday.  I would pick Sam up from school Wednesday afternoon and keep her Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday night.  We took turns keeping Sam on Saturday.  

Our arrangement was admittedly awkward, so I was very glad to see Duchesne act as Sam's home away from home.  Duchesne had come highly recommended for its strong academics and strong nurturing side.  The reputation was deserved.  Seeing Sam in pain, several concerned teachers were kind enough to take her under their wing.  As I watched Duchesne become my daughter's sanctuary, I recognized the considerable irony.  After my parents' divorce, St. John's had been the only thing to keep me going.  It drove me crazy to see her suffer a similar Fate.

Ah, Fate, there's that word again.  Readers of my previous novels know that I am a big believer in Fate.  So far I have spared my Readers any serious discussion of Fate, but rest assured it's coming.  Oh boy, it is definitely coming. 

So, parent to parent, was this split-home scenario really the best arrangement?  Hard to say.  Sam will be the first to tell you there were some tough times.  On the bright side, Sam had two parents who loved her very much.  I suppose my daughter serves as evidence to prove the resilience of children forced to cope with broken homes.  Sam turned out to be special.  As I write, Sam is well on her way to a PhD in Anthropology at the University of Connecticut.  Judy and I could not be more proud of her. 

One more thing.  When I finished this chapter, I called Sam to wish her a happy 33rd birthday.  Feeling a twinge of guilt, I asked Sam what she thought about her two-home custody arrangement of yesteryear. 

"Dad, I wouldn't have had it any other way.  You both did the best you could under the circumstances.  I love you both."

FLASHBACK

TWO-TIME LOSER

I was a failure in oh so many ways.  Following the Christmas Eve separation, here I was, 50 years old, and I had yet to sustain a successful long-lasting relationship despite doing the best I could.  Take me my word for it, I tried hard.  But apparently my best was not good enough.  There were many times when I thought I was cursed in regards to love.  Which brings me to another painful confession.  Judy was not my first wife. 

My first marriage was short-lived.  It lasted a year and a cup of coffee.  Pat was an interesting woman.  I could write a book or I could write a paragraph.  Let's settle for the paragraph.  On paper, our marriage was perfect.  Pat had a lot going for her.  Very attractive, very talented.  However, Pat liked to argue.  What was there to argue about?  We had money, we had health, we had jobs, we had security.  We didn't drink, smoke, gamble or cheat.  So what did we argue about?  Jealousy.  Which to me was unnecessary because I only had eyes for my lovely wife.  However Pat didn't trust me.  Thanks to the countless women at the dance studio who, in her opinion, flirted with me, she figured it was only a matter of time till I strayed.  Did I cheat?  No.  Did I give her a legitimate reason to distrust me?  No.  Did Pat learn to trust me?  No. 

It was a shame this marriage failed.  Why was Pat so sensitive?  She was scarred by a cheating man in her previous relationship.  Heartbroken, Pat was determined to never experience that kind of pain again.  I tried to reassure her.  I explained how my childhood had been ruined by my father's mistress.  Still bitter over what my father did to me, I promised Pat I would never repeat his mistake.  Pat wouldn't listen.  She chose to nag me incessantly about her constant suspicion.  I appeased her at first, but then, unlike my father, I grew a backbone.  It is one thing to make a mistake and be punished for it.  However, I refused to tolerate ceaseless tongue-lashings over something I didn't do and had no intention of doing. 

"Pat, do you understand the concept of compromise?  Can you please meet me halfway?" 

Apparently not.  It was Pat's way or hell to pay.  Due to constant bickering, the tension became insurmountable.  Since neither of us was willing to bend, the only solution was to give up and move on.  One night I came home and Pat was gone.  It was either that or murder me.  You think I'm kidding, don't you?  I'm sure the thought crossed her mind.

JANUARY 2001

THE BITTER SEESAW EFFECT

Enough with my failed marriages; back to our story.  It is January 2001 and I am depressed out of my mind.   I have doomed my poor daughter to an extremely difficult living arrangement.  I have failed twice as a husband.  Painfully aware of my shortcomings, I faced the disheartening possibility my emotional problems from childhood would sabotage any chance of finding lasting love in the future.  But why stop there?  Surely I can think of something else I failed at.  As it turns out, yes, I can!  In addition to my wife and my daughter, I failed my students as well. 

Throughout my dance career, I faced a dilemma called the 'Seesaw Effect'.  Whenever I was miserable, the studio thrived.  Whenever I was happy, the studio suffered.  This of course is an over-simplification, but it contains a kernel of truth.  The Seesaw Effect was directly related to the ups and downs of my love life.  Whenever I was alone, I used my free time to hang with my friends from the studio and enjoy their company.  My presence served to energize every social event; business was good.  However, when I was in a committed relationship, I preferred to dedicate my free time to the woman I loved while the studio paid a price for my neglect. 

The Seesaw Effect had haunted me throughout the Eighties.  Those were the days when a revolving door of girlfriends came and left.  The problem became more serious in the Nineties.  Once Sam was born in 1991, over the next ten years it was difficult to tear myself away from my family on weekends to serve the social needs of my demanding business.  I suppose this phenomenon is not that rare.  Many people agree it is difficult to balance the demands of career versus the demands of family. 

Following my separation, I felt dead inside.  What could I do to break free of this awful guilt and my studio-related apathy?  In the past, whenever I was miserable, I poured more energy into the studio.  Would that work again?  Maybe, but it wouldn't be easy.  I had a lot of scar tissue to deal with.

DEATH BY A THOUSAND PAPER CUTS

Where did that scar tissue come from?  There were two reasons for the failure of my marriage.  One was Carnell.  Judy was not the only person traumatized by Carnell's dirty trick.  Judy and I had gone out of our way to help Carnell gain his reputation only to feel horribly betrayed.  Why let someone new stab me in the back? 

The other reason was death by one thousand paper cuts.  The advent of the Internet brought "Email" along with it.  I learned the hard way that Email can cause information overload which leads to inevitable stress and anxiety.  At a time when the studio was at its all-time attendance peak, Email made it far too easy for students to bury me under an avalanche of complaints.

Everyone wants to run a successful business.  But let me tell you a secret.  Although I prefer Success, it definitely brings its own set of problems.   Frankly speaking, I had no idea how cope with the overload.  So I went crazy instead.

If you need a root canal, a dentist is indispensible.  Unfortunately, dance teachers are in a different category. 

We sold a service no one needed. 

Don't get me wrong, people enjoy dancing.  They like our teachers, they like our classes.  Hey, great entertainment!  Good exercise, good challenge, perfect way to make friends.  But let's face it, when something more important comes along, Dancing is expendable.  And for some reason, they expected me to do something about the money they paid for something they didn't need anymore. 

What did they complain about?  "Hey, Rick, something's come up!"  Now they want their money back.  Are we talking about a lot of money here?  No.  Unlike other dance studios, SSQQ never breathed a word about "Contracts".  We charged by the month. 

How much for a class?  8 hours of lessons cost $44 for men, $36 for women.  Our rules said no refunds after the first class.  No one paid any attention to that rule.  Let's say they had to leave town for business, causing them to miss two of four classes.  You would be amazed at the number of people who asked for a partial refund.  Or they wanted credit so they could take the class over again for free at a more convenient time. 

The avalanche did not stop there.  People would email to request an exception to our rules.  Can I bring my boyfriend along for free?  Can I start in the third week instead of the first week?  Can I take the class first, then pay later if I like it?  Can I bring my children with me and save paying a babysitter?  My mother's in town for a week.  Can she join the class?  Why do I have to switch partners; I only want to dance with my husband.  I don't like my group class, can I switch my tuition to private lessons?  My class is too crowded.  My class is too small.  The studio is too hot.  The studio is too cold.  Not enough girls in my class to dance with.  Not enough boys.  The men don't know what they're doing, I want to switch to another class.  Or better yet, just give me my money back.  I hate to say it, but many of the complaints were justified.  Some rooms were so overcrowded the students barely had space to dance.  And the heat was stifling.  Unfortunately, like a city that can't build new freeways fast enough, there were no quick and easy solutions. 

I referred to my gradual descent as "Death by One Thousand Paper Cuts".  There were 1,000 students and just one of me.  Each email acted like a miniscule grain of sand in the Colorado River carving out the Grand Canyon.  Any time something came along to interfere with a student's dance class, they wanted me to do something about it.  Every request ate up my time.  I was getting 100 emails a day, 98% of which required a response.  Every time I answered in a way someone did not like, they emailed again.

By itself, each request was no big deal.  However, when multiplied by one thousand students, I was losing my mind.  Minimum two hours a day.  The daily ordeal of answering 100 emails had a maddening effect on me.  I became very cynical.  Due to my marital problems and the daily avalanche of complaints, I lost my patience and became short with people.  Sometimes I even lost my temper in public. 

Thanks to Carnell and Email, running the studio ceased to be fun during 1999 and 2000.  I had served my studio to the best of my ability for the past 20 years, but now my bitterness knew no limits.  My current attitude was leave me the (...) alone.  Like Judy, it drove me crazy to see people I once thought were my friends take Carnell's side.  And if I stopped to talk to a student, half the time they would take the opportunity to complain about something.  Although I still enjoyed teaching, I was no longer willing to befriend students or teachers at the studio.  And so I retreated into a shell.  

By day I buried myself in my office writing my Newsletter.  By night I left for home immediately if it was Judy's night to stay for Practice Night.  If it was my turn to stay, I hid in the DJ booth to avoid interaction with students.  Do you want to know the weird thing?  Despite my apathy and lousy attitude, the studio was more successful than ever thanks to the overlapping Swing and Salsa eras.  Since my leadership was unnecessary, I saw no reason to change my ways.  Let's face it, I was a basket case.  And that's putting it mildly.  The day came when my beleaguered wife couldn't take my ever-present hostility anymore.  When Judy moved to the exit sign, I did not blame her.  I was not an easy person to like.  I didn't like myself either. 

And so I hit Rock Bottom, territory I was more familiar with than I care to reveal.  What is interesting about my previous trips to Rock Bottom, there always seemed to be someone there to pick me up.  For example, following my 1986 divorce from Pat, a close friend named Tom Easley roomed with me on a ski trip.  His friendship had turned things around.  As luck would have it... or Fate... in January 2001 it happened again.  

One day Tom called to invite me on a ski trip.