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“But I don't want you to ever doubt that he was proud of you, Aaron,” he continues, his eyes boring into mine. “Very proud of you.”
It would have been nice to hear that directly from my dad, but I don't think that Ralph is spouting false platitudes. If he's saying it, chances are it's something my father actually said, which makes me feel good. It sounds strange, and perhaps a little childish, but pleasing my father and making him proud is something I've always tried to do.
It's also something I always thought I fell well short of, given the fact that I don't share his passions. My dad was devoted and passionate about what he did – about the company he and Ralph built from the ground up. He was proud as hell of it – and well he should have been, given the empire they carved out for themselves in the industry.
But real estate development isn't something that's ever interested me. Like, not at all. It's something my dad and I sparred over more than a few times. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but my heart was never in real estate. It's not something I could have ever faked.
After many battles with him, my dad begrudgingly let me explore my own path. He wasn't happy about it and sometimes took shots at me now and then – he called it testing my resolve to do something different – but he never actively tried to dissuade or undermine me from following my passion. It's something I've always appreciated.
So, to hear Ralph tell me that my father is proud of me – well, it means a lot.
My passion is – and always has been – computers. After graduating from college, I spent a year overseas. My father called it my year of being a hippie – said I was ‘finding myself’. I guess in a way, that's true. I spent the year trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life. Whether I wanted to spend my life following in his footsteps or charting my own course.
After coming home, I chose the latter, starting up my own company – Frontline Technologies. Knowing tech as well as I do, I understand the inherent risks companies who rely on computer technology run. My company helps eliminate those risks by testing current security protocols, finding the holes, and finding ways to fix them – often writing an entirely new set of protocols, or designing a new security system from the ground up.
I was lucky in that, between my own savings and a small loan from my father, I was able to get Frontline off the ground. It took a lot of hours, and a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, but since its founding, Frontline has grown exponentially, as has our sterling reputation. We have important clients all around the country and handle computer security for several large corporations.
Over the last four years or so, Frontline has gone from a one-man operation – just me in a rented one-room office space – to a staff of more than fifty. I've hired some of the best technological minds I've been able to find, and our trajectory continues to trend upward. In the coming years, I have my sights set on far bigger, better things for Frontline. I'm going to take the company international, and we will hopefully be competing for the biggest contracts out there.
Even though he wasn't the kind of father who wanted to be your best friend, that's one thing I'll always be grateful to him for – giving me the freedom to chase my own dream. Despite his own personal reservations, he never once tried to force me to live out his plan for life. He allowed me to be me, make my own way in the world, and build my own legacy.
“I'll see you at JackJack's tomorrow?” Ralph asks.
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“Going to give me any idea what this is about?”
“Just tying up loose ends and all,” I reply.
Ralph's smile is small, but he nods. “Okay, I'll see you tomorrow.”
He steps forward and embraces me again – and yeah, it still feels very awkward. After a moment, he steps back and walks away slowly, his head down. In a lot of ways, Ralph is taking my dad's death even harder than I am – a fact not lost on some of the people I see milling around, waiting to offer me their condolences. I haven't shed a single tear, and judging by the veiled looks I'm seeing, some of them obviously think I'm a monster for it.
But they didn't know my dad. Not really. He wasn't a man given to sentimentality and wouldn't have wanted me to cry for him. He would have wanted – maybe even expected – me to put my head down and move forward. It was always forward with him.
And that's the best way, I think, to honor him and his legacy.
I stand next to the casket to receive all of the condolences from the crowd as they shuffle by to pay their final respects. It all starts to blur together after a little while, and I'm getting anxious to get out of here. I have things I need to do.
Finally, the last of the mourners file past me with a muttered word of condolence, leaving me alone with the casket. I turn and lay my hand on the smooth, polished wood as I admire the large bouquets of roses laid out on top – probably an expense and production he would have hated. Knowing my father, the way I did, I'm sure he would have preferred to have been cremated, tossed in an old coffee can, and thrown away. He was so practical and unsentimental, I doubt he would have even wanted a decorative urn.
But funerals aren't for the dead. They're for the living. It's to allow them to say goodbye, and in many cases, get some closure. And although he may not have had a lot of close friends, there are obviously a lot of people who respected him enough to turn up today to say their goodbyes to him.
“I guess this is it, old man,” my voice is barely more than a whisper.
I don't quite know what to say at the moment. What are my final words to my father going to be? No, we didn't have a close relationship, but we didn't have a bad relationship either. And I am very grateful to him for the many things he did for me throughout the course of my life. Without him, Frontline might not exist, and I might not have my clear sense of self.
His parenting methods may not have been warm and fuzzy, but he did indeed prepare me well for life. He prepared me well for the day I'd have to stand on my own two feet, alone in this world. That's a debt I'll never be able to repay.
“Thanks, old man,” I say. “For everything.”
Chapter Two
Aaron
The following morning, I lean back in the plush wingback chair that sits in front of the desk of JackJack Nicklaus, who’s been my father's personal attorney for as far back as I can remember – not the golfer. He's a pretty straight-laced, buttoned-up man and it irritates him when people make the obvious joke about his name. It's not that he doesn't have a sense of humor, he just prefers his jokes to be a bit wittier than that.
Ralph is sitting in the matching chair to my right and we're both waiting for Jack to come in. Diplomas and plaques of achievement hang on the walls, along with photographs of Jack standing beside some of the country's most famous people. He's worked for celebrities, politicians, athletes – many of them even keeping him on a permanent retainer. The man knows his business and is great at what he does, I can't deny that.
