A letter to the children of my best friend
As Christmas approaches, I’ve been thinking a lot about memory and gratitude. There’s a lot of neuroscience research that tells us that memory doesn’t work at all like instant-replay; it’s more like a whimsical reconstructive do-over. This is why eyewitness testimony is frequently thrown out in courts of law. This should neither be surprising nor alarming.
I’d add though, a glass-is-hall-full corollary of this observation is that we are the authors of our own reality. And when it comes to friendships – the people who really mean something to us – we are both subjects and authors. We get to bear witness to the transit of remarkable one-of-a-kind humans as they pass through the world.
2020 is the first year I buckled down, and sent out holiday cards to friends and family. Strange, right? When it came to my best friend’s family, I wanted to send a note that was a bit more than just the boilerplate Happy Holidays. It became a typed letter to his children.
Dear ***** and ***,
The last time we all met was in New York City. We took a long walk along the water by the West Side highway, past the Whitney museum. On the grass, we played a short scrimmage of football. Your dad lobbed a pass to Charlotte. She caught it, then ran to score a touchdown. It was a great day. This letter is addressed to you because I want to let you know, in my own telling, how much your dad means to me.
With Love, from New York City,
Ben Willenbring
Your dad’s friend
Levendis
Four years before I met your dad, I read a remarkable short story by an American writer named Harlan Ellison. The main character, Levendis, pops in and out of history, making small alterations with no apparent rhyme or reason. The story is told as a series of dated reports, like diplomatic cables, concisely detailing his various interventions. They each leave the impression of a possibly ironic parable – at turns, playful, righteous, random; at other times just plain bizarre. For instance, one day he raises the IQ of every human on earth by 40 points, only to lower it by 42 points a day later. Levendis’ motives don’t neatly fall into categories of good or bad. They are just… unfathomable. Later in the story, toward the end, you find out that Levendis is an emissary for an even more mysterious force, simply known as the master parameter.
His final report says this:
“We invent our lives (and other people’s) as we live them; what we call ‘life’ is itself a fiction. Therefore, we must constantly strive to produce good art.”
In Greek, the name Levendis means someone who is full of the pleasure of living. When I think of your dad; of how he managed to surface in my life, of how he could be such an amazing person, I think of Levendis.
Bone Marrow
When your dad was in his early twenties, he saved the life of a complete stranger. He did so at no small personal risk, and with zero financial compensation. He barely told anybody about it. We were roommates at the time, living in Chicago in a two-bedroom apartment above a nightclub called Double Door. We were constantly broke, despite working as waiters at a fancy restaurant called Red Light.
One day, a letter arrived from a hospital. Someone needed a bone marrow transplant, and as it turns out, your dad was a match. The letter didn’t say who the recipient was, but mentioned that without the operation, that person would die. Back in those days, even though bone marrow transplants were fairly standard, there was the very real risk of death from unforeseen complications. The operation itself wasn’t painful, but recuperation could be quite difficult. At the time, I thought he’d throw that letter in the trash. But after thinking it over, he decided to take a week off work to drive to Detroit. Once there, he checked himself into the hospital, underwent surgery, and recuperated for a few days. Afterwards, he spent a couple days with his family, then drove back to Chicago. He didn’t talk about it a whole lot. Many of our coworkers had no idea why he was even gone.
A year later, another letter arrived. This time, from the person who received the life-saving bone marrow infusion. I remember the day your dad received that letter. He read it aloud, and I was there. It was a simple and heartfelt expression of genuine gratitude. As I listened to the words, I felt myself bursting with pride. Pride at just bearing witness to the moment; of having a friend capable of doing something so good and selfless for another human being. It made me feel like I was a good person just for knowing your dad.
The Big Enchilada
In 1998, your dad worked part time at a small graphic design studio in Chicago. They mostly did brochure layouts for a local pharmaceutical company. The work had an uncomplicated meat and potatoes midwestern ethos; trifolds with linear fades and stock photography showing trustworthy white people in boardrooms with their sleeves rolled up and pencils dangling out of their mouths. Your dad wasn’t impressed, but saw an opportunity to clock some billable hours and learn some new things. That is one of the traits I admire most about him by the way: he’s a genuine Grade-A New York City hustler who will work circles around most people alive.
The studio manager, Vince, was only 8 years older than your dad, but constantly asking him for advice on restaurants, books, fashion, and the latest trends – like this new thing everyone was talking about called THE INTERNET.
One thing you have to realize. Back in those days, most people didn’t own a cell phone, didn’t even have the ability to connect to the internet. The founders of Facebook were still in junior high school, Google had just received $100,000 of seed money to get up and running, and a company called Amazon just started trading on the NASDAQ at $18 a share. Your dad was THE GUY when it came to explaining all that stuff to Vince and the other Photoshop grinders at the studio.
Vince’s dad, Vince senior, picked up on that. He was the real boss – the CAPO, the old man, the head honcho – an-old school button-down man who enjoyed calling the shots, handing out cigars at the end of a big job, showing up with flowers for the secretary unexpectedly, or just razzing you about your shirt or your girlfriend, or telling you to stop using the word DUDE so much (said it made a man look weak).
One day, Vince senior pulled your dad aside, and quietly asked him to put together a proposal for a big job – something new – something the studio had never attempted before: web design. He said he couldn’t really trust Vince junior to pull it off.
“Look, I love my son Vince, but he knows print. I know print. Brochures are our bread and butter. But this new stuff, with the world-wide webs… it’s like WAY WAY over his head. This could be big. Like… it could lead to other stuff. If we do this right, it could be the BIG ENCHILADA.” ”
Your dad was on it, and I helped him put the proposal together. That was the first time I got to see his strange super power in action: immunity to the effects of sleep deprivation. There’s a fifty-fifty chance you guys have this power too by the way, but it doesn’t really come in handy until you’re 18 years old.
Back in those days, we weren’t what you’d call systematic about HOW we worked. We just went at it really, really hard. All day, all night from our apartment. We’d buy meals at 4am from across the street at a place called Wicker Dog, just as people poured out from the nearby bars and clubs. We’d wolf down some chow, then keep plugging along into the next day, fueled on burgers and fries. I’d be wiped out by 1pm, take a nap, then wake up at 5pm to see your dad still typing away at his computer. “Hey, check this out…” he’d say. Then we’d repeat that for the next 48 hours. By the second day, the two of us started calling the work by its Vince senior code name: the BIG ENCHILADA. I cannot tell you how many files were created with the name big_enchilada_v19… big_enchilada_v20… etc. Soon, everyone at the studio picked it up. Word got back to Vince senior, which made everyone a little nervous. But it wound up making him happy. That’s just how the old man was.
A month before Christmas, we emailed our best version to Vince senior for final approval. He read it multiple times, then called your dad. There were a few things he didn’t understand. In some spots, he just wanted to exert some editorial control over the final product, and make a suggestion on how to word something differently – gently putting his fingerprints on it in a small way. The way your dad handled those conversations was a master class in diplomacy. Most people (especially young creative men) are very protective about their work, and the minute someone comes along to suggest a change, even a small one, it’s natural to react with anger. Your dad didn’t do that. He realized that allowing Vince senior’s edits to make it into the final proposal was the best possible course of action. It cost us nothing, and it would make the old man feel like he had won a victory. It also made him a more enthusiastic advocate for the success of the project. Genius.
After a day or so, we reached a final revision, and the proposal was handed over to Vince junior for printing and binding. On that matter, Vince senior again laid down the law:
“You know what fellas – we gotta use leather binders. The heavy good stuff. Its gotta feel expensive. This report has to… you know, WEIGH a lot.”
And he held up his hands, as though cradling an invisible cannonball. Vince junior nodded his head up and down. The rest of us nodded, and did our best to pantomime heaviness. Yes, yes, it has to be a TON. And so, the final printed leather-bound BIG ENCHILADA weighed in at somewhere between 18 and 22 ounces – roughly equivalent to a high-end restaurant-grade porterhouse steak.
Within days, multiple ENCHILADITAS arrived from the printer. They were delivered to the client for review, and by the following week, we all received word that we had been given the green light to move forward. I was completely stunned. Vince senior and junior were thrilled. Your dad made that happen by the sheer force of his will. That, plus a strange super power and a state-of-the-art twenty-pound MacBook laptop with 128 MB of ram. All I wanted to do was sleep for two straight days.
Twenty Percent
“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”
You really get to see what a person is made of when they’re under pressure. In 2008, the global financial system nearly collapsed. Your dad was running a business with about a dozen employees (myself among them) right when things went bonkers. Many of our clients were having difficulties, pulling back on projects, cutting down staff; some went out of business entirely. I remember thinking: how can any business get by right now? All the money in the world is drying up, people aren’t spending, people are scared.
Your dad called an all-hands meeting. I was sure he was going to announce that he would have to lay off a few of us. He did something different. He gave us the facts. He told us about the company’s financial situation: told us which of our clients were in trouble and which weren’t, how much revenue we could count on month to month, and for how long. Then he went on to explain that all of us would need to make a choice between the following two options:
A few of us would be laid off, while the rest would continue on, business as usual. We’d have no idea in advance who would be laid off, but the owners would do their best to ensure a fair outcome
Everyone would take a voluntary 20% pay cut until further notice – that is, until the country was out of the weeds – whenever that was. We’d revisit things in a year no matter what, and if the coast was clear, we’d go back to business as usual
Another thing: if we chose option 2, it had to be unanimous – every single one of us had to be completely on board. Your dad scheduled one-on-one meetings with everyone over the course of the next week. We were spread out in so many places: Chicago, New York, LA, San Francisco, Paris, London, Vancouver, Toronto. He didn’t judge or try to persuade. He just listened and heard people’s concerns.
In less than a month, he called another meeting to announce the decision. Option 2 – that was the path we would all take – for better or worse – no looking back. The salary cuts would go into effect immediately. We adjusted. We made it. Together.
A year later, the company your dad had built was back on track. The economy was improving, our clients weren’t as skittish about taking on big projects, and a young black man named Barack Obama was the new President of the United States. Things were looking up.
A couple years later later, I found out something I didn’t know. During that difficult time in 2008, back when your dad was trying to keep everything together, he decided to sacrifice a larger percentage of his own salary to save his company. More than the 20% he was asking of his employees. Again, he didn’t tell anyone.
Having this new piece of information, I replayed memories of conversations your dad and I had; memories of my visits to him and his family at his modest apartment in Venice. I remember his hopefulness about the future; of his excitement whenever he’d talk about the day he would move the family into a bigger place, so that his son could have more room to play. And of carving out a space for his wife, so she could focus on her art; and of future dinners together with family, where everyone was seated at a super long table, all the grandparents and Uncle Dave there; and maybe even another baby joining the family. And I remember his determination to make that happen, no matter what. One day, all together, in a big house.
I am crying as I write these words now, because I can’t express to you how much I admire your dad. I hope that you know that there are many, many people in the world who feel exactly the same way I do. He loves you so much.
With Love, from New York City,
Ben Willenbring
Your dad’s friend
“We invent our lives (and other people’s) as we live them; what we call ‘life’ is itself a fiction. Therefore, we must constantly strive to produce good art.”