At NYU, we called Willis “the workhorse” because if you needed anything at all – a move, a new muffler for your car, a date for a wedding … whatever – all you had to do was ask him and he’d come up with something or someone. So resourceful was he that, after graduation, he managed to get us all a ride up the 30 Rock elevator to the Rainbow Room so we could see the view over Manhattan. We knew better than to ask questions.
In his junior year, he started WorkhorseWillis.com, an online service site that featured a horse avatar with his head on it and an intake form where customers could make requests and pay 20% upfront for his services.
What started as a supplemental income quickly became a small business. Willis was fielding requests from politicians, housewives, students, doctors, secretaries … you name it, he served it.
He had managed to graduate (somehow). He opted against law school, which was the original plan, and convinced his father to invest in WorkhorseWills’ expansion. Three years later, the man who had taken me to the top of Manhattan was now on top of the Forbes Under 40 list, a millionaire many times over.
Which is why it was moderately embarrassing to see him stroll up my front driveway, covered in corporate garb head to toe, looking around and confused.
“This is where you’ve been living?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Palatial, isn’t it?”
“Do you actually need a full van, or is this everything?” he asks, looking around my apartment.
I had stacked my personal belongings in a single pile, in the middle of the entryway – about 20 small boxes, mostly books, and a stack of newspaper clippings that was about two feet deep.
“That’s everything,” I say. “The furniture stays.”
He shakes his head. “Wow, okay. Guess we will be home in time for Happy Hour after all.”
We begin loading the boxes into the WorkhorseWillis van, which he has parked at the end of my driveway. It’s a big enough box truck that we could have taken the furniture, but I didn’t care. It was more important to me that, in fact, Willis was right – the five-hour drive from Middle Valley to Manhattan will put us in Greenwich Village by 3 o’clock and on a stool at the White Oak Tavern by 5.
Back home.
I look at Willis and I think about how snooty we all were, standing around sipping our cordials while he’d be responding to a page or a text message from someone who needed help. This man turned his natural talent into something successful, something he could build a life on, and we poo-pooed him.
Of course, I thought I’d be changing the world with journalism. Little did I know what 40 years in local news could do to a person. I can’t blame Bernie for being the way he is – it’s not his fault he didn’t get hired at the Times. I have no insight into his marriage with Elyse or how that ended, but judging by how he was at work, I’m sure the homelife was not a pizza party.
So I ask myself as I load the last box into the van and Willis steps in behind the wheel: What exactly am I taking with me back to New York, besides experience covering murders, a six-figure severance package and an acceptance letter from NYU’s journalism graduate program?
Well, if Miss Comportment is to be believed, there is a book there, so I’ll keep my mouth shut – for now.
In the meantime, I look back at the apartment house, the trees around it. Madam McMurtry’s cat strolls behind the van, looking for handouts. (No food today, sweetheart.)
I look out toward River Road. I leave here with new knowledge, yes, but, honestly, more questions than answers.
As I hop into the van beside Willis, I have a flashback to the Cornell trip from hell with Sheriff Paul and think of him in that jail cell, what he must be feeling or thinking. I look toward the Riverside and, for a moment, consider making a stop to wish Cassie well. But the moment passes quickly.
I turn toward the driver’s side. “Let’s go. The Knicks play tonight, yes?”
Gunnar Olafsson