Old Stuff 3: American Dream

His children stood around him as he waited to die. From his hospital bed, he could see their faces, the nine of them. Girls crying, boy’s faces locked in stern resolve, both practiced for just such a moment. Lawrence George the First, a man who conquered America, finally had enough of being fed from a tube and slowly began to let himself pass in front of his posterity. The man who had carried himself from the immigrant slums of Bismarck, North Dakota, to a mansion on Lake Shore Drive, would have the featured obituary in both the Sun-Times and the Tribune.
His grandchildren stood further off, mulling about in his hospital room, unsure of how to pay their respects to the man who created everything in their lives. He laid amused at their passive will, their inability to action. They wouldn’t last a minute in the real world, he told himself, but as soon as the thought passed through his mind, he realized they already had. James’ boy was a vice president of manufacturing at a plant out-side of Milwaukee, Melinda’s daughter a partner in Omaha’s largest law firm.
He looked into the eyes of his youngest, Lawrence Jr., and tried to smile reassuringly, to let him know this how he wanted it to end. The expression he made must have frightened his child, because he started to call for the nurse.
“Your... son—“ was all Lawrence could bring himself to say to pacify his scion, and he nearly passed. The meaning was conveyed. The Grandfather wanted to have a final moment with his most direct progeny, Lawrence George III. The young man must have been little over 18, Lawrence could not quite recall, but he recognized the child that he had taken special interest in over the last years, “Yes, Grandpa, what is it?” His speech was delicate, yet forceful, the perfect tone. Larry, they called him, a strongly built lad with a good George face.
His life had been spent in the finest of private institutions, where his potential was recognized at a very young age. Infatuated with knowledge, just like his grandfather. His potential, distressingly, was never realized. He didn’t study, his teachers said. “He gets by on his intelligence instead of flourishing,” the school counselors proclaimed. The highest paid grade school teachers in the country couldn’t get Larry to realize pragmatic accomplishment.
His 7th grade teacher, after receiving another sub par history project, called Larry into his office to figure out once and for all the true dilemma. Getting the boy to talk about the subject was no problem, he was obviously fascinated, but when the talk turned to grades the boy became distant, as if the conversation no longer held him. When the teacher made his report to Lawrence Jr. all he could muster was that the boy had no sense of accomplishment, no pride in the final product, no understanding of success. But still, two years later, he had been accepted into the finest high school in all of Chicago, and again (with the help of a well timed donation) four years later to Georgetown University, no one had stopped him along the way. The Larry of seventh grade was right, the lack of accomplishment never amounted to anything.
Lying in the hospital bed at the end of his life, Lawrence thought of how the world laid at young Larry’s feet the day he was born. Laying on his hospital bed, staring up at the boy, at the same age as himself when scrapped to be able to afford a way to get to college. He recognized the Polo logo on his collared shirt, and the mark of an English tailor on the lapel of his jacket. Slowly it dawned on him, and as he tried as hard as he could to fight it, the old man could not think of it a different way. His eyes widened and his breath became short. Staring at the logo he realized, what an evil he leveled on this boy.
Lawrence struggled to shed a tear, his last, thinking of the theft. He had pulled himself up by the bootstraps, nothing was expected of him, and he persevered. He was the stuff of Hollywood legend, son of Hungarian immigrants who had changed their last name at Ellis Island, carrying their young son to a land where he could hope. He swam up stream, pulling himself along powerfully by sheer work. He shuddered, for those who came after him, his success had frozen that stream, and it was all young Larry could do but skate by.
As a child, Lawrence got beat up for his lunch money by his best friends, the despair of the time and place pushing people beyond the bounds of humanity. With frigid Bismarck always hanging over him, Larry earned a full scholarship to Marquette University. As a sophomore in college, a professor called Lawrence into his office. “I’ve noticed impeccable work this semester and you’ve attended every one of my classes, I would just like to commend you. You have accomplished very much.” The smile didn’t leave Lawrence’s face for days, but the compliment did not increase his grades. It was impossible to improve the straight A’s.
He moved on to graduate school. His weekly schedule, including work, class, studying, giving private tutoring, and fraternity obligations, allowed Lawrence 45 minutes of personal time on Sunday afternoon. Young Larry had none of it, none of the difficulty, none of the experience, none of the reason to dream for his wildest fantasies were granted at the drop of a hat.
Lawrence could see 10 years down the road. The boy who they called “Tre” as a child would be hired out of school, or maybe spend a year or two on his masters. Either way, a management job would be his with a prestigious company. A wife would soon follow, kids, the normal office promotions regular, slowing later, with maybe an affair towards the end when the man realized his life was slipping away. When Larry lay in a hospital bed at the end of his life, there would be no reporters in the hallway, no day of remembrance in his company. His grandchildren wouldn’t owe their lives to him. He wouldn’t, no, couldn’t, be Lawrence George the First.
Laying there, standing under his direct line, surrounded by his children, the Lion of Chicago business struggled, garbled, and sputtered “I… I’m… sorry.” Then, closing his eyes against the sight of his greatest sin, he died.