My father was worse in his own way. He’d found out I worked at Intrepid Tech about a year into my employment there. One day, he’d been walking through the building with a client when he’d spotted me emptying trash bins on the third floor. His face had gone through an extraordinary range of expressions—shock, recognition, and finally, purest mortification. He’d grabbed his client’s elbow and practically sprinted in the opposite direction.
That evening, he’d been waiting when I came home, his face purple with rage.
“You work at MY company?” he’d hissed, blocking me at the basement door. “Do you have any idea how this makes me look? My own son, cleaning toilets where I work? What if someone sees you? What if they connect us?”
“I needed a job,” I’d said simply. “I’m sorry if it bothers you.”
“Bothers me? It humiliates me! Couldn’t you have found work somewhere else? Anywhere else?”
I could have. I had two hundred and eighty million dollars in the bank. I could have bought the entire office building and converted it into a museum dedicated to my father’s mediocrity. Instead, I’d said: “I’ll try to stay out of sight.”
