Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

'That was fine,' said Father as we drove to downtown Boston.

'Not just fine — fantastic!' I replied.

The surest sign of growing old is that you start to care about who wins the Harvard-Yale game.

But as I said, the crucial thing is that we won.

Father parked the car near State Street in his office lot.

And we headed toward the restaurant to feast on lobster and banalities.

He strode with vigor. For despite his age, he still rowed on the Charles five times a week. He was in shape.

Our conversation was conspicuously football-oriented. Father never had — and I sensed never would — asked me the fate of my relationship with Marcie. Nor would he broach the other subjects he assumed taboo.

And so I took to the offensive.

As we passed the offices of Barrett, Ward and Seymour, I said, 'Father?'

'Yes?'

'I'd like to talk to you about … the Firm.'

He glanced at me. He didn't smile. But it took every muscle in his body to restrain himself.

Athlete that he was, he wouldn't break his stroke until he crossed the finish line.

This was no sudden whim. And yet I never told my father by what complicated paths I had arrived at the decision to be … part of things. For it had taken time to work out.

Unlike my usual decisions, I had pondered every day (and night) since I'd returned from Father's party more than half a year ago.

To start with, I could never love New York again.

It's not a city to cure loneliness. And what I needed most was to belong. Somewhere.

And maybe it was not just that I came to see my family with different eyes. Maybe I just wanted to go home.

I've tried to be so many things so far, just to avoid confronting who I am.

And I am Oliver Barrett. The Fourth.

December 1976

I've been in Boston nearly five years now. I worked in tandem with my father till he left the firm.

At first, I do confess, I missed the legal action. But the more I got involved, the more I found that what: we do at Barrett, Ward and Seymour is important too. I mean the companies we help to float create new jobs. And that's a source of pride to me.

Speaking of employment, in Fall River all our mills are flourishing. Actually, the only setback that our workers suffered has been on the playing field.

Each summer at our picnic, Rank & File plays Management in softball. Since my drafting into service, Labor's tide of victories has been reversed. I'm batting .604 (yes, folks), with seven homers in four years. I think they're looking forward to my ultimate retirement.

The Wall Street Journal does not mention all the enterprises we have financed. One omission was Phil's Bake Shop … of Fort Lauderdale. The gray and cold of Cranston winters got to Phil, and Florida was just too tempting.

He calls me once a month. I ask about his social life, aware that there are many eligible ladies in his area. He ducks the question with a 'Time will tell'. And quickly turns the subject to my social life.

Which is pretty good. I live on Beacon Hill, that legendary cornucopia of recent college graduates. It's not too difficult to make new friends. And not just business types. I often lift a glass with Stanley Newman, who's a jazz pianist. Or Gianni Barnea, a just-about-to-be-discovered painter.

And, of course, I'm still in touch with all my old friends. The Simpsons have a little son and Gwen is preg with number two. They stay with me when they're in Boston for a football game or something. (I've got lots of room.)

Steve reports Joanna Stein has married Martin Jaffe, who I gather is an opthalmologist as well as an oboist. They're living on the Coast.

According to a little squib I read in Time, Miss Binnendale has recently re-wed. A guy named Preston Elder ('thirty-seven, Washington attorney').

I suppose the matrimony epidemic will eventually strike me. Of late I've seen a lot of Annie Gilbert, who's a distant cousin. At this point I can't say if it's serious.

Meanwhile, thanks to all those hockey fans who voted for me, I'm a Harvard Overseer. It's a good excuse to go to Cambridge and pretend I'm still what I no longer am. The undergraduates appear much younger and a trifle scruffier. But who am I to judge? My job obliges me to wear a tie.

So life is challenging. The days are full. I get a lot of satisfaction from my work. Yes, Barrett that I am, I get my rocks off on Responsibility.

I'm still in shape. I jog along the Charles each evening.

If I go five miles, I get to glimpse the lights of Harvard just across the river. And see all the places I had walked when I was happy.

I run back in the darkness, reminiscing just to pass the time.

Sometimes I ask myself what I would be if Jenny were alive.

And I answer:

I would be alive.