Autopsy of a Coincidence

The instruction or ‘prompt’ I was given to write this was. 

   Write a story about a coincidence that ‘seems’ too good to be true.

The thing about this coincidence, it doesn’t just rise to the level of seeming to be too good to be true, it’s a whopper! And still feels that way fifty-years later. It was actually a series of coincidences that occurred over a two-week period. By fate, happenstance or pure coincidence each event led to the next and eventually to the ultimate coincidence which changed my life for the better, forever. 

It was the early 1970’s. I had been discharged from the Marines and was living back at home in Massachusetts. I had no training in any trade, no college education and no clue as to what I wanted to do or be. Frankly, I didn’t even think about it. All I knew was, I didn’t want to be where I was or be doing what I was doing. So, without notice, I packed my things into my USMC duffel and stuck out my thumb. I hitchhiked all over America for nearly two years. When traveling by thumb you come to depend on coincidences. Many a night, I’d have slept without a roof over my head, if not for a coincidence. Many a day, I’d go without a meal, if not for a coincidence. That’s just the way it was.

This particular series of coincidences began at the Los Angeles Mission in 1973. I was given a cot in a large room with many cots where many much older men slept at night. These days we call these men ‘disenfranchised’ or ‘homeless.’ Back then, we were called bums. What made me different from the other bums was, I didn’t mind being a bum at all. I signed up for it. The others never wanted this fate. To achieve the status of bum they had to lose a job, a home, a family and all hope of ever seeing a better tomorrow. I knew I didn’t want to ever become this kind of bum. 

There happened to be a small Greek restaurant across the street. What a coincidence!

As a boy growing up in Lynn my best friends were Greek, and I spent more time at their house than mine. I became familiar with certain Greek words and phrases and with Greek food. So, I went to the Greek place and asked if they could use some help. Any job would do and in return all I asked for was one meal a day and whatever the owner wanted to pay. The owner gave me a pop quiz. He’d say ‘Souvlaki’. I’d say, ‘Greek kabobs.’ He’d say ‘Pastitsio’. I’d say, ‘Greek lasagna.’ He named every dish on the menu. I knew what it was. I had a job.

On the first Friday night of employment the actor Vincent Price walked in with his wife Coral. You could’ve knocked me over with a chunk of feta cheese. What the hell was one of the most famous stars in Hollywood doing dining at a small hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant in the Mission District of L.A.? Turns out, Mr. Price was also author of several cookbooks and was consider a great gourmet chef. Vincent Price didn’t choose a restaurant based on reputation or location. He chose because of the food and of all the Greek restaurants in L.A., this was his favorite.

I was responsible for only three tables and by ‘coincidence’ the Prices were seated at one of them. I remember it was hard to maintain my composure. As I approached Mrs. Price was reading the menu and Mr. Price was doing an L.A. Times crossword puzzle. Apparently, he already knew what he wanted to order. As I got within earshot, I heard him ask his wife.

    “Cora, what’s an eight-letter word for the tallest living terrestrial animal?”  

Mrs. Price didn’t know but, by ‘coincidence’, I did.

    “Giraffe!”

Both Prices looked up at me and smiled. 

    “Thank you, very much young man.” Vincent said.

I can’t recall exactly what I said but whatever it was made both of them laugh.

   “So, what would you recommend?” he asked.

   I recall being surprised, “Recommend?”

   “I had my heart set on a salad and, as an entree Papoutsakia.” That’s Greek stuffed eggplant.

   “To tell the truth Mr. Price, I just started here, and I’d hate to recommend something and have you disappointed.”

   “Good answer young man!” He said it well. “What’s your name?”

   “Paul.”

   “Where do you live?”

   “Um, across the street.”

   “At the Mission?” 

   Both he and Cora seemed surprised. Mr. Price pondered for a moment then asked if I planned to stay in L.A. I told him about my almost two years of hitchhiking and how I really didn’t plan on anything. As the evening wore, he continued to ask about my current situation. When he asked if I had any particular skill or trade, I told him.

   “I’ve worked as an auto parts counterman a few times.”

   “Aha! What a coincidence! I happen to have a dear friend who owns a small chain of auto parts stores. I’ll give you, his number. Tell him I sent you and that he must give you a job.”

He gave me the number. I called the man, relayed the message and got a job. When I told the manager I was living at the Mission he said he had a sister who, coincidentally, had a room open up at a boarding house she ran. It was $25 a week and an easy bus ride to work. He called her. Now I had a job, a room of my own with a real bed and access to a shower I didn’t have to share with fifty bums.

I befriended a few other boarders; one was a freelance advertising copywriter named David. He knew me only as a former bum named Paul and current auto parts counterman. At the time I didn’t consider meeting David as a coincidence but later, I would see it was. We hung out together and shared bread, beer, life stories and laughs. When he asked about my plans I answered as I did to Mr. Price.

    “I don’t have any.”

    “You have no idea of what you want to do or want to be?”

    “Nope, I’ve never given it much thought.”

My answer concerned him, and he made a suggestion.

    “How about, advertising?”

I swear on a stack; I had no idea what he was talking about and I let him know. He proceeded to tell me all about things like advertising agencies and copywriters and art directors and account executives and what it was like to be in ‘the business.’

   “I bet you’d be a good copywriter,” he said.

   “How can I be good at something when I don’t know what it is?”

I guess he didn’t think this was important because he ignored the point and proceeded to tutor me in the skills of advertising copywriting. He helped me create a portfolio of mock ads, billboards, TV and radio commercial scripts. With no computers or typewriter everything was written in long hand in a ring binder notebook.

   “Okay, I think you’re ready for an interview. I’ve set one up for Monday morning. You’re going to see Al Newman, co-creative director at Foote Cone & Belding. It’s the biggest ad agency in California.”

    “What?”

I cashed my auto parts paycheck to buy a necktie, shirt with buttons and pants with a crease and cuffs. When Monday came, I was ready and sweating bullets. David acted as my chaperone. He introduced me to Al as his ‘protégée’ or ‘personal project’ or something like that. I recall Al laughing hard. Despite the tie, shirt with buttons and pants with cuffs and a crease, Al Newman sized me up as being not exactly ‘executive stock.’ I had a big hill to climb. I presented my make-believe ads. I must’ve been in his office for an hour. The work required me to sing, perform, do pratfalls and pretend to be catching a big fish.

Al Newman was a large and generally happy looking Hawaiian. His laughter boomed like an island volcano. A few others who worked at the largest agency in California had gathered at his door to see what the ruckus was about. They also got a big kick out of the show. Al, David and the others whisked me down the hall to the corner office of the creative director Jack Foster. Jack was a short, perpetually smiling man who chewed on a pipe and always had a sweater tied around his neck by the sleeves. We blundered in as a group. I’ll never forget or have to paraphrase what Al Newman said.

   “Jack! Stop what you’re doing and listen to this guy!”

Just as vividly, I recall Jack looking me up and down, taking the pipe out and saying.

   “Listen to this bum!?” Then he laughed and everyone else did to. At that moment I knew, beyond any doubt, I wanted to do what these people do for the rest of my life. I wanted to be in a place and with people who loved to laugh.

   “How did you know?” I asked.

   “Your socks don’t match.”

   “Yeah, well two weeks ago I was living in the L.A. Mission, and someone stole all my socks!" More laughs.

   “Hold on.” Jack went to his door and called out, “Hey everyone, come down here!”

A dozen or more of the most talented, creative and eccentric advertising people in L.A. came from their offices and wander into Jack’s. They gathered around wondering about what they were about to see. They were wondering about, me.

   “Okay kid, you’re on.”

Jack sat down, folded his hands in his lap and started chewing on the pipe. I repeated my performance. Everyone laughed and applauded. The feeling I felt when they welcomed me into their fold is one, I’d never have again. My friend David felt it too. The only thing he got out of the deal was, he helped a near stranger find the thing he wasn’t looking for but most needed to have – a purpose. 

What are the odds of a bum like me, with no clue of what my life might be, stumbling upon a man who just happens to sense the thing I needed to find but wasn’t looking for in the third most populated city in America? Now there’s a ‘coincidence’ for you. Yet, without all the other coincidences that happened before, it never would’ve been.

    “Let’s celebrate!” he said. 

That night we got drunk. I can’t, without any degree of accuracy, recall precisely what we talked about. Breakfast at the boarding house was served at the same time, every day. So, the table was crowded with all the boarders. News of my new job was the big topic of discussion. I told everyone about all the odd things that had happened in order for the desired result to be achieved. This led to a conversation about coincidences vs. fate vs. divine intervention vs. some kind of grand plan.

The more I listened the greater I felt no word could describe it. Let others debate about fate. I consider myself a pragmatic man and all I know for certain are the things I see, taste, hear, smell and feel. A pragmatist learns to accept and live with those questions for which there are no mortal answers. When the time comes, I’ll find out. All I knew with pragmatic certainty was this is what had happened:

Coincidences One & Two: I ‘just happen’ to know Greek food and there ‘just happened’ to be a Greek Restaurant across the street where I get a job.

Coincidences Three - Nine: I ‘just happen’ to be assigned a table where Vincent Price ‘just happened’ to sit. I ‘just happen’ to know an answer to a crossword puzzle which ‘just happens’ to result in a conversation where I ‘just happen’ to mention my experience as an auto parts counter man and Mr. Price ‘just happens’ to have a friend who 'just happens' to own auto parts stores.

Coincidences Ten - Twelve: The manager of the auto parts store 'just happens' to have a sister who ‘just happens’ to run a boarding house that ‘just happens’ to have a room.

Coincidences Thirteen - Seventeen: Another boarder ‘just happens’ to find something in me I didn’t know I had and never would’ve found if not for him. He ‘just happens’ to know a person who ‘just happens’ to be not only in a position to help but also ‘just happens’ to be the kind of guy willing to take a chance on a bum turning into a good copywriter. And his boss 'just happens' to be the same way.

That’s a boatload of coincidences my friend with each one tumbling into the next providing a clear and straight line toward a life I consider as sweet as any life could possibly be. I loved being a copywriter and later, a creative director. If not for those cumulative coincidences I would’ve never have met Sophia Loren, Willie Nelson, Fred Astaire, Jimmy Buffet, Buffalo Bob & Howdy Doody and other wonderful characters. I never would’ve experienced London, Paris, Tokyo and other fabulous places (on someone else’s dime). I never would’ve danced with Kathy, the woman who stole my heart and held on to it for 37-years. My daughter Amanda would’ve never have existed, and I would never have felt the awesome pride of being her father. My grandchildren would have never been born which would’ve robbed me of the feeling of being younger than the seventy-two years I am. 

Most coincidences have a limited life span. They start here, end there and that’s that. Not this one. The coincidence that began with my walking into a Greek restaurant across from the Mission in 1973 has lasted all this time and are still with me today. In a way, the ‘prompt’ offered to write this story is a part of it too. 

‘Coincidentally’ everything I just shared with you crystallized in my mind for the first time just five days ago. I called David. He lives in Chicago now. Though he’s also in his seventies he still works. He’s a recruiter who finds jobs for people seeking employment as writers for pharmaceutical firms. David was feeling blue.

He had taken false stock of himself. From his point-of-view, he saw little lasting value in his own life. Other than finding jobs for people, what else did he have to show? The great novel he hoped to write, he never did. He never married or had kids or grandkids. He had friends but mostly he ate alone, walked alone and slept alone. Isn’t it odd how we fail to see ourselves as others do and, in the process, lose sight of how truly special we are and can be to each other? Nah, scratch that. It’s not odd. It’s a fucking tragedy.

Hearing the man who changed my life describe himself in this way lit the lamp that led to conduct this autopsy of the coincidences that happened to me, in hopes it would clarify to him the crucial role he played and still plays in the lives of others.

   “David, you didn’t just find me a job. You changed my whole life! Everything I’ve ever loved and cherished would never have been, if not for you! I have no idea where I would be today or even if I would be alive, if not for you. One thing I do know, what that might’ve turned out to be, it couldn’t possibly be as good, or better than what I’ve had and still have. I love you David for what you did for me. You were the coincidence I needed to turn my life right side-up and I’m sure you’ve done the same for others. You may not see it, maybe they don’t either. But it’s as clear as crystal to me.” David cried.

He’d never looked at his life from this perspective. Few of us ever do. That probably includes you. When was the last time you took a step back to appreciate how the ‘coincidence of you’ has helped others? You do something for someone. Maybe it seems a small thing. Suddenly, you've become a party to a coincidence which leads to a change and the dominoes begin to fall. If there ever comes a time when you think of your life as meaningless, kick yourself in the ass and remember, somewhere along the line, you’ve been a hero to another. Celebrate yourself and the coincidences you’ve played a role in. Just try. If you do, I think you’ll discover the true meaningfulness of you. And, when you do, you’ll cry too.

In a way, in our souls, I think we all share a Mission with all the other bums. Across the street there’s a metaphorical Greek (or cuisine of your choice) restaurant. When it comes time to cross, there'll be a coincidence waiting that takes us to what we’ve each been looking for but never knew was there. When my time comes, maybe Kathy will ‘coincidentally’ be waiting. Vincent and Coral Price, Al Newman, Jack Foster and David will be there too. We’ll sit at a table enjoying moussaka and souvlaki and reminisce over the great parade of coincidences. What an unlikely dream for a pragmatist to have but therein lies the rub!

Coincidences can be a thing we like. Sometimes, with a little luck, they may lead to all the things we'll ever love. My sincerest best wishes that, when it comes time for you to cross, the coincidences you find waiting for you are just as sweet.