Four Score for Tom Flynn

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?

Satchel Paige

I recently attended the surprise 80th birthday party of Tom Flynn, a dear friend who I sat next to during my first two years at Montgomery Securities. Shortly after arriving at the party, his wife asked if I could say a few words during the celebratory toasts. “I’d be honored,” I said, “but be careful what you ask for. You never know what mishegoss can tumble out of my mouth after a couple glasses of wine.”

“I would expect nothing less,” she said. “Just don’t say anything to embarrass the Rabbi.”

Then I went to work, probing my brain for some suitable anecdotes to compose an entertaining tribute, something appropriate for the moment that would strike the perfect balance between respectful observations and a few razor-sharp digs. After uncovering several nuggets from our mutual past, I began crafting a narrative that would hopefully bring down the house. My congratulatory salute, I thought, should begin with something like this; “I first met this handsome young gentleman back in 1991, when he was only…”

The number that popped in my head hit me harder than Chinese algebra. When I first met Tom in 1991, he was…56 years old. That same age I am now.

Oy vey.

What knocked me back into my wine glass wasn’t the lightning-fast passage of time. Rather, it was my perception of time. I was struck by the realization that my own view of myself at age 56 bore little/no/none/nil/nyet/zero resemblance to how I looked at Tom when he was my age. During the first years of our relationship, I thought of Tom as a cultured and sophisticated man of the world who possessed a wisdom worthy of Moses. He spoke so well, so authoritative, and the substance of his observations and opinions always seemed logical and on point. He spoke French, which always impresses me. He was also a lover of history, especially when it came to the Civil War, and he always had his historical facts in order. Tom was someone I really looked up to.

I remember when my dad was 56, a time when there wasn’t much of a connection between us. He seemed broken, burnt out, and beaten down. He had lost his business, his money, his home. That would defeat anybody. Now that I’m that age, I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose everything you’d spent a lifetime building. No wonder he seemed old.

Meanwhile, whenever I look at myself in the mirror these days, the only thing worldly about me are the hairs sprouting from my ears. When it comes to dispensing wisdom, I’m about a million light years from the 56-year old version of Tom Flynn. I’m mean, despite my aches and pains and frustrating inability to find my car keys, I’m still a kid, aren’t I? And what 32-year old (my age when we I first me Tom) in their right mind would have the absurdity to think of me as enlightened or refined? Haven’t they read the memo? Haven’t they seen me walking around the office all day with my shoelaces untied?

I admire Tom, and I’ve been blessed to call him a friend for nearly a generation. He retired from Wall Street with his head held high and his reputation intact. Armed with a mind and body that refused to phone it in, Tom spent the next two decades refining his acting skills and becoming something of a legend in local theater circles. I’ve seen a half dozen of his plays, and let’s just say Tom’s talents extend far beyond stamping trade tickets and hitting bids. And despite a new wrinkle or two accenting his mischievous eyes, or a pair of age spots sneaking a peak beneath his still-there hairline, Tom is still the same clever and witty guy I met back when President Bush the Elder asked America to read his lips.

As for the toast, here’s what I finally served up:

“I first met Tom back in 1991. We sat next to each other at work, and he spent our first days together describing in intricate detail the political strategies and combat maneuvers from the Battle at Gettysburg. After two weeks of listening to his eloquent lectures, I finally found the courage to ask him a question that had been at the top of my mind. ‘So tell me, Tom,” I said, “What side did you fight for?’”

The Rabbi liked it.

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