The Best Time To Go
- John Baumeister
- 3 minutes ago
- 6 min read
November 13, 1991, was not shaping up to be one of my better days.
Three years earlier, I had landed what I thought was my dream job. After graduating from the University of Illinois with a degree in Electrical Engineering and Electroacoustic Music Composition, I was hired by Universal Recording Corporation in Chicago. At the time, Universal was one of those places that people in the industry talked about with a certain amount of awe. I remember one of my professors, Scott Wyatt, telling me it was nearly impossible to get hired there.
The work was everything I hoped it would be. I serviced and modified recording studios, helped build new facilities, and worked on projects that seemed far beyond what a kid fresh out of college should have been trusted to touch. One of those projects was Oprah Winfrey's new television studio. When you're twenty-something and getting paid to work on things you've only read about, it's easy to believe you've got the world figured out.
Then came the move to the Oriental Building on Randolph Street. If you've never moved a recording studio, imagine trying to relocate a hospital while keeping half of it operational. For three months, we worked without a day off. We had a saying back then: every day was Monday. After a while, nobody even asked what day it was because the answer didn't matter. You showed up, worked until you were exhausted, went home, slept, and did it again.
While all of this was happening, life outside of work was moving just as fast. Mary and I got married in March of 1990 and soon bought our first house. Looking back, we were probably exactly what most newly married couples are: optimistic, excited, and blissfully unaware of how many things can go wrong at the same time.
Then Universal started having financial problems. The company had been purchased by a developer named Morrie Kalish. He was successful in his own field, but the recording business was a strange and expensive animal. One afternoon I was called into the office and told something I still remember almost word for word.
"If you continue working here, we can't guarantee you'll get paid."
I stared at them for a second and said, "So you're firing me."
"No, we're not firing you."
"You're telling me I might not get paid."
"Correct."
"Then you're firing me."
People later told me they could hear me yelling all the way down the hallway.
That was it. I left. Many others did as well. The date was November 13, 1991. As if the timing wasn't bad enough, it was also the exact day Midway Airlines shut its doors. When I went to the unemployment office the following morning, it felt like every airline employee in Chicago was standing in line with me. The place was complete chaos.
The timing couldn't have been worse. Mary and I had been married less than two years. We had a new mortgage, a new house, and suddenly no paycheck. To make matters even more interesting, I was scheduled to be the best man in a friend's wedding in Las Vegas just a few weeks later. The airline tickets had already been purchased, the hotel room had already been booked, and the money had already been spent.
The more I thought about it, the more irresponsible the trip seemed. Every dollar suddenly mattered. Every expense felt questionable. I started running numbers in my head and imagining worst-case scenarios. The job was gone. The future felt uncertain. Staying home and worrying about it somehow seemed like the responsible thing to do.
Finally, I called my dad and told him everything. I explained the situation at Universal, the mortgage, the uncertainty, and the trip to Las Vegas that suddenly felt like a terrible idea. After listening patiently to my entire story, he paused for a moment and said something that made absolutely no sense to me.
"Well, it sounds like the best time to go."
I thought he had misunderstood me. I had just told him I had no income, a mortgage, and a trip to Las Vegas coming up. I expected advice about saving money. I expected some fatherly version of "tighten the belt." I maybe even expected him to tell me that being an adult meant canceling things you already paid for because life had just punched you in the mouth. Instead, he told me to go.
My dad wasn't telling me to be reckless. He wasn't pretending the situation wasn't serious. He simply understood something I couldn't see yet. Sitting at home for a few days worrying about money wasn't going to make money appear. The job was already gone. The tickets were already bought. The wedding was still happening. I could sit around and stare at the ceiling, or I could go be the best man in my friend's wedding and come back ready to deal with whatever happened next.
So we went. Mary and I were never big gamblers, which was fortunate because we did not exactly have a high-roller budget. We wandered around old downtown Las Vegas, played penny slots, collected the occasional free drink, and walked through casinos like two people who had no business being there but were enjoying it anyway. Downtown Vegas was not what it is now. Parts of it felt a little tired. Other parts felt like old movie glamour with a cigarette burn on the armrest.
We also went over to Caesars Palace and walked through the Forum Shops, which at the time felt ridiculous and amazing. It was like being a kid who gets taken to Downtown Disney and thinks he has actually been to Disney World. We looked at things we couldn't afford, ate like people on a budget, and somehow had a blast. The whole trip should have felt irresponsible. Instead, it felt like exactly what we needed.
What is strange now is how little I remember about the crisis. I don't remember exactly how long I was out of work. I don't remember every interview. I don't remember how we paid every bill or what got moved around to make things work. I know we figured it out because here I am, still telling the story, which means the mortgage company did not drag us into the street while I was clutching a bucket of Vegas nickels.
What I remember is walking around with Mary. I remember my friend's wedding. I remember laughing when I probably should have been worried. I remember being young and scared and somehow still having a great time. Most of all, I remember my dad's voice on the phone, calm as ever, telling me it sounded like the best time to go.
At twenty-five, I thought I was facing a catastrophe. My dad had lived long enough to know I was facing a problem. There is a difference, but you usually have to get knocked around a little before you can see it. When you're young, every setback feels permanent. Every bad week feels like it has the legal right to define the rest of your life.
The older I get, the more I appreciate what my dad did in that moment. He didn't solve the problem for me. He didn't pretend there wasn't one. He didn't give me a spreadsheet or a speech. He just helped me see the problem at the right size. That may be one of the most underrated things a father can do.
A lot of men are walking around right now carrying something that feels bigger than it probably is. A job problem. A money problem. A family problem. A future that suddenly looks different than the one they had pictured. It doesn't mean the problem is fake. It doesn't mean you ignore it. It just means you don't have to let it swallow every good thing standing next to it.
I lost the job. We paid the mortgage. I found work again. Life moved forward, because life usually does, even when it takes the scenic route just to irritate you.
"Sounds like the best time to go."
Damned if he wasn't right.
About Greenland Sharks
Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.