Just as I was thinking that he was born before World War II, a fairly good idea began to hatch in my mind. It was November the fifteenth, 2006. December the seventh was right around the corner. I was sure I would find the inevitable Post-it stuck to my monitor saying something like, “Please find World War II survivor and interview for a show on the sixty-fifth anniversary of Pearl Harbor.”
Brilliant! I can do both interviews at the same time. A little cut-and-paste in the editing room, along with some clever questioning, and I am set for an easy day of work!
“Let’s see,” I thought. “He was born November 29, 1906, so on December 7, 1941, he would have been thirty-five. Perfect; now, if only the old man can remember that far back, then I’ve got the show all wrapped up and on the road.
“Now I just have to find out where the old guy lives and hope he doesn’t die before I get there. I sure don’t want to spend the day hanging around some stinky old nursing home, but for an easy day of work, it may be worth it.”
I began searching for Jacob Williams at all the local nursing homes, but after half a day’s work, the closest I got to him was, “Yes, the name sounds familiar, but he isn’t one of the residents here.” I was getting a little frustrated.
“Sounds familiar? What in the ever living hell does that mean? Either he is there, or he is not,” I thought. “Where else would you go to find a one-hundred-year-old man?” I was sure he wasn’t out playing tennis at the club anywhere. So maybe he was in one of the hospitals. Duplicating my efforts with the nursing homes, I started calling the local hospitals. Upon inquiring at the fourth hospital, I got an unusual question.
“Do you mean the Jacob Williams?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said slowly, a little confused because of the extra emphasis on the word the. “But I didn’t honestly know that there was a the Jacob Williams.”
“Yes,” responded the young-sounding female voice on the other end of the phone, “he has donated a large amount of money to the veterans, cancer patients, and children in the hospital. Likes to stop by on occasion. Says he wants to make sure his money is well spent. He spends lots of time in the rooms talking to patients. Always leaves them smiling. I hope he isn’t ill or anything; really, he’s one of the coolest people I’ve ever met.”
This was an unexpected turn in my concept of this man, to say the least.
Beginning to grow suspicious, I had to ask, “The Jacob Williams that you are talking about, how old is he?”
“Oh, I don’t know exactly; mid-to-late nineties, I think; why?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Thanks for your help. I’m sure he’s fine. Have a good day.”
I was feeling a little flustered as I hung up the phone. Just finding this man was taking up the easy day of work I thought I was going to get earlier.
“One of the coolest people I’ve ever met…Always leaves them smiling.” Yes, that’s what she said. What does this guy do? Teach them how to play shuffleboard with a walker or from a wheelchair while they spoon-feed him poached eggs and change his diapers?
“Mid-to-late nineties…” she said. It had to be him. It had to be the right guy.
It was then I noticed the smirks and grins on several of the coworkers I share my office space with. “One of these days, I swear, I will have an office with walls,” I thought.
“What?” I said.
Then Joyce, the woman who works in advertising, who also occupies the desk directly across from me, looked over her reading glasses and said, “Maybe you should ask Scott who Jacob Williams is.”
“Why not?” I thought. “He is the one who left me the Post-it note asking me to interview this Williams guy.”
So off I went to the end of the room where there was an office door with the large gold capital letters on it that said, “SCOTT MURPHY—PROGRAM DIRECTOR.” I knocked.
“Come on in,” replied the voice on the other side of the door. “Ah, Don! How can I help you?” he said with a smile after I had opened the door and poked my head in.
Scott was one of the best people you could work for. In spite of some of the assignments he kept giving me, he was the friendliest person I’ve ever known. He was in his early thirties, totally honest, trustworthy, and always looked you in the eye, which made the striking blueness of his own really stand out. There were pictures of his wife and kids on his desk. Beautiful family, the whole bit.
“Yeah, Scott, about this interview with this centenarian you gave me to do. Joyce seems to think you may know how to contact him. I’ve called all the nursing homes and most of the hospitals in the city and can’t seem to get a lead on where he might be or how to contact him.”
“Oh, I didn’t give you his address?” Scott replied. “I’m sorry. Boy is my face red. Come in, sit down.”
“No, sir, you didn’t. But who is he? He seems to have some notoriety at the hospital.”
“Jacob Scott Williams is my great-grandfather,” Scott said as he opened the address book on his computer. “I got my first name from his middle name. I’d like to try to pattern my life from his; sort of the chip off the, chip off the, chip off the old block, as I like to say. What an inspiration, and a lot to live up to. He made a lot of money in the early days of electronics. Williams Industries, Inc. Owns a lot of interest in this station, as a matter of fact. As well as owning some small portion of about half the businesses in town. At least that’s the way it seems. He retired decades ago.
“He’s a totally silent partner, so if you’re thinking that’s how I got this job,” he added with a big grin, “get it out of your mind. I know exactly what he would say: ‘Son, I wouldn’t do you the disservice. The only opportunities worth taking are the ones you make for yourself.’ He’s the last person in the world who would do the ‘family favorites’ thing.”
About then, the printer finished spitting out the name, address, and phone number of Jacob Scott Williams, along with a map and specific instructions on how to get there.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Don?”
“No, sir,” I said, taking the information and exiting the office. “Thank you.”
Scott’s face wasn’t the only one that was red.
I had nothing else to do but dial the number on the paper Scott had just handed me and try to set up a time and date that I could talk to him.
“Eight in the morning tomorrow will be fine,” I said to the voice of the older woman on the other end of the line. “Yes, I will be prompt,” I replied to her comment that the “Admiral” doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Thank you, have a nice day. Goodbye,” she said in a very cheerful voice before she hung up the phone.
“Admiral? Admiral?” Yes, that is what she said. Then I realized, no longer having any idea what to expect and being totally off my guard and in a mild state of shock, that I was talking to myself out loud.
As I grabbed my microphone and recorder, making sure I had plenty of extra time on it, I couldn’t help noticing some snickering from the other office workers who were obviously having somewhat of a joke at my expense. “Yeah, you got me,” I said, realizing they had known all along. Grabbing my jacket and keys, I headed out the door at the end of my “easy” day’s work. I’d have to get up early in the morning and head straight to the Admiral’s place rather then come into the radio station.