Mom and dad wanted him to write the next great American novel, so he had a typewriter gathering dust in a closet. They wanted him to compose a symphony that would get him to Julliard or at least U of I, so the piano sat in the basement (alongside the money pit trombone) until its keys stuck. They wanted him to DJ the local radio and work his way up to NBC or even the Tonight Show as a comedian if he did enough stand-up. They focused on so many routes to his future fortune (which would be theirs as well) and future fame (the source of their future fortune) that he ended up rebelling his way into mediocrity. In telling him he could do anything, they told him he was good for nothing but their own pleasure, their own wealth, their own celebrity, their own power.

But he could drive a truck, by God. Wasn't that worth giving your life to? Blood and all?