Making Lemonade

I was fired once. It was in February 1994.

When I came home from the mission in Oklahoma I really had no idea what I was going to do with my life. In fact, I got sick on the flight home. Like sick to my stomach, vomiting-in-the-bathroom-where-there-is-no-room-to-vomit sick to my stomach. Yep, I am a member of a very different mile high club. The truth of the matter is that I had given exactly NO THOUGHT to anything that I would do after my mission. I had planned my life (to the extent I was a life-planner) up until the point that I was walking down the jetway, and now, like Indiana Jones, I was stepping off the ledge with nothing more than faith that there was SOME sort of plan for me.

On my second flight, from Salt Lake to Reno, I was seated next to a very attractive young woman. I had not actually spoken to a young woman for two years (well, that’s not entirely true, but certainly hadn’t talked with a young woman with any, umm, ulterior motives). My stomach had settled somewhat, so I thought I would engage in some pleasantries. Some very awkward pleasantries. Followed, almost immediately, by me burying my face in a vomit bag. Thankfully, I avoided retching any more (there wasn’t anything left to throw up), but after 20 minutes or so she very sweetly asked if I was OK.

OK? Sure, I’m great. Never better. I just happen to be ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED of going home and leaving behind the life that I’d come to know and love.

Sorry Mom. I would have stayed if they would have let me.

Life at home was a challenge for me. I really did not know where I fit in. I was back in Carson City, where my family had moved shortly before I left. Of course, I’d only lived there for a couple of months before the mission, but my family had been there 2½ years, so they knew everyone. I missed the mission, missed the structure and the companions and the ward members and everything about it.

I tried dating. There was a girl that was home from BYU that wanted to date me, and so we went out a few times, but she liked to take advantage of my naiveté—nothing evil, she would just have her sister pretend she wasn’t home, etc., to play with my mind. Being a newly returned missionary, I was just eager to please and not be offended by anything, so I fell for it. Every. Single. Time.

That relationship did not work out.

I got a job at a grocery store, Albertson’s. My brother Pete was employed there as a courtesy clerk/checker, and I got hired on in the butcher block. Being a butcher sounded like a cool job. I'd get to wield a knife, cut large cow parts into steaks and roasts, and talk grilling like a pro. Except that they wouldn’t let me touch the knives. Or even go in the back where the knives were. Heck, they didn't really want me to talk to the customers.

So I stood out front, looking pretty, trying to convince the soccer moms that country style pork ribs would make an amazing Sunday afternoon meal or trying to appear knowledgeable as the 30-something guy with a Guns-N-Roses t-shirt and leather jacket talked about the perfect method for grilling a tri-tip roast.

I had never even HEARD of a tri-tip roast.

But I could wrap up raw shrimp in paper wrapping and slap on a price sticker with the best of them.

After I’d been at Albertson’s for about a month, my dad mentioned that a local lumberyard was hiring. The owner was a guy in a neighboring ward. And so it was that I got hired at City Plywood and Lumber. Initially I thought I could handle two jobs, but the reality was I hated selling meat. And I liked playing with power tools and driving big trucks. So I quit Albertson’s and started working full time for City Plywood.

My boss was a crusty old guy named Perry, who happened to have a crazy generous streak to him. He was a classic man’s man. He swore like a sailor (a Mormon sailor, so a lot of d@*ns and h3££s and the occasional $#!+) and was not overly concerned with hurting anyone’s feelings. He called things like he saw them, argued with vendors over pennies, and expected his employees to WORK. He also bought us lunch everyday, and was quick to pull a twenty out of his wallet to say thanks for doing a good job. He loaned me cash to buy my first car after the mission, and he paid for my gas when I road-tripped to Utah to visit his daughter.

Oh, but that’s another story. Don't tell my wife.

I worked for Perry for a year. I started college about ten months in, but continued working for Perry. He had a couple of hard-fast rules, one of which was that we were expected to be at work at 7:50 every morning. We didn’t clock in until 8:00, but we were to  be there by 7:50. Having practiced before the NLRB, I can see the problem with that little requirement, but at the time it seemed reasonable. Reasonable, but impossible.

I could not get there on time to save my life. 7:54? Sure. 7:57? More likely. I was ALWAYS there before 8:00, but 7:50 seemed like it was SO FREAKING EARLY and I just could not seem to get my butt there on time.

Finally, Perry had had enough. I rolled in one morning about 7:58, and there was a line of trucks already in the yard waiting to be loaded up. I came in to grab my gloves and get to work. Perry was not happy, however. He fired me on the spot. Told me to get out and not come back. And then he followed me out to my car to make sure I left. Or to get his keys back. Probably the latter.

I was shocked. SHOCKED. And a little devastated.

But I learned an important lesson. Show up on time. Be there when you tell someone you’ll be there.

I’ve never been close to being fired again. From that time, I have prided myself in showing up on time and working hard, no matter the job.

My dad took pity on his unemployed (in GREENLAND!) son and gave me a job. Within not too long, I was running his corporate service business while he ventured out into other opportunities. We had employees of our own, had offices and rents and clients and bills and all of those businessy things. I understood a little better why Perry got so frustrated with me and why he had no choice, really, but to send me away.

After about 5 years, my life was completely different. I was married. I had two kids and a house and a mortgage. I was living in Las Vegas and running the business from here. My parents had moved to Utah and my dad was busy running a Y2K food storage business. I was learning another lesson, too: when you are the owner, you are the last one to get paid. On slow weeks, when there wasn’t money in the account, there wasn’t a paycheck to take home to my wife.

I decided that I needed to go back to school before those two little kids realized that we were poor.

We sold the house, I gave up my interest in the business (my brother took over), and we moved to Provo to finish school and eventually to attend law school. We may as well have gone to seminary, since we took a vow of poverty before attending school. We lived off of student loans, lived in a 3 bedroom apartment that would fit in my living room and kitchen in this house with room to spare, and counted ourselves lucky to have food on the table. Clorinda got really good at thrifting and couponing and we had some generous family members that helped out (like the time that our heater in the car went out in February—my parents paid to have it repaired so we didn’t have to wear winter coats while driving). I had awesome friends (the Super Best Friends) at school that would cover for meals just to make sure I could come along. Our bank account was empty, but we were well taken care of.

At the end of law school I accepted a job working for a district court judge, Judge Adair, and I eventually accepted a job with a small civil law firm in Las Vegas where one of the partners was a friend of my father. I have been there for over twelve years. Several times I’ve had opportunity to leave, but the circumstances weren’t right or I felt compelled to stay. ("Faithfulness he talked of, madam, your enduring faithfulness!") I work with some really great people, people that I will count as friends for life.

That lasted until Wednesday last week.

On Wednesday, December 14, the senior partner (well, the ONLY partner) invited us into his office and announced that effective December 31, he was shutting down the firm. 22 years and 10 months after the first time it had happened, I was again unceremoniously fired. Dumped. Sent packing. Thrown out on my ear.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Fontano. I got you a pink slip! (Hmm, read one way that sounds like I got some lovely women’s underclothing. That is NOT the way to read that sentence. Although I’m pretty sure I could pull it off. And it doesn't make you a bad person.)

They say that history repeats itself. For a long time I’ve had promptings to start my own place, to go out on my own, to be my own boss. I’ve gotten fortune cookies that assured me I would “succeed in business” or that I should “start a new venture.” I’ve had friends that asked why I was still working for the man, friends that encouraged me to open my own practice.

The coward in me was happy to sit in my office, work my hours, and take my paycheck each week. On good years there would be Christmas bonuses. On not-so-good years there would be smaller bonuses, but we were comfortable, so it was easy to stick with the status quo.

Well, whether it was God or the universe or the soothsayers at Panda Express, life decided that I needed a little more motivation.

So, it is with a little fear and trepidation, and a lot of excitement and anticipation, that I announce the law offices of HEATON FONTANO, LTD., opening January 3, 2017.

The website (www.heatonfontano.com) isn’t up yet (hopefully within this next week), and the phones aren’t on, but I've signed a lease and we’re rushing to get everything in place (two weeks is not really sufficient time to get an office ready, but it's what I've got!). But if you need legal help, or if your friends are in need of legal advice, I hope you’d consider calling me. Heaven knows I’ll need all the help I can get!

For you, I'll show up by 7:50.