It’s painful to recall that icy-cold night when Mimi so hopelessly cried. And, a father who acted so badly.
It was the winter of ’63. I was 15. Chubby asked if I’d like to sit in on one of his new agent real estate training sessions. He held them three nights a week in the conference room at the office.
What “boss’s son” wouldn’t? This would be totally fun. Soon I would learn, actually not.
Every new agent attended. A doctor’s note was your only excuse.
Chubby started the evening by calling on a sweet, middle aged, soft spoken lady named Mimi. He asked her to stand. “Mimi,” he said, “Give us the definition of real estate.” She did. It was totally right, just not word-for-word perfect, what I came to call “Chubby-Right.”