Autobiography/Memoir
Date Published: April 5, 2022
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
In 1970, at the age of 17 and with only twenty-eight dollars in his pocket, Tony Assali flew to America to escape war in his homeland, Beirut, Lebanon. With the intention of establishing a foothold so that he can bring the rest of his family to safety, Tony must find work quickly. Luckily, Tony possesses a special skill: the ability to perceive white tigers, rare and valuable opportunities other people either do not see or are too afraid to pursue. From humble beginnings working in a doughnut factory, to parlaying his charm into a position selling men’s suits by the thousands, Tony fulfills his promise to his family. Then Tony dares to dream bigger, creating a thriving business that makes him a millionaire. But even with these victories, Tony still hasn’t found the white tiger he’s really looking for—the right partner to make his life complete…until a woman he can’t stop thinking about walks into his life. Complications arise, but she might just be the one, and Tony is never the type of person to let an obstacle stop him.
The
year 1975 rolls over into 1976 with little change in the Lebanese civil war. As
for me, I’m seeing a new girl, Paula. We’ve been dating for a few weeks when,
in mid-August, I take her to see The Platters perform at Copley Square. I love
The Platters and their classic style of 1950s rock ’n’ roll. After the concert,
audience members are invited to the stage to compete in a dance contest. I’m
just jazzed enough from the concert to participate. Backed by the pounding
music, I shake off all my inhibitions and let loose.
Sweat pours down my face as I twirl Paula,
twisting and turning to the beat. I look up for a moment to see a crowd forming
as the disco ball lights bathe us in a rainbow of colors. The crowd cheers, and
for a moment all of the tension from these last few years ebbs. Time disappears
as I fling Paula faster and faster, kicking up my heels and throwing back my
head. The shouting gets louder. Paula smiles back at the crowd as I sweep her
off her feet and high into the air before dipping her back against my knee.
When I pull her up, everyone explodes into
applause, and later on, the organizers find me to tell me I won first place.
“Thank you. Thank you,” I say.
I’ve recently purchased a new orange Chevy
Camaro convertible and, in my excited state, I can think of no better way to top
the evening than to take it for a late-night spin. Although it’s now well past
midnight, the air is still hot and humid. With Paula riding beside me, I lower
the roof, roll down the windows, and drive.
We’re cruising up I-93 North toward Medford
when I pull even with a late model red Corvette. As I glance over at the car,
the driver looks at me and nods. This man wants to race! A second later, we
both floor it. Paula laughs, cheering me on as the speedometer quickly climbs.
Seventy miles per hour. Eighty miles per hour. Ninety miles per hour!
Suddenly, I notice two slower moving cars
ahead in the far left and far right lanes. Only the center lane between them
offers safe passage. The Corvette and I remain neck-and-neck. Only one of us is
going to make it through. My fevered brain quickly makes a series of
mathematical calculations; I’m going too fast to stop. Way too fast.
The Corvette and I continue to blast
forward, jockeying for position. My heart is racing so fast I can feel it
pounding in my ears. The slower-moving cars are coming up on us quickly, almost
as if they’re standing still. Paula screams.
Somehow, I turn at the last second and
thread the needle between the two slower-moving cars. The red Corvette isn’t so
lucky. It hits the rear of the car in the right-hand lane. I’m confused.
Terrified. I don’t know what to do, so I just keep driving.
Easing my foot off the pedal, I struggle to
breathe. Once again, something has rescued me from a near-certain disaster.
Today is not something I am proud of. In fact, I feel ashamed. I put myself—and
Paula—in mortal danger for no good reason. This is not the way a grown adult,
let alone a responsible parent, is supposed to behave.
It’s almost 4:00 a.m. by the time I arrive
home. I check on Scotty. He’s fast asleep. So is our babysitter, a high school
girl who lives nearby. I gently wake her and, in light of the late hour, pay
her overtime. Afterwards, Paula volunteers to drive the girl home.
A few minutes after Paula leaves, the phone
rings. When a phone rings at 4:00 in the morning, it’s never good news.
Immediately, I fear Paula has gotten into an accident. I lift the handset,
expecting the worst.
“Hello?”
There’s a lot of static on the line. The
voice at the other end is distant and scratchy. But I recognize it, and it
takes my breath away.
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