Free The Time of My Life by Patrick Swayze, Lisa Niemi

carpentry guide. Let’s just say I spent a lot of time in the bathroom on that first job, flippingthrough that book and trying to quickly teach myself how to do all the things Bill was asking me to do. Fortunately, it was a good guide, and I was a quick study. The brownstone work went off without a hitch, and I was on my way to making money as a carpenter and woodworker.
    Lisa joined me in the woodworking business when I got a job building an entertainment center. I started working on it in our bedroom, and at some point I said to her, “Lisa, can you hold this board for me, please?” From that moment on, we were partners. We built that entertainment center together, and in the months to come we worked on tons of projects, doing the work in our bedroom (and ending up with sawdust in all our clothes) and stacking the finished projects in the living room. Our apartment ended up looking like a furniture showroom.
    When we finished a project, we’d deliver it the same way we got everywhere else—on the motorcycle. We’d carry it down the five flights of stairs, and I’d get on the back of the motorcycle and try to balance whatever we’d made on my head while Lisa drove. I can remember carrying an artist’s easel, about eight feet tall and four feet wide, on my helmet and just hoping it wouldn’t tumble off into the traffic. Fortunately, we had a big motorcycle—a Honda four-cylinder K model, practically a car on a frame—so at least we weren’t teetering along on a little bike.
    Lisa and I got a decent number of woodworking jobs, thanks to recommendations from friends and the dance companies. But we still weren’t making very much money, so every week we’d budget how much was coming in and how much we could spend. If we managed to have at least twenty dollars for food, that was a good week. And we always made sure we had a fewdimes saved, in case we needed to make calls. The only way we had been able to get the motorcycle, in fact, was by managing to get a MasterCard and then immediately maxing out our credit limit to buy it. We spent the next five years paying off that debt.
    We got very good at saving money, doing our shopping at the meat market downtown and making dishes that would keep. Lisa became an expert at making turkey last for days— she’d make turkey casserole, turkey tetrazzini, turkey sandwiches, turkey soup. When we got sick of turkey, she’d make hamburgers, pizza—whatever she could with the meager cash we had.
    Every once in a while, we’d land a cool job that paid well, especially compared to the pennies we’d made as ballet dancers. Lisa and I got hired to sing and dance in industrial shows— trade shows for companies like Ford and Milliken Carpets, where we’d get flown to other cities, put up in hotels, and paid what felt like a fortune. Sometimes the companies even gave us samples of their products. Milliken, for example, gave us high-end area rugs—so although our apartment was sparsely decorated, a little dingy, and often covered with sawdust, we at least had beautiful rugs.
    Around this time, I got in touch with a talent manager named Bob LeMond. Bob was originally from Houston, and my mother had helped get him into the managing business. I’d known Bob my whole life, and had always thought of him as just a quirky little guy from Texas, a would-be dancer who didn’t dance nearly as well as he talked. But by 1977 he had become a big-time manager—he represented John Travolta, Jeff Conaway, Tony Danza, Barry Bostwick, and Marilu Henner, among others.
    Bob’s office was in Los Angeles, so I didn’t call him the first couple of years I was in New York. But after rising in the dance world, and getting those musical theater credits under my belt, I decided it was time. I made an appointment through his secretary, and when we met in New York he had one question for me.
    “Buddy, why didn’t you call me before this?” he asked. “Where have you been?”
    “Well, Bob,” I said,