Tighty Whiteys

It was my senior year in high school, I was working at Friendly’s with two of my friends Jason and Seth, scooping ice cream and occasionally waiting on a table or two. The only way they allowed me to be a waiter would depend on who was sitting at the table and how crowded the restaurant was. I use the term restaurant loosely for Friendly’s, it was a step above McDonald’s and just a smidgen below your local Diner. If you were looking for good friendly service, you were in the wrong place. In a nut shell it was amateur at best. I remember “training” as “read this, learn that, listen to what I say and things will be fine, you got it?” This coming from George, the manager of the restaurant, who could hardly ever be found and when he was he was always high on something. We all thought it was coke, for all I know he could have been high on Fribble mix, either way he was a pain in the ass when he was around. The other managers were easy to deal with, they knew they needed warm bodies to preform minimal duties in a timely manner. So we filled a void. And we were cool with that, because we were having a bit of fun and meeting new people, I met a lot of new people. And by people I mean girls.

I have never been the aggressor when it came to women, quite frankly I was the exact opposite. Approaching girls I did not know terrified me, to the point where my body would shake and I couldn’t put a sentence together. But I never had a problem meeting girls. Because I took the easy way out and waited for them to come to me. I was a late bloomer, when I was younger I was the booger boy, who grew out. I was overweight, I had acne and braces. I knew how to blend into the oily skinned book smart not going to get any before you’re in college crowd. But then puberty hit. And it hit like a tornado hits a trailer park. Hard and fast. I went from five feet five inches to almost six feet tall in less than eighteen months. The acne for which I was going to a dermatologist, sometimes once a week to remove the blackheads and get more topical solutions, was now almost gone. The baby fat stretched into taught skin and I was now a size thirty one inch waist. I now looked a bit more desirable to the opposite sex, but still felt like the fourteen year old fat acne ridden boy. So, being a late bloomer I felt I had to play catch up. And play catch up I did. I had a few girlfriends. One broke up with my because I couldn’t give her a hickey on her tit. Seriously. I was not experienced, but I planned on changing that in the near future.

I had a girlfriend, I met her a year earlier in accounting class. We also worked together at Marshalls. She was a year older, showed interest and our teacher insinuated in class that we should date and soon we started making out in the hallways after school and then we made it official and started dating. We dated for the last few months of her senior year. I went to her prom and had a great summer. But my eye wandered often and it wasn’t only my eye that wandered. Once she went away to college I felt I was free to do anything I wanted, and for the most part I did. I left Marshalls for better hook up opportunities. My friends Seth and Jason were working at Friendly’s Restaurant as ice cream scoopers. I asked them if they needed more help, and what do you know, they did. The only drawback to working there, the uniform. It consisted of a navy blue shirt with a fine houndstooth pattern in white, giant collar, one quarter zip up front in a completely non-breathable polyester. The pants were no better, navy blue and polyester, it was great for creating swamp ass on a busy Friday night. Bring on the ladies.

Being a senior in high school, working with your friends and looking to hump anyone that said yes seemed to work really well for me. There was Dayna, a waitress from Scarsdale, who worked only on the weekends. She was that quasi hippie chick, stoned most of the time and a bit aloof. I didn’t care she was hot and she showed interest in me. We talked at work and after a few weeks decided to go out for dinner and a movie. We decided to have dinner at Chi-Chi’s and skip the movie at the multiplex and decided to go hang out and talk. The discussion turned the corner rather quickly to oral sex and that led to a bad blow job on the Scarsdale High School soccer field. We decided that it would be better if I finished and she could watch. It was late, like one or two in the morning and my dad is sitting in the kitchen area waiting up for me, in his tighty whiteys. He asks why I was home so late, told him I was hanging out with some people from work. He accepted that, as my parents usually did.

My father had a rough few years prior to my senior year in high school. He was diagnosed being manic-depressive when I was fourteen. The first year was difficult, but everyone supported him. We visited him in the hospital, kept things quiet when he was home and tried to be on our best behavior. But then things got worse and he stopped taking his medication, stopped going to therapy, stopped going to work (he owned his own general contracting company) and started staying in bed. I stopped having my friends over because he would sometimes come out of the room in his underwear only and start to talk a bit crazy. My dad was not a small man by any means. He was about five feet ten and weighed a good two hundred thirty plus pounds. I was embarrassed, to say the least. So my house was off limits when he was in his down mode. I really enjoyed working when my dad was home. I went to school, was on the varsity tennis team went to work and hung out with my friends. I stayed out as much as I could to avoid being uncomfortable at home.

Work was getting easier, I was having more fun and Spring was arriving. There was a new waitress at work, she was from Pennsylvania and came to White Plains to be a nanny. She took an interest almost immediately. She was twenty years old, and had that ’80’s look. We were talking one day, she mentioned a boyfriend back home, I mentioned a girlfriend in college. She asked me if I wanted to hang out at the house she was staying at and I expeditiously agreed. We hung out, a lot. During the day, at night anytime she wanted to hang out, I was there. After a few weeks she got clingy and I hate clingy. So we decided to cool it off and eventually she got homesick and moved back to Pennsylvania. Next.

I would visit my girlfriend in college. I would either take the train or the bus, which was a four hour ride stay the weekend, get drunk and have lots of sex. It was great. Some people would say that I was having my cake and eating it too. Well why do you have cake in the first place? To eat it. That was my reasoning and I was sticking to it. My father would ask me what I was doing with these other girls, was I with my girlfriend or not. I told him the bare minimum, the I’m young retort. Then I got the lecture about babies and STDs, use a condom and make good decisions. All from a man who was married at nineteen and now manic, sitting at the kitchen table in his tighty whiteys. But I listened and was safe. At this point he was in the process of losing his business and really depressed. He wouldn’t get out of bed for days and I was hardly ever home.

We mastered making the Jim Dandy, the Fribble and the Royal Banana Split, the managers allowed us to get out from behind the ice cream counter and onto the floor. Finally. Weeknights were dead, then came Friday nights. We were right next to a movie theater and the restaurant got beyond busy. We were in the weeds. Simple orders were taking so long people would get angry and start demanding things. This wasn’t the CharHouse, hell it wasn’t even a Diner, it was Friendly’s and we really didn’t care. My attitude was look sir it’s Friday night and your movies starts in forty minutes, did you really think you would get dinner and dessert and get to the theater on time? At Friendly’s? We would get yelled at, the kitchen would get yelled at and even the dishwashers would get yelled at. The managers would have to comp a meal or two, we wouldn’t get tipped and we really didn’t give a shit. It was Friendly’s.

One night, it was rather slow, a group of girls that did not go to our school came in and sat down in my section. There was flirting going on from the moment I went over to the table. I think I turned maraschino cherry red. They were cute and very giggly. We came to find out they went to an all girls Catholic School. Our Lady of Plaid Skirts and Tight Sweaters. Jackpot! It was my opinion, from my experience that Catholic School girls were easy. I mean one broke up with me because I didn’t give her tit a the proper blood vessel popping she requested. I had to see where this was going to go. While they ate we were talking to them. The girl who liked me said she had a boyfriend but he lived in the Bronx and she was considering breaking up with him. I think we sat there the whole time and luckily George was on duty that night and he was nowhere to be found. The girls stayed long after they ate. Seth and I had to close the restaurant down, they left. I was disappointed, just a goodbye, no phone number. That was until I went to the table. She had put her number on the table. In ketchup. I copied her number onto the back of a guest check and then cleaned up the mess she decided to leave. All in all it was a good night.

I nervously called ketchup number Catholic Schoolgirl. We talked on the phone and decided to go out one night. Seth was talking to one of her friends and we decided to make it a group outing. We went to a club that was eighteen to get in and twenty one to party. The girls were sixteen and I was only seventeen, but looked much younger and had fake identification to prove I was twenty five. We picked up the girls and holy shit did ketchup number look hot. I of course being the slave to pop fashion back then, was wearing my best Dance Party USA outfit. We drove to the club, it was early almost too early to be at a club, mosey on up to the door and I flashed the Times Square ID and was in like Flynn. We all sat around, had a few drinks and then we hit the dance floor. I literally hit the floor, they must have waxed it or something, but I was doing a funky version of the white man’s overbite, when BAM! I fell right on my ass. Embarrassed, I picked myself up had a laugh and continued to dance, then ordered another sex on the beach and then another. The rest of that evening is a bit blurry, but it ended without me dying of embarrassment. I lived another day to scoop ice cream and poorly wait on tables.

I thought I was all done with ketchup number, then the phone rang, I answered it and she was on the other end. She told me it was no big deal, when could I see her again? Really? Really? I checked my work schedule, called her back and we agreed to go out again. Our Lady of Plaid Skirts and Tight Sweaters, Amen! We got on the subject of her Junior Prom, which was in a week or two. Her boyfriend from the Bronx told her that he didn’t want to go, so she asked me. I didn’t have to think, we all knew what happens on Catholic School prom night. I was now in planning mode. I had to get a tuxedo, corsage, and booze. I knew just where to go. I also found out that my girlfriend was coming home from college the day after the prom. She told me she wanted to come over as soon as she got home and I agreed, what was the worst that could happen. I get laid on prom night and the day after, to me that was the worst that could happen. But little did I know tighty whiteys would mess things up, and rightfully so.

I went to the prom and let me tell you if you’ve never been to a Catholic School prom your missing out. You’re missing the reception line of nuns, staring at you as if you were the horny devil himself. The priests who were blessing you as you walked in. I was thinking I’m a Jew! Your rituals mean nothing! I’m gonna get laid weather you make the sign of the cross or not! Bless this! I think we stayed for an few hours then left. The limo whisked us away to Manhattan where we spent most of the evening getting drunk, groping each other and me not falling on the dance floor. We looked out of the limo’s tinted glass to see the sun begin to rise, time to go to a Diner. We ate in our still drunk state, got back in the limo and drove to our one of many stops. We were the last two in the car and things were getting heated up when the driver let down the partition to tell us we were at her house. Great. I kiss her goodbye, tell her I’ll call her and went home to rub one off and get the well deserved sleep I needed.

It was around seven in the morning, my dad was home but still in bed. I walked to my room took my tuxedo off, put it on the hangar and crashed on my bed. I was woken up by my dad to tell me that my girlfriend was on the phone and she was on her way over. I my haze I think I said sure and tried to go back to sleep. Not but fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang I told my father I’d get it. I didn’t want her in my room, she had no idea I went to a prom. I had the tuxedo with last nights smells all over it hanging on my closet door. So I tell her I had a long night, let me get dressed so we can go out for some breakfast or lunch. I change and as I’m walking down the hall my dad comes out of his bedroom hair all disheveled and wearing only his now saggy tighty whiteys and says “Steven, are you going to return that tuxedo today, it’s due back by noon, you should take it with you.” Fuck! That was my first thought. I ask him what he’s talking about, and then my girlfriend asks me what hes talking about. No turning back, I-went-to-a-prom-because-this-girls-boyfriend-backed-out-at- the-last-minute-didn’t-think-it-was-necessary-to-tell-you speech. She didn’t buy it at first but with much convincing on my part she soon did and I was in the clear. Yes, I know what I did was wrong, don’t be so judgmental.

That would be the end of the story, but the legend lives on. I was on a bus coming back from Spring Break in Daytona Beach, when I stuck up a conversation with a girl. She asked where I was from, what High School I went to and my last name. I gave her all of the information and she said “you went out with this girl and fell on you ass while at a club.” My jaw dropped. I said “yes, how do you know that?” She tells me that “she put it in her senior yearbook as one of her quotes.” Great, I will be immortalized in Our Lady of Plaid Skirts and Tight Sweaters yearbook. And here all this time I thought the tighty whiteys were going to be the only embarrassing moments of my life. Sorry dad.

You People Suck!

Beep Beep “Thank you for calling United Parcel Service, this is Steven, how may I help you?” That’s how everyday started. Back before there were automated lines, with prompt after prompt or voice recognition that never works the way it should so you have to hit zero anyway to talk to someone, there were people who would answer the phone for companies that had customer service departments. I was one of those people and I loved every minute of it, well, almost. It was unpredictable, challenging, voyeuristic and fast paced. And by fast paced, I mean what could only describe as controlled chaos.

You logged onto the phone system and checked the the red light on your phone. If it was blinking there were a number of calls waiting to be answered. When that happened you knew you were going to have a very long day. Then there was the cue ticker, hanging from the ceiling, giving you all the information you needed to make your day even more stressful. The cue ticker was much like a stock ticker, with numbers and letters scrolling, never stopping. Telling you in code how may calls are waiting, the longest call on hold, the average time of call, how many calls handled all in real time. Supervisors running up and down the aisles to make sure everyone was logged in, yelling numbers and telling people to keep it short. To an outsider it would look like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, people yelling in code, hand signals and phones ringing off the hook. I don’t know about you but when I used to see that on TV or movies my ass would clench up. But today when I see the images, it’s like watching professional sports. Controlled chaos.

During peak season, usually from the middle of November until the beginning of January, the call center could get anywhere from eight to fifteen thousand calls per day. Enough to make your head spin and go cross eyed. Everyone is stressed. The supervisors, the managers, the operators and the customers. It’s the silly season and this was Metropolitan New York’s regional call center. This center handled Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, Staten Island, lower Westchester County and parts of Long Island. That’s a lot of people with attitudes and short tempers if things did not go their way. And during the silly season, packages were delayed, misplaced, damaged, lost or stolen. Try telling someone that Aunt Sadie’s package was lost, they would go into a tirade and you would have to take it. We were all told in training that we had to be empathetic and understanding. If they only knew, back then those two words did not fully resonate with me.

The red light on the bottom right hand corner on the phone was blinking non-stop. I walked into work twenty minutes early as I did everyday. I hate being late, for me there was no reason to ever be late. I checked the cue ticker and it was looking like a bad day and it was only 9:40am. There was something like over one hundred calls waiting to be answered, with an average call time of well over three minutes. The average was about ten to twenty calls in cue and an average call time of less than two minutes ten seconds. Supervisors were running all over, yelling times and numbers of waiting callers. “All available agents get on the phones! Now!” I went up to my boss and he looked at me like I just pissed on his rug. “You are available right?” he asks in a sarcastically demanding tone. I grab my stuff, walk to my desk, turn on my computer, put my headsets on, log into my computer and take a very deep breath before I log into the phone. I punch in the code to enter the cue, let the fun begin.

“Thank you for calling United Parcel Service, this is Steven, how may I help you?” Over and over and over. Customers needed pick ups, no problem. You needed to track a package, no problem. You didn’t understand what length, width and height was, we had a problem. Try explaining to people that the box they are looking at is three dimensional. Some would say the box has four sides, others would say six. Some customers who did not speak English very well had no idea what you were talking about and that made the day even longer. They understood the length and width part, but when it came to height, they were, well let’s just say, confused. And when these calls happened in the middle to the end of the day, frustration overcame empathy, every time.

“Thank you for calling United Parcel Service, this is Steven, how may I help you?”

“I nee pick up” the voice in my ear says with a very heavy Chinese accent.

“Great, may I have some information first?” I ask all the vitals and can barely understand anything he is saying. I have to repeat all the questions. Name, address, telephone and amount of packages along with the length, width and height. I get all the answers except for one, the height.

“No hi, no hi, vely wrong, vely wrong” he tells me sounding as frustrated as I feel.

“What’s wrong sir, the height of the package?” I ask with a huff in my voice.

“No hi, no hi, vely wrong” he’s now screaming into my ear and I’m ready to punch the monitor, the phone and the desk.

“Sir how high is the package? Is the package flat? What’s in the package?” As if bombarding a man who speaks little English with questions is going to ease the situation. “Sir, forget it, just tell me the contents of the package.”

“No hi, vely wrong, no hi, vely wrong” he is now screaming into the phone.

The supervisors are yelling, the red lights are blinking, the cue ticker is flashing and I’m on the phone with a man who apparently lives in Queens and has flat packages. So rather than deal with him any longer I tell him “the driver will be by tomorrow to pick the package up, if it exceeds the dimensional standards, the drivers have the right to refuse the package, thank you for calling United Parcel Service.” On to the next call. And the next. And the next.

The day ended, I logged off my phone, handed in my time card and went home. And by home I mean my local watering hole where everybody knew my name. I ordered a beer and let the day wash away in the suds of yeast and barley. Knowing in the back of my mind that the next day held the same beep, beep and the same salutations. The warm wave of the beer buzz consumed my body and I knew it was time to go home.

I open the door to my apartment and the phone was ringing. I hurry to the side table, pick up the phone and say “Thank you for calling United Parcel Service, this is Steven, how may I help you?”

The person on the other end of the phone said “Dude, did I call you at work?”

“Nope, I’m half drunk and it was a very long day.”

“So no chance of you coming out tonight, huh?” He sounds upset, but I’m done.

“No way, it’s the silly season at work and I have to get some rest, maybe this weekend. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up and take off my shirt, tie, pants and socks. I crawl into bed, and as soon as my head hits the pillow, I swear I was knocked out.

The next day at work went off without any major issues. All of my callers spoke English, were rational to some degree, but still by the end of the day I was exhausted. My throat was tired, my lungs were tired, but my left arm was not. So a few buddies from work decided to go out and blow off a little steam. We drank and drank and drank some more. By the time midnight came around I was lucky to know my name, let alone what my address was. I woke up the next morning with a mouthful of cotton and a brain feeling like a sponge depleted of water. I needed coffee, orange juice and a greasy bacon egg and cheese on a roll with salt pepper and ketchup. And as any New Yorker would know, that is, the breakfast of champions. I went down to the corner deli, ordered my hangover staple and off to work I went.

I walked in and everyone looked overwhelmed. I walk onto the customer service floor and notice my boss wearing the same clothes he was wearing the day before. He was throwing hand signals, and trying to yell, but he sounded hoarse, as if he had been walking through the desert for days with no water. I guess his voice box was scratched from the booze and nicotine he was consuming the night before. Supervisors and managers were notorious for going out and tying one on. Most of the male supervisors were almost all in their early to mid twenties, single and good at what they did. UPS rules were almost militant. Personal appearance, professional dress and hygiene were all straightforward and strict. Hair had to be a certain length, too long go home and get it cut. You mustache falls below your lip line, go shave it. You had stubble on your cheeks and chin, they gave you a razor and said shave it. If you looked like the cat dragged you in, you might get a look, then a talking to, then a write up. They were truly a three strikes and your out policy kind of work place. That’s why they were so efficient. Being on the customer service floor you had to dress professional, none of this business casual, wear jeans and sneakers to work dress code that is going on today. If you dressed professional, chances are you would act professional.

I worked with what you would call an eclectic group of people. People that if you did not work with, you would probably never utter two words to, unless they bumped into you on the subway or took your seat on the bus. There was Scott, He looked like Superman so we nicknamed him Clark Kent. Scott had the voice of a radio or television announcer, think Shadoe Stevens. Sometimes callers would think they got the wrong number because he sounded like a recording. Scott did not have much of a personality at work, came in did his job and then left. I used to imagine he had a house full of cats and watched a lot of porn. Then there was Marcos. Marcos was in his mid twenties, lived with his parents and had a voice like a female Speedy Gonzales. Most callers would think he was a woman, and you would always hear him correcting them, it’s sir not ma’am, my name is Marcos. We all thought he was gay, but he said he had a girlfriend that he met on the bus and that they were going to get engaged once she graduated college. Sure, if you say so. Right behind me sat Anthony. He was from the Bronx. He had a heavy Bronx accent and a short fuse, which matched his stature. And he was a huge New York Rangers fan. His desk was as if the Madison Square Garden Gift Shop threw up all over it. During the silly season when he had an impossible phone call, he would punch his desk so hard the phone would jump off the desk. I would turn around, laugh and pick up the phone and put it back on his desk. I liked Anthony. There were so many others, Giselle the hot Colombian. Lisa who we all thought was banging the boss. Phil the young talent. Miguel the ass kisser. Eddie the comic, this guy had to have memorized every single truly tasteless jokes book. But when we got on the phones it was all business.

I walk over to my desk and preform the mechanics of getting ready to log onto the phone. I take my suit jacket off, roll my sleeves up twice, take a deep breath and go live. It was the first week in December and the silly season was in full swing. Beep Beep. Track a package. Beep Beep schedule a one time pick up. Beep Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep. I could not wait for my first break. It seems I was trying to set a record for the amount of calls taken in one eight hour shift. I was talking fast and my patience was running thin with people who had no idea about their package size, destination zip code and the value of their contents. These people were on hold, listening to music and the instructions before they got on the phone with a live person, what do you mean you don’t want to insure your fur coat? No we don’t ship live animals. Ma’am this is Manhattan, I really can’t narrow it down to within fifteen minutes when the driver will be there. No this is not the post office I don’t know when the price of a stamp will increase. I don’t know why you haven’t received your SSI check, we are the company with the brown trucks. This was the type of day I didn’t want, but we have no choice who is on the other end of the phone.

Beep Beep. “Thank you for calling United Parcel Service, this is Steven, how may I help you?”

“Yeah, where’s my package” the man said in an overtly New York accent. If I had to guess, which I did quite often, I would say Staten Island.

“Sir, I’ll be glad to help you, do you have a tracking number?”

“No you’re the third moron I’ve talked to today, I am not the shipper, I just want my friggin package, is that to hard for you idiots to do? Isn’t it your job to bring the package from point A to point B?”

“Yes sir it is, but in order for me to find the package, I’m going to need a few bits of information first” I am trying to kill him with kindness and it’s not working. He finally gives in and gives me his name and telephone number along with the shippers information. I put all of his information into the system and nothing. Now I realize why I’m the third person he’s spoken with today. “Sir, I don’t see anything in the system for your name or address, could you call the shipper and see if they have a tracking number for your package please?” I asked him almost sarcastically.

“Don’t you think I tried that already, moron!”

“I have no idea what you’ve tried to do sir, but the only way we can verify anything in our system is by a tracking number, can I call the shipper for you while I put you on hold?” I figured how could it hurt and then I could spare him from getting another customer service rep annoyed.

“No you can’t, I’ll call them myself asshole. And another thing, you know what UPS stands for? It stands for You People Suck!” I could tell his face was red and spittle was forming on the corners of his mouth.

Once someone curses at you, you had two options. Ask them to stop or terminate the conversation. I decided to terminate the conversation. But before I did I told him “You begins with a Y not a U, you illiterate asshole, thank you for calling United Parcel Service, have a nice day!” I hit the button and the too familiar sound of Beep Beep was in my ear and like Pavlov’s dog I responded “Thank you for calling United Parcel Service, this is Steven, how may I help you?”

Hot Room

I realized that I was not a good fit at Disney, so I quit. I did not have it in me to conform to being consistently happy for eight to ten hours a day. I can’t fake happiness. I might be able to fake a smile, but to feign happiness to tourists was not at the top of my list of job priorities. Being unemployed in Orlando stinks, I was depressed, I could barely find any employment outside of the tourism/hospitality industry. Life sucked, so I let life suck on the couch for about a month.

Finally, I bucked up and got my now larger ass off the couch, got the Sunday paper and started circling. And I circled, and circled, and circled. I was looking for sales jobs, some of the job prospects looked hopeful, they were not in the tourist industry, or so I thought. Monday finally came and I started punching digits. I learned after the umteenth call to ask what they do, what does manager in training mean, where are they located, how long have they been in business and was this time share sales. When they couldn’t answer any of the questions, I hung up. But there were some I was on the fence about, I was desperate and scheduled a few interviews for the following week.

Pulling up to the first interview, that feeling of badness bubbled in my gut. I walked in and saw the one thing you never want to see in a place of employment, motivational posters. Soaring eagles, gaggles of flamingos, roaring lions and ridiculous motivational quotations. I hate them. A poster is not going to motivate me. You will never be an eagle, a flamingo nor a roaring lion, this should not motivate anyone. Do you ever watch the Discovery Channel and think, damn, that moose makes me want to sell time shares. Didn’t think so.

I walked up to the “reception area”,which looked more like a cheap basement bar than a desk and introduced myself, telling the young woman sitting there I was there for a ten o’clock interview. The receptionist took my name and asked me to take a seat, and said someone will be with you shortly. There were more motivational posters bombarding my vision, Excellence, Determination, Teamwork, Achieve, Accomplish, all bullshit. Finally the interviewer, maybe in his mid thirties to early forties, dressed in the worst outfit ever created by man, a white short sleeved dress shirt and tie, with doo-doo brown polyester pants and Rockport shoes. Not the quasi stylish Rockports of today, but the almost orthopedic Rockports of yesteryear. His receding hair was slicked back with either grease or sweat or maybe a combination and he had glasses that were two times the size of his face. Just think of the stereotypical used car salesman and then dress him down. I knew this was not going to go well.

He leads me back to a conference room, invites me to sit and goes over my resume. UPS, AT&T, Disney, I had to put it down. We discuss each job, not in full detail but just enough to cover the basics. No, I’ve never sold time shares, no I don’t have a real estate license, yes my hours are flexible, yes I can use a computer, sure I can stay for a bit. He told me there will be a small training class I could sit in on. I leave the conference room and head back to the reception area where there are about five or six people, all the chairs are taken so I decide to go outside for a smoke.

There was young woman, maybe in her late teens to early twenties smoking, she says hello and asks if I was hired. I tell her no, just came in for the interview and was going to stick around for the beginning of a training class to see if I fit in. Now one thing I know is that smokers talk, this was my in, a way to start asking questions. I ask the basics and get some startling answers. This was her last week there, the money was good, but they make you lie to people on the phone, they pay you bonuses in cash at the end of the day and then she said something I’ve never heard before. She said this was a “hot room”. I was naïve at first, thinking temperature, but no, it has nothing to do with temperature. It fringed on being illegal.

Think of the movie Boiler Room, where a large number of people were in a room selling fake shares of a company to people they cold called, under the auspice of a legitimate company. Or something like that, the bottom line, it wasn’t all the way legit. I really wanted to know what was going on inside, so I thanked her and couldn’t wait to get back inside. How many times in your life do you get to see the inside of crookedness, hardly, if ever. I walked back inside and now saw the office in a different light. The used car salesman came back to the reception area and invited everyone back to the “training room”. The room consisted of a large dry erase board and a television on a large stand and about twelve chairs. Nothing hokey, yet.

The receptionist comes in and starts to hand out pamphlets. We take them and peruse, waiting for the “training” to start. Slick, which is my new nickname for the interviewer, walks back into the room and says we are going to watch a promotional video and then discuss the video. Great, I get to watch a cheesy promo video, how productive. The video starts with the sound of waves, sea gulls and then people in the background. Think campy, cheap, late ’80s video production, good looking male and female walking along the beach, going to a night club wearing “vacation/cruise wear”, big sloppy tropical drinks and then it goes dark. All while the announcer is explaining all the amenities and the countless reasons you need to take a vacation at this location every year. I’m not sold, but by the looks on some of the other future liars and scam artists, their faces are aglow.

Slick walks back in and asks what we think. Now normally I would say something super sarcastic, but this time I clam up. I really want to hear what others have to say. There were some people totally kissing Slick’s ass. One redneck pimp looking fellow, wearing a bright blue dress shirt, three buttons undone showing off a gold rope chain, black pants and some really cheap looking shoes, was nose deep. He was saying “Man that looks beautiful. Have you ever been there? I’m sold, when do I start?”. I think people saw my eyes roll to the back of my head, but I didn’t give a shit. I had nothing better to do the rest of the day, this was more entertaining that watching Springer. Slick took a chair and turned it around before he sat in it, which I despise, and asks for some other opinions about the video. I couldn’t hold it in much longer, so I ask how old is the video. Slick has no idea. He then asked us to listen, and this is where the fun really began.

Slick starts to go right into the pitch. It was so scripted and droll, I thought, is this the best guy to be giving this presentation? He looks creepy, sounds like a hyped up Ben Stein and is using so many adjectives my eight grade English teacher is screaming somewhere on the planet. I was leaning back and taking it all in. Listening to the story of the time share. Waking up, walking out to the balcony, watching the sun rise, the ocean breeze on our face, brewing your own coffee. What? Brew your own coffee? On vacation? I don’t know about you but when I’m on vacation I want someone else brewing my coffee. Next you’re going to tell me that I’m going to have to make my own bed and cook my own meals and guess what, he did just that. Telling us the freedoms of making your own food, not having to tip a waiter, saving money, eating when you want to, um hello, I could do that at home. I was still trying to figure out where this was going. Then to top it all off he starts to talk about the money, all the money you can be making selling the breeze, the sun, the surf. Funny how he didn’t mention the coffee or the kitchen again. Then the motivational posters started coming to life and the redneck pimp was juiced up. Saying this sounds great, I want to go, let’s make some money. He can’t be serious, but sadly I think he was. Slick then asked us if we wanted to take a tour of the rest of the office. How could we say no?

The tour consisted of us crammed into a corner, watching people talk, supervisors slapping high fives, and the din of a call center. The first thing I noticed was the “desks”. There weren’t any, what I did see were about four rows with about twelve to fifteen computers, the rows were made of plywood and cinder blocks. Cheap looking, absolutely. Legitimate, not so much. The gray metal folding chairs complimented the cinder blocks quite nicely, if you like that we-can-break-this-office-down-in-less-than-two-hours industrial look. I really felt sorry for the people who chose to work there. Riding the sofa was looking better and my getting larger ass would be more comfortable. But I stayed and waited to be assigned with a seasoned professional. The person I was assigned to was also in his twenties, and looked like our redneck pimp in training. He had a few tattoos on his hands, they looked amateur, almost jailhouse. He was also wearing a sweatshirt, khakis that looked a bit dirty and old sneakers. Totally professional.

The phones were ringing off the hook. People were calling about a free (almost) offer to come to Florida, stay at a resort and go to a theme park. The “offer” came in the form of an email, a flashy you just won, call now, limited space available type of spam that laws have now been written about. And people were calling non stop, asking question after question. And my finely dressed pimp in training, seasoned professional wasn’t really answering one of them. He would say that it’s an offer that the resort has allowed them to make to the public, then would turn the interrogation around, quite masterfully, and start asking them questions. Some callers would answer the barrage of queries, others would just be persistent on asking their own questions and when he didn’t answer most of them would hang up, some even asked for a supervisor. That was a joke, the supervisor was the person next to you, seriously. According to pimp junior a “supervisor” never took a phone call, “these people have no idea, so we just try to get their money anyway we can”. No shit.

He wasn’t kidding when he told me that. I could hear the caller on the other end of the phone either buy it or deny it. One girl on the other end of the phone sounded confused and he kept on pounding away. She kept on asking why did I get this email. She doesn’t have any money, take me off your list. He was asking if her mother had a credit card to secure the trip, it’s only ninety nine dollars per person, bring your mom he said. He was talking about sea breezes, tropical drinks, going to that place that the mouse owns, getting tan, swimming pools and relaxation. She said to hold on and about three minutes later she came back on the phone saying that she wanted to take her whole family and gave this guy a credit card number. He took it, wrote the numbers down, raised his hand and a “supervisor” came running. She was saying it was her moms credit card, but she would be happy because they needed a vacation and five hundred dollars is “reasonable”. The “supervisor” ran back and gave him a high five. The card was approved. Little did she know that a three to six hour time share presentation was involved. That was almost never discussed, they were instructed to take the money, tell them they would receive their vouchers in the mail within two weeks. Totally professional, totally legit. After that phone call, I took my headphones off, got up and walked out. Slick must have seen me get up and start walking to the door, because he came up behind me and asked where I was going. I tell him that I was leaving, “this place is a den of iniquities, I feel dirty, see ya”. He looked at me and said “den of what?” I said “exactly” and never looked back.

May I, Please & Thank You

I don’t remember my parents ever telling me constantly to say May I, Please and Thank You, but it seems like I tell my children everyday. I have been reminding my children to say those three phrases since they were about two years old and today they are seven and a soon to be six. And they still don’t do it, why? They say it sometimes, to us in our home environment, but they typically won’t do it outside the house. Why is that? Do they feel it’s not necessary? Is it socially awkward? Do they forget? Do they not care? I don’t know. I do believe in the importance of may I, please and thank you.

Most people who know me today don’t believe this, but I was a very quiet, shy, almost introverted child. I would never make eye contact with anyone, ever. It scared me. When we would go out to eat as a family, which was quite often, I would give my order to the menu rather than the waitress/waiter. I was scared to talk to people I did not know. Apparently, to me, telling someone you wanted the grilled cheese with tomato was striking up a conversation rather then placing an order. My father used to say “speak up” or “stop talking into the menu” or “put the menu down and tell the waitress what you want”. I was embarrassed, but felt pressured and put the menu down, which I did, but gave the order the salt and pepper shakers instead. In turn my father would tell the waitress what I wanted and my food would show up. Would I do that today with my children? Nope. They want something, they need to ask for it, politely.

My son can tell you all about all the characters from any Super Mario video game, but when it comes to saying thank you, he says he forgets. Really? But apparently most kids are like this, I mean why not remember and memorize something you like and regurgitate it. They don’t like saying please and thank you, so no polite regurgitation. Most of the kids in his class don’t say please and thank you. We had a birthday party for him and invited ten of his classmates, and when we were dishing out the pizza, out of the twelve kids at the table, only three said thank you. Two of them happened to be mine. Sometimes I feel as if I’m the may I, please and thank you gestapo. Telling parents that I had to remind your child to say please and thank you. Is that so wrong? Some of them look at me as if I have lost my mind, others apologize and then there are the ones that just stare blankly and ignore you. I guess the apple really does not fall far from the tree.

Look, I’m no leave it to beaver type of guy. I’m cynical, sarcastic, curse like a sailor and very opinionated, I’ll be the first one to tell you to go fuck yourself if you did something wrong to me or my family and friends. When I’m handed something, be it food, drink or any kind of purchase, I say thank you. Even the people handing me the things I just paid for look a me a bit strange. Is it not common for a person to thank someone for dropping off your giant beer? I hope not. Someone holds a door open for you, you say thank you. Someone allows you to merge into busy traffic, you wave a thank you. But why is it that when someone does something that they are paid to do we don’t say thank you? Have we become that complacent with the way things have become, that we can’t teach our offspring to be a bit more polite? I don’t think so. Teach you kids by example, they might just learn something.

Next time you are getting your Venti skinny two Splenda sugar free vanilla half caf latte, thank the person behind the counter calling out your drink, the person making it and the person handing it to you, they deserve it. Or maybe the kid that delivers pizza to your home, or the guy at the dry cleaners who hand you your clothes, or anyone else who does something for you, just say thank you. Please.

I Fit The Suit

I’ve had my share of jobs, I’ve scooped ice cream, waited tables, swept floors, folded clothes, sold sunglasses,was a customer service rep, front desk clerk and sold sleep. But being the toy soldier outside of the most famous toy store in the world would have to be the most interesting and was the closest that I came to celebrity. It’s not a job I applied for, it happened by default. I had been working a FAO Schwarz for about two months, in the boys action department. I get on a subway, walk to work, punch in and get to my department and start playing with overpriced toys. Hand held fighter planes, remote control cars, boats, trucks and tanks. Occasionally I would have to ring a customer up on the register, restock an item and cover other departments in the store. When the director of human resources approached me, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

It was a Friday morning, I was at work early, as always, sitting in the employee lounge when in walks my boss. She asks if she could speak with me in her office. At that moment I was nervous as hell, thinking I was in some kind of trouble, but I scanned my memory and there wasn’t anything on record that would get me fired, fantastic. But what could she want, what did I do? Those were the only thoughts going through my head as we were walking the desolate store. We arrive at her office, I’m greeted by one of the hottest secretaries I have ever seen, with a giggle. Great, the hot secretary is laughing at me, why? She has to know something. I had that frustrating feeling, the one you get when everyone in the room gets the joke and you’re sitting there laughing, but are thinking, what the hell is so funny, why can’t I get it? We walk down the corridor to her office, she opens the door and there it is.

She asks me to sit down. OK, now what?

“I have a favor to ask you, it’s OK if you say no, but I really need your help.”

“Sure, ask away” I reply rapidly.

“I need you to be the toy soldier” she says matter of factly.

My facial expression had to have given me away “Really? Me? Why?” I was actually scared.

She states in a very flattering way “To be honest, you are the right height, the right build and you have the right look”

How did she know that I would look good in a toy soldier costume. A costume that consisted of tuxedo style pants, a bright red Sgt. Pepper’s jacket, and a tall fuzzy black hat with a patent chin strap. The thought of me being in that costume never crossed my mind, but apparently it crossed hers. If anyone knows me, they know that I’m not the costume wearing type. I tell her “I’m really not comfortable doing that, but appreciate the offer.”

She starts to sell me, “It’s a very famous position, you will meet celebrities, do private parties, which pay extra. Almost double of what you’re making now.”

I hear Rod Roddy, the famous announcers voice from the Price Is Right, in my head saying “Come On Down, you’re going to be the next FAO toy soldier!” I was in college and extra money was always necessary, so big deal, I had to dress as a toy soldier, I was making good money. I explain to her that I’d happy to do it, you made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Then she springs it on my, OK put on the costume and come back in here so I can put your cheeks on. Great, now I have to wear makeup. The only thought that made me go through with it was money, money and more money.

I go in to another room, get out of my work clothes and change into my new outfit. There are no mirrors so I have no idea what I look like. I walk on back down the hall to get my cheeks on. I go in her office and she tells me that I “look better than the last one”.

I inquire “Speaking of the last one, what happened to him?”

“He was always late and did not show up the other day, so the general manager asked me if I knew anyone to fit the suit. And here you are.”

Great, I fit the suit. Money, money and more money. I walk down the hall and pass the secretary dressed as the toy soldier, she smiles and I smile, not sure if it’s a good smile or a bad smile. Money, money and more money. Out the door, and down the escalator, making my way towards my post. The front door of the most famous toy store in the world.

I was both nervous and excited. But I stood there, all six foot two of me, six foot nine including the hat, at the door, taking pictures with tourists, opening the door for customers with carriages and strollers, smiling and making people laugh. Why is it that people in costumes make us smile and laugh. Because its funny, cute, pathetic? Yes. But I did meet some interesting and famous people while standing there. I met people from all over the world. I’m sure I am in a few photo albums in Germany, Japan and England. How cool is that?

Children would come up to me all the time and ask “are you real” and “can you talk”. Now me being the wise ass that I am, would tease them. By not moving and then suddenly make a quick motion to startle them. Or I would be silent and then when they would take a picture with me I would say “cheese” or “boo”. The looks on their faces were priceless, the parents would laugh and another memory created.

Teenage girls would come up to me all giddy and ask how old I was, do I have a girl toy soldier, what do I do when I’m not protecting the toy store? Then there were the boys, some who would try to knock my hat off, make off color remarks and just be down right mean. But it came with the job and so did the money, money, money.

Most celebrities or the people who make arrangements for celebrities would call ahead to alert security of their arrival. I was then told that they would be arriving and at their request take pictures with their families and even accompany them shopping. What fun, I get to meet famous people with a giant fuzzy hat, a bright red coat with gold buttons and red lipstick cheeks. Just think how most people are when they meet a famous person, nervous, awestruck and can’t form a sentence. Then add a costume to those thoughts and feelings, humiliating. I made it through my first celebrity meeting unscathed. But then there were the celebrities who were a lot less nice. They were rude, demanding and downright mean to everyone. One even told me to “look shorter without looking bent over.” He was much shorter than I ever expected him to be, and he was the biggest asshole I’ve ever met, celebrity or not. I said “unless I’m on my knees that’s not going to work. And I don’t get on my knees for anyone.” In New York sarcasm. Figuring he was originally from New York and could take the joke. He didn’t take that too well and his assistant went running to management. I was asked to leave the party, boo-hoo. I still got paid and he’s still an asshole.

There were more embarrassing moments, when friends and friends of friends, would show up and stop by for a chat. And by chat I mean stare with morbid curiosity. Oh look, it’s the Monaco boy dressed up outside of a toy store, how cute. Look there’s Steven, I see his doorman career is taking off. Oh my it’s Steven, I had no idea you were here, your mother did mention something about you working at FAO but we had no idea. After the first few months of the random “sightings” of me, I grew accustomed to the people coming up, not feeling embarrassed, but quite proud. I emotionally grew into the suit. But, after a few more months of standing at the door I got bored. As I did with most jobs that were not challenging enough. I mean how challenging could opening a door be? Not very. So I decided to quit and find a more grown up job. Which I did. I landed a job at the Polo Ralph Lauren Mansion as a cashier. I went from toy soldier to preppy outfitter. To this day when I’m in New York City, I still go by FAO to see who’s wearing my hat. And think to myself that I had a great experience and hope they are too.

Altered Skyline

They might have taken away a piece of the NYC Skyline, but they will never take away the memories. Please observe a moment of silence for those who are no longer with us, those who gave their lives and those who are still haunted by the actions of cowards.

You’re Fired – Wilson & Shimkus should not be around next term

Wilson has turrets and Shimkus had to use the bathroom.
That’s what Fox News would like to say regarding their actions. And some people would believe it. That’s the scary part.
Next time your boss says something you don’t agree with, blurt out so the whole office can hear you, “You Lie!”
If that doesn’t get you a tongue lashing, written up, demoted or fired you must be a member of the United States Congress.
Next, if you are ever in a meeting and don’t like what you’re hearing, just get up and leave. Just hope that the guy in the front of the room screamed “You Lie” so no one notices you’re gone.
Hopefully their constituents will have more than nanosecond memory and fire Wilson & Shimkus.

Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie & Pimp Shoes

Buying a used car is not the most pleasurable experience one can have. It’s usually on the top of people’s list of most hated things to do. Next to oral surgery and death. And why is that? Typically it’s because of the salespeople. They make the process unbearable. The sales tactics, the style of speech, the arrogance, the desperation and sometimes the clothing. They are like plaid jacket, cheap suit wearing vultures, perched on the car lot looking for the easy prey. I don’t know about you, but I refuse to be anyone’s free meal.

The time came when we had to buy a car, our lease was up and we didn’t want another payment. So we decided to buy a used vehicle. I was in sales at the time and asked around if anyone knew any decent dealers or salespeople. Sadly, most everyone I knew said they did, but it took too long for them to get the information to me, so I was on my own. I checked the internet, all if the used car selling guides, the local newspapers and eBay. We found nothing worth looking at, time was ticking away. Last minute my neighbor said he knew a guy who owned a used car lot in the next county. I figured driving out there can’t hurt.

We drive out to the next county, meet the man and tell him our parameters. This is how much we have to spend, this is the type of vehicle we would like, miles, age, automatic, etc. He shows us a few vehicles and says “we really don’t have much to chose from, but we go to auctions once a week, I’ll call you if something comes in.” I tell him that we really needed a car in the next few days. He says he understands and if we don’t find anything to give him a call.

Feeling a bit bewildered, we went back home and hit the internet, scouring through the pages and pages of used cars on dealers websites. Carmax wasn’t an option. I had purchased a car form them years earlier, but I had recently learned that the blue book discount is a little bit deceptive. Something I didn’t know is that there is more than one blue book price. They use the highest price of the three and then “discount” their cars from that price. In my years in sales I have learned to never pay retail for any big ticket items. Carmax does not negotiate, which is great for people who don’t like car salesman and don’t want to haggle, but not me, I like to negotiate, well really not negotiate, more like dictate.

After a few hours of looking online we narrowed it down to a few places that were close to our home and had good customer feedback. I was determined to buy a car, the sooner the better. After searching we narrowed it down to a few cars. We were interested in a SUV, with decent mileage, and under seven thousand dollars. I ask my wife to get the kids ready. My children were less than a year old and about two and a half. We get in the car and drive off to the dealership. We agree that I will do most if not all of the talking. Go figure.

We pull into the driveway of the dealership and there it is. The vultures nest. A giant Gazebo nestled on top of a tiny hill, with about six to eight salespeople, ready to swoop down and start feeding. Little do they know what they were in for. No sooner than my foot hitting the pavement, a saleswoman approaches us. She said her name was Jennifer had a warm smile, a hand extended, good posture, she obviously read the how to sell manual. I was very direct with her. I explained what we needed in a vehicle, I do not want financing, I will be paying cash, I even have a list of cars I want to look at and oh by the way “I am a pain in the ass, I’m in sales and I don’t want any games. Now that being said can you help me find a car?” While I was explaining all of this to her she was giving me the why me look on her face. She then told me that this was her first day on the “floor” so “be gentle”. I heard the voice of Mr. Burns, a character from The Simpsons television show say “Excellent”.

We walk the lot, trying to find the cars somewhere in our price range. We see one but it is well over our budget, but what the hell, I like to negotiate. I ask her about a test drive and she says sure. We walk back to the main building and wait. I look around the showroom, observing the salespeople, seeing what they’re wearing, what they’re saying to other potential customers and listening to the pages coming over the loudspeakers. Jennifer comes back with the keys to the SUV we were interested in, I ask my wife to stay behind with the kids, she agrees and off we were.

We get in, I adjust all that needed adjusting, I turn the car on and we are on our way. During the drive I ask her how she likes her job, and explain that I don’t mean to be harsh I just know all the games that salespeople play and will not allow myself to be taken advantage of. She agrees and we make it back to the dealership. I like the SUV. It rode well, it had good mileage, the AC was cold and had the space that we needed. What it didn’t have was the right price. Time to negotiate. And Monty Burns was once again in my head, Excellent.

We go to an empty desk where she takes down all the vital information. Asks the obligatory questions and we answer, no financing, no trade in, no extended warranty. Jennifer then begins the sales pitch. I stop her cold and tell her, this is what I’m going to give you for the car, including all taxes and fees. She says she is not authorized to negotiate, I’ll have to talk to her manager. Excellent. Jennifer leads us into a waiting room, where there are toddler toys presumably for my children and asks us if we would like anything to drink. We tell her no thanks, just see what you can do with your manager. Please tell him that exactly what I told you and everything will be fine. Thanks again. Let the waiting game begin.

We wait, and that’s exactly what they want us to do. Like prisoners getting booked into a jail, they try to break you by making you wait for a long period of time. Time goes by much slower when you’re waiting. And apparently seven minutes or more is the unofficial time a deal lets you wait before the manager come in and tries to win you over. We wait, and wait and wait. I can see the cobwebs forming in the corners of the waiting area. No one comes, not even Jennifer. I leave the office to find her, go to the customer service desk and ask to speak with Jennifer. While I’m standing there I notice a salesman, dressed in a button down shirt with the dealership logo on the pocket, a black belt, and black almost MC Hammer pants but not as baggy and then there were the shoes. Pimps would have been proud of the footwear.

I must tell you that I have had my share of bad shoes. I even had a pair of green Teju lizard skin boots back in the early nineties. That being said I was not shocked but rather appalled that they allowed such a heinous shoe to be in the dealership. They were green, kelly green to be exact and they were pointy with fancy silver toe caps and laces with black triangles on the tips. Now ask yourself this question, would you buy a car from a guy wearing those shoes? Not that I judge everyone by their choice of footwear, but a salesman in green leprechaun pimp shoes, he would not get my business.

Jennifer finally meets me at the customer service desk and tells me that her manager said he would not accept our offer. The car was tagged at seven thousand eight hundred dollars. I offered five thousand five hundred, including all fees and taxes. The counteroffer was seven thousand five hundred. I waited for that? I was offended. She tells me that she will go back and get him. I go back to the waiting room and get my family, I’m ready to leave. They were willing to play hardball, and I don’t play games, we were done.

As we were leaving, the sales manager stops us and asks us to go back to the room, he just had to finish up with another client, he would be right with us. He would make it worth our while. I didn’t believe him, but I was amused and intrigued. We go back and Jennifer accompanies us. We talk to her, she tells us what she allegedly told the manager and I agree to wait a bit longer. Within a few minutes the manager walks in and my eyes wander to the floor, searching for questionable footwear. I notice casual loafers. I breathe a sigh of relief.

He says my offer was “way low” and he would be “willing to take seven thousand”

“I’m not into playing games, thanks for wasting my time, goodbye.”

My children are cranky, they were getting hungry, my wife was also getting angry, we decide to leave. Walking through the dealership I notice pimp shoes leaning against a car near the door. Just as I am about to pass him he says “was it too much for the car or too much for your wallet.” I couldn’t believe what I just heard from Omar, that’s what his name tag stated, Omar. But he will always be know forever as Pimp Shoes Omar to me. I asked him loudly so the whole dealership could hear “could you repeat what you just said, asshole”. And he cocks his head and says “is the car too much for your wallet?” I tell him as sarcastically as I can “yes it’s way too much for my wallet, you figured me out.” And I walked out the door.

As we are getting into the car the sales manager comes running out of the door, literally running. He makes it to the car and says he “will accept my offer, please come back inside so we could wrap this up.”

I tell him “fifty five hundred out the door, fees, taxes and all”

He looks at me and asks “what do you do for a living?”

“It’s really none of your business, let’s just end this”

“If you ever need a job, I’d hire you in a minute.”

“I would rather live on the streets then sell cars for a living.” And we head on back to the dealership. Omar was no where to be found.

I wait at the customer service counter, the girl hands me an invoice, I look it over and guess what, the final price was sixty two hundred. I was boiling. My wife was pissed and I think my infant children wanted to punch the manager in the gonads. They call him over the PA system and he shows his face about one minute later. He looks scared. Excellent.

“What’s with the fees and taxes?” I ask as snotty as New York City waitress.

“I have to collect them, there’s no way around it” he bullshits.

“Bullshit, figure it out, or no deal”

“I can’t” he states nervously.

“Look you can take a buck for that car if you want to, now that you’ve pissed me off more than I’ve ever been pissed off by a salesman, the price is now reduced to fifty two hundred, out the door, take it or leave it”

He extends his hand out and says “Deal”

“I thought so”

The paperwork took about another fifteen minutes, and the car was ours. A salesman came up to me and said “good job, I would have taken the fifty five hundred an hour ago, oh and by the way, Omar is an asshole.”

The Room Without A View

I lived in Orlando, which outside of theme parks, hospitality and time shares there is not much left in the job market. So I got a job at the Walt Disney World Resort’s Grand Floridian Hotel. I was working the front desk dressed in a Victorian Style suit, with bow tie and vest, and sherbert colored striped shirt. And anyone who knows me knows that I am not a “Disney” person. I am sarcastic and I point with one finger, deal with it. How I got the position at the fanciest of Disney hotels, I will never know. Maybe I looked Victorian enough and didn’t speak with too much of a New York accent.

I was told that they had a “Fast Track Management Program” during the interview process and wanted to immediately sign up for that the moment I hit the front desk. If there was any program I should be on, that was it. When you are a “Cast Member”, no matter what your job is, you have to attend “Disney University”. At Disney U if you have not yet been brainwashed, this is where they force feed the “Magic” into your ears. There were people from all walks of life, teenagers, college grads, new starters, and retired all in this room waiting for the “Magic” to happen to them. I remember an older couple in their fifties who literally sold the farm, bought a trailer and told me that their dream was to work at Disney World, they were living their dream. Apparently their dream consisted of working for
minimum wage at a concession stand serving hot dogs to tourists. They were the people Disney wanted, I was not.

At Disney University you learn how to point. If you’ve ever been to Disney you will know what I mean. They do not point with one finger, supposedly that’s offensive to some cultures. The only one finger point that I know is offensive to all cultures, so just don’t point with that finger and all should be fine, but not at Disney. You had to point with two fingers, your pointer and your middle. What if you were missing your pointer fingers, well for those folks you had the whole hand point. Thumb tucked in your palm of course, as to not offend and old school umpires that may be vacationing.

Everything is “magical” at Disney. Except of course if you don’t want to see the characters with their heads off, smoking Marlboro’s outside the employee cafeteria. That’s not magical, but rather hysterical. The instructor asked the class if anyone would be offended by seeing the underground tunnels, because that my break the magic. I was thinking, surely you can’t be serious. Do people really
say “yes, I want to work here, but I really can’t see what goes on behind the scenes because I might loose my mind If I see characters with their heads off and carts of food and merchandise being pushed
around. I’d rather pretend the characters are real and the merchandise gets there with Pixie Dust.” Those are Disney people, I am not.

Then there is the “Disney Look Book”. This is the Bible of personal grooming and appearance. It goes on about shoes, “costumes”, hair color, earrings and of course, hygiene. They tell you that they are very strict about the Look Book rules and any violation could result in a written warning or termination. Luckily I had my own hair color, and washed my ass every day, I looked Victorian to them for Christs sake, I would have no problem following the “Look”. But I always wondered what they did
to the people who violated the rules. Did they strap them in a boat to the “It’s a small world” ride for hours and hours? Or did they get really harsh and strap them in a chair, like in a Clock Work Orange,
and show them images of perfect cast members all while listening to Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah? One could only hope.

After passing all the rigorous tests, and listening to all the testimonials I was ready to get to work. I arrive at the Grand Floridian, ready to learn my way around and get on the Fast Track. I am shown where the “costuming” department is, where the time cards are, where the break room is, where the smoking section is and the employee cafeteria. While the guest part of the hotel is pristine, the employee part is far from it. I guess they use all the magic for the guests paying through the nose rather than the people supplying the magic. I got it.

Training at the Grand Floridian was just as eventful. Smile, smile, smile, do everything with a smile. Now I am not a very happy all the time person. But I figured why not try. I was “shadowing” a
young girl in her early twenties, who was super peppy, super happy all the time. She smiled at everything. If you told her that her hair was on fire, she would be smiling. Told her she had the clap,
she would be smiling. She was that type of person, I am not. But I wanted to be on the Fast Track, so I listened and observed.

After two weeks I complete training. I can check guests in, two finger point them to their rooms, take their money and tell them to have a magical day all on my own. I am now a real “cast member”. I am checking people in, answering questions, but I wanted to do more. I wanted to deliver the packages. I was gonna learn the “mail” room. When you were on mail room duties, you didn’t have to wear the neopolitan ice cream outfit. You got to wear shorts and a polo shirt and drive around in a golf cart all day. That was more up my alley. So I asked to do that for at least three of my shifts, but
only received the mail room for only one or two of them. The front desk managers did not like me for some reason, maybe because I did not have a perma-grin. Maybe it was every time I asked to get on the
Fast Track, they would tell me “just put your name on the list and we will consider it for review when the time is right.” Whatever the reason, after a few weeks I was not a happy camper.

The is a rule at Disney that you are not allowed to ask famous people for their autographs. Well I broke that rule with every famous person I ever checked in. Johnny Unitas walked right up to my
position at the front desk, I greet him with big eyes and checked him in and then asked him for an autograph. He said “sure, at least you know who I am.” Then there was Jimmy Page, he was under an
assumed name. He was brought to my station by a handler, that’s what I called the employees who take the rich and famous around. They gave me the fake name and I said it was a pleasure to meet him may I have an autograph. The handler looked at me as if I asked to have sex with his wife. He said yes and signed a slip of paper. Well guess what happened, the handler moused me out. I was written up for violating policy. I didn’t care, I got one of the greatest guitarist of all time’s signature. I’ll gladly put mine on the write up form.

It was very busy morning at the most expensive hotel at the happiest place on earth when this couple, newlyweds from New Jersey, showed up to my position at the front desk. They saw my name tag which said Steven New York, NY. I made some small talk about Manhattan. I was checking their reservation for any special notes and noticed they had a request for a room with a view of the Magic Kingdom. Those rooms are difficult to get and are by request only, not guaranteed. There were none available. I explained to them, in my best Disney way, that I was sorry that the room the requested was not available, would you like to stay in the main building or the outer villas. The new bride was getting angry, I could see it in her eyes. She gets New Jersey loud and says “we made these arrangements over six months ago, why can we not get a room with a view of Cinderella’s Castle?”

I explain to her that “it is only a request, not a guarantee.”

“That’s not good enough” she huffs.

“I apologize, let me see when the guests in those rooms are leaving”

The husband chimes in “you better.”

I say “It’s your Honeymoon, do you really need a view of the Castle?”

“Get your manager, now” she demands in a very New Jersey tone.

“Gladly.” I say with a giant smile on my face.

I get the manager who hates me the most, tell her she is needed out at the desk and wait in the back office for her to return. And she comes back about ten minutes later, three shades redder than when she left the office. She was fuming mad, I was laughing, which made her more angry and I didn’t care one bit. She told me that I was being insubordinate and disrespectful. Maybe I was, but again, I did not care. She told me that she was going to “write me up and I would have to talk to the hotels general manager. We don’t take things like that lightly.”

Shouting at her “Lighten up, I don’t care, I quit!” and “here’s your two finger point” as I flip her two birds. She then calls security and I am escorted off Disney property.

That night I vowed to never go to Disney, ever. But later on in life I would have children and they would ask us to go and I caved. I will say that I do give credit to the people that work there, because it really is a tough job to be that happy and friendly to people all day long. That’s why if you go just outside the gates of Disney there is a bar called the Orlando Ale House, you will find cast members getting their own kind of happy on. Make sure you buy them a drink or two.

Two Trips For The Price Of One

“Do you feel anything?” I ask.

“No, nothing.” he sounds defeated.

It was a beautiful afternoon in the fall of nineteen ninety, I was hanging out in Central Park with a few friends waiting to go to a Grateful Dead show at Madison Square Garden. Back before a famous mayor put the lock down on the city, you could get anything you wanted in Sheep Meadow. I’ve purchased beer, cigarettes, wine and weed all in the confines of a gated green meadow in the middle of New York City. And this day was just like any other day. We sat there in our tie-dyed t shirts, jeans and Jesus sandals. We smoked weed, drank beer and discussed the possibilities of the songs on the play list of the nights concert. Then, someone mentioned acid. I didn’t see anything wrong with adding psychedelic fuel to my already inebriated stoned fire.

I have taken acid before and enjoyed it. Acid is cheap, about three to ten dollars for a hit. It’s long lasting, around six to twelve hours. And it’s fun, if you’re with the right people in the right frame of mind when you’re doing it. I had the money, I had the time and I had the proper surroundings. Let’s expand out minds and listen to some great live music. Only problem, where to get it. One of us and I don’t remember who said they would go hunting and ask around. About fifteen minutes later, he comes back to the circle and tell us “we have to go see Mountain.”

“That’s his name? What kind of name is Mountain?” I ask as if someone would have an answer.

“Who cares, let’s just go find him.”

“Who’s going?”

I say “I’ll go.” We needed five hits, five bucks each. We head off to find Mountain.

We were told to go to the cluster of rocks in the far north east corner of the meadow. We make our way through the crowds filled with pseudo hippies, preppies, jocks, business men and the ever so popular kids with their nannies. We make it up to the rocks and there is a gaggle of crunchy looking people. Devil sticks being juggled, hacky sacks being kicked around, bongos and guitars are being played. We walked up to one of them and asked where we could find Mountain. Without hesitation they point to a man on top of the rock.

With a name like Mountain you would think he would be a behemoth looking man. But no. Mountain was skinny, had real long hair, a beard and mustache to cover up a severely pockmarked face. He asked if we were cops, we tell him no. He then gave us a choice, pink panther, green goblin or blue sunshine. We took the pink panther, made small talk, he wished us well, told us to enjoy the show and we were back to our group of soon to be off our minds friends.

When you take acid, on a tab of paper, it is not instantaneous. It takes about twenty to forty minutes to kick in. We all took it at the same time and decided to hang around until it kicked in, then we would make our way downtown. We were going to walk to MSG on LSD. We discussed what route we would take and all agreed, Fifth Avenue. About thirty minutes go by and nothing. All five of us felt nothing. Great, we just got ripped off by a guy named Mountain. We agree we should go talk to him.

We trudge through the crowds and make it back to that cluster of rocks. Mountain is still siting on top. I walk up to him explain that nothing happened, none of us are tripping. He says that that’s unfortunate and gives me five hits of the blue sunshine. He apologizes and we thank him. We decide to take it right there and be on our way. We needed to get some food in our system so we decide to start heading toward Fifth Avenue. We all agree, this is going to be one fun evening.

We leave the meadow, heading south east, toward the Plaza Hotel, when suddenly I get that feeling. That wave. That please keep your hands in the car, this is going to be a bumpy ride feeling. The ground got soft and the sky began to wiggle. The first tab of acid kicked in. It must have had some type of delay, because there was no way the second one would have hit me so quickly and when I realize this I blurt out, Fuck! I really didn’t want to take two hits of acid, but I’m on the train and there is no getting off, I decide to enjoy the ride.

I do not recommend taking acid at rush hour in the middle of New York City. Have you ever seen those video clips of people walking on the streets. Where there looks like there is no room for anyone to fit, like a heard of cattle. Well imagine walking through that while on a psychedelic drug. Your senses are open wider than ever before. Everything is clear, vibrant and yet a bit askew. Not everything is as it seems and the power of suggestion is a dangerous tool.

Take the windows at Bergdorf Goodman’s, the glass was wavy and the mannequins in the windows appeared to be moving. One of our group mentioned that the clothing was on fire, I started to see flames. We were walking at a very normal pace, but each block seemed to take longer and longer. Passing people who had no idea we were have taken a temporary leave of absence from reality. The sky was bright blue, the sounds were louder than usual, but they were calming. Then someone mentioned Unga-Boonga Men. Think Mayan or Aztec stone carvings, little tiny men with great big plumes sticking out of their head carrying spears. At least that’s what I saw on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They were standing next to unsuspecting tourists ready to make them their daily sacrifice.

The Unga-Boonga men slowly faded as we made our way to Saks Fifth Avenue. Once again there were wavy windows and mannequins with clothes on fire, what fun! Then the suggestion was made to go to Rockefeller Center. Spitting fish, Mermaids and a Golden Prometheus, what more could one ask for while tripping. We made a lap, taking in all the sites, the imaginary Christmas Tree, the venom spitting fish, the mermaids gasping for air. Then there is Prometheus, the fire stealing champion of humans, frozen in the most uncomfortable pose ever. Having taken art history the fist thought I had was that of a painting of a giant eagle, swooping down and eating his liver. Except in my version the eagle was the United States Postal Service Mascot. Rain, sleet, snow, wind, and fire hijacker, they deliver. We then exited back onto Fifth Avenue ready for more twisted sightseeing.

The waves intensified, the acid was getting stronger. The New York Public Library is in the distance. Hooray for Patience and Fortitude. In case you didn’t know the lions have names. So what’s the logical thing to do? Ride the lions of course. My only regret was that digital photography was not available, because them would have been some funny photos. It was like we were in Narnia. Riding the backs of giant stone lions, above the crowded streets. Then we were rudely asked by the library cops to get off the lions, and get on our way or else they would call the real police. Apparently they had no Patience and our Fortitude was drug induced. Tally ho!

We stumbled, well at least that’s what it felt like at the time, down to Thirty Fourth street. I look up at the Empire State Building, thinking I see the Unga-Boonga men all over it. Climbing, swinging, staring down below. I look back down and realize everyone had gone ahead without me, how long was I standing there looking up. I see them in the distance, and walk through the bevy of pedestrians. I think I was the most polite I have ever been. It was excuse me, pardon me all the way to Sixth Avenue. It was still early, the concert didn’t start until about eight and it was around six, what to do? Someone suggests The Molly Wee Pub. When you are on acid you can drink, a lot. And the Molly Wee was a great place to drink.

The area was swarming with Dead Heads. Sitting on every corner, asking for food, tickets and drugs. Hippieness filled the air, and by that I mean the smell of patchouli. That was the one thing I didn’t like about some Dead Heads, the patchouli. I’d rather smell straight up body odor then body odor blended with patchouli. It made my nostrils curl. I made it through without retching, but imagined I saw the vapors coming off of their bodies. The smell wafting into the New York Sky, which was now electric blue with waves of brown thanks to the acid.

We finally arrive at the Molly Wee and it is packed. It was Hippie Hour. We find a corner and sit back and watch all the characters coming and going. We drink pitcher after pitcher. We met some very interesting people, some of which knew Mountain. The waves are getting stronger, the world is getting fuzzier and the night is closing in on us. We all agree to leave with our new friends and head back up the block to MSG.

The streets are so crowded, time to get indoors. We make our way to the gates get out our tickets and laugh. We are all laughing uncontrollably and get strange glances from the funny looking people in yellow wind breakers. What did they expect? This is a Dead show, almost everyone is not in their right mind, lighten up. We find our seats, to the right of the stage in the not quite nosebleed section. Time to observe and wait for the background music to start.

I start to hear everything in waves, from high to low, from left to right. The acid is raging. Then we see something that we shouldn’t have seen and it wasn’t acid induced. A group of “business men” in their mid twenties, no older than us and their dates walking up the aisle. How did we know they were business men? They were wearing suits and ties! And their dates, one of them was wearing a poofy chiffon tie dyed mini skirt and white heels with a white denim jacket carrying a red rose. I was thinking, please don’t sit by us, I’m going to be distracted by them all night, please don’t sit by us. The bridge and tunnel caravan stakes their seats two rows behind us. I was praying for the Unga-Boonga men to come and take them for sacrifice, but sadly that did not happen.

The arena is starting to fill up, and the energy is filling the air, along with the smell of patchouli, but at this point I am so high I don’t want to remove my nose. I just hope the smell permeates the suits and the chiffon skirt sitting behind us. Then it happened, that cloud of blue smoke that rolls through every concert I’ve ever attended. Then the distinct smell hits my nostrils, weed. Seems that everyone was lighting up at the same time, nice.

The show starts and we are grooving, the people in front of us are grooving, doing that freaky wavy dance, which looks slow motion, hands and arms in the thousands waving in unison, it was amazing. Branford Marsalis blowing on the horn with Bruce Hornsby on the keyboards, we felt like the luckiest bunch of tripping fools in NYC. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. It was one of the bridge and tunnel crowd. He was asking me “who was playing keyboard, what song was that and do we have any spare weed?” What?

“Spare weed?” I ask him back.

“Yeah, do you have any weed, we’ll pay you for it.”

I lie “no we don’t have any spare weed” as if any weed is spare, “and I wouldn’t give you any if I had some.”

“You don’t have to be rude about it, I was just asking.”

“Yes, I do and I don’t care, you should have thought about it before you bought your girlfriend that tie dyed skirt, enjoy the rest of the show.” Needless to say I was not bothered by them again for the rest of the evening. The show went on, the tripping was in waves and the music was the best I heard from the Dead, ever. The show ended, the acid was weaning and we were ready to reminisce about this evening for a long time to come. We decided to head on back to my apartment and hang for the rest of the evening, which consisted of regular visits by the Unga-Boonga men, a king size tie dyed sheet vortex and more beer. I finally got to bed at about seven in the morning, almost fifteen hours after taking my mind expanding tabs, and vowed as I was giving way to the needed slumber my mind needed to never take another hit of LSD again.