No News = Pissed Off Neighbors

Throughout my life I’ve had many different jobs. I started working when I was about twelve. This was not by choice, my father told me to get a job if I wanted to have more money in my pocket. Why would I need more money in my pocket at twelve? I don’t really remember. I liked comic books and going to the movies and apparently I needed more then was given to me. I really didn’t have a set allowance, it was more like, give me money for this and give me money for that. I didn’t really do many chores around the house. I occasionally took the garbage out and put my dishes in the dishwasher. But other than that my parents had the rest of the housework covered. We had a gardener and a cleaning woman, so all the chore related stuff was done by paid professionals. So now I have to venture outside the house to get more money.

The job that I dreamed about as a kid was to be the bat boy for the New York Yankees. I had no idea how I could get that job. I thought you won a contest, but according to my dad “those kids know someone in the front office, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know and I don’t know anyone who works for the Yankees”. I was disappointed, and so envious of those kids. I wished my father could have went to college and had gotten a job in the front office of the Yankees, not that I had any idea what the front office job duties entailed. I really thought that it was offices in the front of the stadium. I was so literal and naïve but what did I expect, my parents were not the explaining types. So bat boy was out of the running for ways to make money. What else is left for a twelve year old to do?

Deliver the newspaper of course. What every good All-American boy did to earn money and help his neighbors learn about the goings on in the world. I don’t remember how I got the job, maybe through the school or maybe through the newspaper itself, but regardless, I was going to be out neighborhood paperboy. I was excited, the kind of nervous excitement you get when you do something for the first time. I couldn’t wait to meet my manager and get all the details of how much money I was going to make. My father said he would help but not to expect him to do my job for me. Fair enough.

Well the day arrived, the route manager shows up at my house, gives me a payment book, and tells me the entire rundown of job duties. There were a lot of job duties. I just wanted to deliver the paper on my new Mongoose bike. Just give me the bag, the one with the bright orange reflector stripe on it. Tell me where the newspapers had to be delivered, when to collect the money and when I get paid. That’s all I needed to know. I don’t think I paid much attention nor did I think about the weather factor much. This was summer, I had a new bike and a new job. I just wanted to deliver the papers and get paid.

I should have paid attention. I did not know that the newspapers did not always come collated, sometimes they didn’t come on time or even at all. I delivered the paper in the afternoon during the week and in the mornings on the weekends. You could imagine my disbelief, that when on Saturday I would get three to five bundles of papers. Way to much for me to handle, so occasionally I would leave out a circular or section or both. I mean when you’re twelve the garden and lifestyle sections had no place in your world anyway. There were times that the paper was way to heavy for me to ride with. The Mongoose was not built for delivering papers, it was for me to do tricks and fall off of and get stitches on my chin. So instead of riding the bike I would walk. I had this giant bad full of papers slung over my shoulders, walking through the neighborhood, which had many hills, and the hills were steeper on Sundays. Some days I would make three trips. After realizing that I had to do this everyday, it got old very quickly.

I let my job duties slide. I wouldn’t deliver if it was raining. I would make excuses to not have to deliver the paper, any excuse. Then the complaints would start poring in. People would call asking where their paper was, why were they missing sections, their paper was all wet and so on. The route manager would call and I didn’t answer or I would beg my parents to make an excuse for me not being home. Then the route manager would come by to collect and I didn’t have the money. I wasn’t delivering papers, so how could I collect? My parents would then hand over their own money to cover what I didn’t have. Then I would get the whole “this is your responsibility” speech. I heard all about “you have to finish what you started”. I really didn’t care, fire me get some other kid to do this. I’m not making any money so what’s the point? Really I think I made a total of about twenty five dollars for four months of work.

This back and forth, should I or shouldn’t I, went on in my head for along time. I really should deliver the paper but I hate doing it. I never really had any responsibility other than this and was not doing well at it. My parents would make an effort to get on my ass about it, telling me that they are not going to pay for other people’s newspapers ever again. But for some reason I just couldn’t quit, I really wanted to get fired, that seemed to be the easy way out. Apparently they didn’t have anyone else to cover the route. So firing me wasn’t an option. Who else is taking this shitty job? There were plenty of kids in the neighborhood, but they knew better. But I know of one that would do anything for money, my brother.

My brother was three years younger than me and was so money hungry he would do just about anything. And he was tight with his money. The kid once held onto a penny so tightly that his palm turned green. I needed to talk to my parents and see what they would say. He would be turning ten soon and what a better way to help me out and make himself some money at the same time. Surely they would say yes. I asked him and he said yes. I asked my parents and they said yes. Now the only one left to convince was the route manager. I mean this woman had a bunch of kids to deal with, how do you manage kids, specifically the ones that don’t do their job. She now had one that was willing, what’s the worse that could happen? He could actually deliver the papers?

She agreed, and I’m sure she was breaking some type of labor law, but I really didn’t care. I didn’t have to deliver the papers anymore. I helped him collate, and stuffed the papers in a bag, but that was it. He was good at it. He did it everyday, rain, shine, cold or hot. He delivered and collected. He did that for about a year until he too got tired of working for practically nothing. I was impressed. And this is when I discovered that I never wanted to do outdoor manual labor ever again.

Lake George

Graduation day is soon upon us. The four of us, Jason, Joe, Seth and myself (Steven), were looking forward to spending a summer together before going away to our institutes of higher learning. A summer full of doing nothing, well nothing consisted of work, work and trying to find work. But after work we’d hang out blow off some steam and just be carefree. My friends are smart, I’d even go as far as saying they are brilliant. We were not your rowdy bunch of young men, more book smart than street smart, but we still knew how to have fun. We did our share of drinking and smoking, cigarettes and other smoke-able substances. It would be safe to say I was the wild one of our not so rowdy bunch.

Jason, Joe and myself had known each other since elementary school. Seth came to find us as a sophomore in high school. Three of us worked together scooping ice cream at Friendly’s, sorry if we delayed your Jim Dandy or your Fribble, we were kids and we really didn’t care. So if you ever wonder why the service sucks at Friendly’s, take a look around you. The entire staff is kids and shitty burnt out waitresses. We really wanted to do a good job but in the thick of it, we really didn’t give a shit. Well at least I didn’t. I really wasn’t looking to please our coked-up-never-to-be-found-manager. As for the customers, it’s Friendly’s for crying out loud.

Our senior year is drawing to an end, we discuss planning a trip. We don’t know where, but are tossing ideas around. The Jersey shore, the Hamptons or maybe camping. Well the Jersey shore is full of guidos, need I say more? The Hamptons is a bit out of our budget. And camping was out of the question. I do not camp nor do I rough it. I prefer indoor plumbing to a hole in the ground thank you. I’m sure one day before I leave this earth I will go rough it, but not yet and definitely not back then. Now I don’t exactly remember who mentioned Lake George (I think it was Joe), but it sounded like a great idea, a mix of both, nature and indoor plumbing. Looks like we are going upstate.

If you don’t know about Lake George it’s the “Queen of American Lakes”, located in the Adirondack Region in upstate New York. A great place for four Jewish boys to spend their final hurrah before college. There seemed to be plenty of activities to keep us busy like boat rentals and beaches to just relax. It had a village filled with touristy shops, restaurants and what we called “clubs”. It was about three hours away, a good enough distance where there would be no parental interference. Now this was the late 80’s, no cell phones, no internet and no GPS tracking devices. We were going to be free for five days and what a great way for our parental units to get used to us being away. We were excited, but now we needed a plan.

I f I remember, I was the only one with a fake I.D. It was purchased in Times Square way before the Disnefication. Back when there were hustlers, pimps, prostitutes and a peep show every 25feet. Like I said I was the wild one of the not so rowdy bunch. That fake ID worked. Not to sound conceited, but I look younger than my age and at seventeen I looked like I just hit puberty. Now I know that people knew it was fake, maybe they just thought about the balls it would take to show them this laminated form of trickery, but I got drinks at clubs, bars and bodegas. I was obviously the one in charge of acquiring the alcohol. I needed a list and I had to check it twice. I also thought it wise to buy a good mixology guide. First stop the bookstore, second stop the liquor store.

I go to the local Barnes and Nobel with Seth. We walk in and search the shelves for a book on how to mix drinks. We looked in cooking and guides, we didn’t find it. We find an employee and they bring us back to a section we walked through prior. Great there’s more than one. We peruse the titles, Mr. Boston, The Complete Bartenders Guide and the one that stuck out the most The Harvard Student Agency Bartending Course. Well holy shit, a bartending guide form Harvard, I’m sold. That would be the only way that I would ever take a Harvard course. It even had a form in the back to get a certificate, I’m going to be a Harvard grad. Who cares if it was for mixing booze and juice. We take our new Bible up to the counter and gladly hand over the six dollars and change.

I studied that book. More than I studied anything my last two years of high school. I finally learned what was in the drinks I was illegally consuming. Fuzzy Navels, Sex on the Beach, Daiquiri, Kamikaze and the famous Long Island Iced tea. I’m getting a Harvard education on how to get people drunk and I’m loving it. I’m learning the libation lingo, high ball, neat, muddle. Soon I know what was in most of our drinks and decide that I need lots and lots of booze. Vodka, Gin, Rum and Tequila. Four of us drinking for five days, I figured a mixed case would be great. I had very high expectations.

Next up, acquiring the booze. This was going to be more difficult than I expected. Knowing that my ID could fool a waitress or a bartender and the guy behind the bullet proof glass at a bodega, fooling the person stationed behind the register at a liquor store may be a bit more complicated especially with a case of alcohol. And I didn’t buy the cheap stuff, no well spirits for me. Even as a novice drinker I knew the good stuff from the shit. I went with my girlfriend at the time to a liquor store nowhere near my home, forbid I was noticed by a neighbor or parent, I had to keep this very hush-hush.

We are strolling the aisles and picking out all the necessities. The Absolut, The Cuervo, The Tanqueray, and of course the Bacardi. I get to the counter, gently put down all the precious bottles and then the obvious happens. The man, who looks like he just drank a fifth himself asks the inevitable, “you got ID?”. I don’t know if I looked nervous or not, but I was shaking on the inside, this was the most illegal thing I have ever done in my life at this point, well other than procuring a fake ID in Times Square. I collect my inner composure and take out the laminated form of trickery and hand it to the man who is either going to let me slide or call the cops, well maybe not call the cops but still not a fun feeling. He looks at it and asks “what year were you born?”, fuck, fuck, fuck. I have no idea, I didn’t memorize any of my false vitals. I’m screwed, this guy is going to get me in some serious trouble or he’s going to keep the ID and that would totally fuck my shit up. I am not great at math when I’m under pressure, actually I’m not great at math when I’m not under pressure, but this just made it ten times worse, I blurt out something that made no sense, like 1953. I’m now ready to leave with my chin buried in my chest, and he says “nice try”, that’s my cue to exit. He hands me the ID back, I look up surprised and say thanks. Now I need a plan B.

I didn’t have a plan B. We couldn’t ask our parents, even though looking back I think one of them would have agreed. We really didn’t know many people who were in their twenties. But I needed to find someone quickly. I talked to my girlfriend, she knew some shady characters, surely she would know someone to purchase the alcohol. I called her up and asked her if she knew of anyone and low and behold she worked with someone that would probably help, she’ll get back to me. I’m not worried, but worse come to worse we would be stuck with wine coolers and beer. Her contact got back to her and said he’d gladly do it. OK, that’s a weight off my shoulders.

We are now deciding on our mode of transportation. I didn’t have a car, and I don’t think the others parents were too keen on them taking their car knowing that some form of debauchery would be happening. We decided on bus. I’m pretty sure it was Trailways, but I could be wrong, either way it was a bus. Not the most glamorous form of transportation but it will do. The lodging was taken care of, again by whom I don’t remember but we knew we were going to be close to the village and a car wasn’t really required. I really didn’t care, we were gonna have a case of booze and almost a week without parents. So we all hurried up and waited.

The time had finally arrived, we were all packed and ready to go. I think I had more booze than clothes in my suitcase. I was hoping that I packed it properly. The last thing I wanted was for my clothes to smell like Tequila, Vodka maybe but definitely not Tequila. We get to the bus station, find the ticket counter and buy our tickets to paradise. We get on the bus, it’s not too crowded but we learned the ride is going to take a bit more than three hours, more like four and change, so what we’re on our way. That just gave me more time to open the bible and start reading, getting quizzed and get some rest.

The bus ride went smoothly and dropped us off not too far from the motel. We go to the office, check in and go to our crash pad for the next five days. We get settled in, choose the sleeping arrangements and just relax. I go and check out the place. It’s nice from what I remember, a bit on the old side, not many amenities, but it was on the water and had a beach what more could we ask for. Well ½ naked women running around would have been nice, but we all know that wasn’t happening. So we settled for the view of the lake instead.

That day we spent going into town, eating lunch and just taking in the sights. And by sights I mean girls, which there was not much to choose from. We pick a family friendly place, now I thinking maybe we should have hit the Jersey shore. Next we had to go grocery shopping, get the essentials, limes, Coke, orange juice, pineapple juice, grapefruit juice, plastic cups and some munchies. We go into town we find a grocery store, it’s called the Price Chopper. Now it’s no Pathmark or ShopRite but it had to do. We go in, shop get what we need and then we decided to get some wine coolers. I have authentic New Your City fake ID, these people upstate wouldn’t know the difference, so I was confident that they would take it and we will be on our way.

The wine coolers were the last thing on the conveyor belt, the rest of the mixers were in the bag. The guy at check out wasn’t that much older than us, for sure he’s going to let us go, just ask for our ID, look at it and send us on our way. He mutters those famous words “ID please”. I take out my laminated piece of trickery and hand it over. He then asks “do you have anything else, a License?” I answer “no” and he says sorry but I can’t sell you the wine coolers. I say “no problem” but wouldn’t you know it a woman, probably in her mid twenties who was behind us said that she would buy it for us. You’re fucking kidding me, how lucky is this? She says that she understands, it’s happened to her and it’s no problem, it would be her pleasure. Well happy fucking day, it’s time to celebrate with our wine coolers and booze. We get back to the room and I’m mixing drinks like I know what I’m doing. Screwdrivers, Greyhounds, Madras and Tequila Sunrises, we are getting inebriated, quickly.

We wake up dry mouthed and hungry so we decide that we are in need of some breakfast. Now my memory is fuzzy about this but I remember that someone told us about a place, about a mile down the road called Grandma’s Kitchen. Now what better place to go eat morning food. In theory at least. In reality I don’t remember many great breakfasts at my grandmothers, dinners yes but breakfast not so much. But you get the idea, a nice warm country feeling restaurant, that served up a damn good breakfast. We went there had to wait a bit get a table and ordered all the food we could. Except Seth. Seth ordered a box of cereal, huh? Is that all his grandmother ever served him? Here we are the three of us eating pancakes, french toast, bacon, sausage, eggs, toast and coffee and there is Seth eating Frosted fucking Flakes. What could we do force feed him pancakes and syrup, nope, so we just let it be.

The next night we decide to hit the village and see whats what. We find a dance “club” that’s teen friendly. My ID is not going to work anywhere so we are now reduced to a teen club, no big deal. The place is thumping empty, it’s noisy but extremely empty, apparently there were no teens in Lake George on this evening. About a half hour goes by and then there they were, two or three girls that came in, dancing in a group, as girls always do. They dance, we dance, lets dance. And that’s what happened.

I think it was New Order’s Blue Monday that was pumping through the speaker, this girl, maybe 15 or 16 is dancing with Joe and I hear her talking, saying that she’s here with her parents, blah, blah, blah, do you have any alcohol? What? Did she ask if we have any alcohol? Joe says no, no we don’t have anything to drink, sorry. What the fuck did I just hear, he said no? We have enough booze to start a bar. Now I’m not sure why he said no, but he did. It was a little disappointing but what were we going to do, kidnap her and her friends? Nope. Should one of us gone up to her and say, um, our friend must have forgotten but we have plenty of alcohol in our room, care to join us? But I guess we didn’t want him to look bad and we didn’t have the balls to do that either. So we stayed a bit longer and then went back to the room, female-less. And then we drank.

Next morning we wake up and decide to go to Grandma’s Kitchen again. We make the mile or so walk to get some really good,cheap breakfast grub. It really was reasonable, not expensive at all. Again we order the menu, except Seth. You guessed it. Another Bowl of cereal. It was the cheapest thing on the menu, like less than two bucks, spend double that and you could get pancakes. I remember asking him, what the fuck gives, says that’s all he wanted to eat. Really? Who are we to argue with him? Seth watches as we devour our homemade breakfast, as he was always the first one finished eating. Over breakfast we discuss going to The Great Escape. Nothing mixes better than roller coasters and ½ digested pancakes and coffee.

We spent that day at the amusement park. What a great name for a place, amusement park. Think about it. Anyway we get back on a bus to go back to the motel, rest up and then start drinking. And boy did we drink. The four of us then headed out to dinner, I want to say we went to a pizza joint and then just hung out in the village. We are waling back to the room and we pass a Psychic/Tarot Card reader, which was located on the first floor of a house. This seems to amuse us to no end, we walk up, the place had a porch, and they’re not open. That bums Jason out a bit and then for what reason I don’t remember, Jason starts to do push ups on this porch of the Psychic’s place. Counting out loud how many he is achieving. We are all laughing hysterically, well except for the police officer who is standing there watching this in total amusement. We tell Jay to stop and he does, but what came next was priceless, Jay is hammered, and he tells the cop, “I’m sorry occifer, it won’t happen again”. Yes he said occifer, it was brilliant. The occifer asked us what we were doing, I don’t remember the response, but he asked us to get off the porch and keep it down and be on our way. Yes, sir. Sorry sir, Thank you sir. We clammed up and made it back to the room without another run in with the law.

We kept drinking, and I was putting on the pressure for everyone to do Tequila shots. Jason said he couldn’t do another, but I taunted him enough that he agreed, but only if he could do it in the bathtub. You know that feeling, when you’ve had too much to drink and one more is going to make you puke. That is the feeling Jason must have had. He goes into the bathroom takes another shot and you guessed it, throws up. We are all laughing beyond control. This is a night that we would never forget.

The next morning we reminisced about the night before, laughed our ass off and then decided the go to breakfast, at where else, Grandma’s Kitchen. French toast, bacon, sausage, eggs, and you guessed it cereal. It is really starting to get on our nerves, he fucking ordered cereal again. We finish up and decide to spend a day on the lake. We rent a boat, and have some fun in the water. As anyone know spending a day on the water can be quite tiresome. We met some girls on the lake and they invited us to hang out with them, we said sure. Finally! There was only two of them but no worries, every man for themselves. We deliver the boat back to the rental slip and get ready to hang with our newly found female friends.

It ends up the girls were locals and lived there right in Lake George. We meet up with them, one of them had a boat, and they ask if we wanted to go out on the lake again. Sure, a boat we didn’t have to rent, absolutely. Well little did we know, that one of their dads would be along for the ride. This is not what was supposed to happen. Meet girls, yes. Bring parents along, no. I’m a bit disappointed but didn’t have the balls to back out. So now it’s four horny guys, two girls and one of their fathers. This is not a happy equation. It’s not like we could invite them back to the room to get sloshed. I’m sure her father knew the drill, shit I now know the drill. But back then it was a little deflating. He asked us if we wanted to try water skiing or knee boarding. Sure, what the hell.

I have never been water skiing or knee boarding before, but there is a first time for everything. I decide to go first. I’ll pass on the skiing, knee boarding sound a bit more my style. I was not the most athletic and did not master sports on the first try. I put on a life vest, jump in the water and take directions from the boat captain. You need to hold onto the rope, pull yourself up and out of the water with your elbows and onto the board, then strap yourself in. Sounds easy, but it did not happen. Try after try I was either getting pulled by the boat, water gushing into my nose. Not remembering to let go of the rope. I hogged my time, I seriously wanted to just get up on the board and get pulled bu this boat. I would get up but couldn’t hold it for long. I totally sucked. The rest of the guys were getting frustrated, pissed even, but I was determined. Well it didn’t happen, I get back on the boat thinking this is another sport on the list that I will never master.

That night for whatever reason, tension was running a bit high between the four of us. Be it lack of women, lack of wakeboarding, lack of breakfast or maybe we were just getting on each others nerves. We started making fun of each other, playful banter back and forth, occifer got mentioned several times. Then I hit a bit below the belt. Seth said something and I just went off. I brought up the whole cheapness, the cereal for breakfast and just him being a downer. In retrospect it was not fair, I should have not talked like that to one of my best friends, that was his shit to deal with, not mine, But that opened a can of worms. Jason and Joe chimed in as well. We wanted to get to the bottom of this cereal for breakfast thing. We all brought up just about the same amount of money, we were meant to spend it all, have fun and be care free with our money. But not Seth, he said he just didn’t want to spend all of his money. Huh? All? How about some? This went on for a few minutes, it hurt his feelings, that was not our intention. I felt bad, but it did feel good to get that off of out chests. This to shall pass, he’ll get over it. From what I remember he went home with $30 or $40. If that’s what make you happy, I can’t tell you differently.

The next day we were scheduled to leave. We gather all of our things. We must have had at least ½ of the case of alcohol left over. I’m sure I can find a way to get rid of it in the near future. We are a little quiet toward each other. But we need to eat, so we had on up the road to Grandma’s Kitchen. The whole walk there I am thinking, please Seth, please do not order cereal, for the love of all that is holy, please do not order fucking cereal. We get there sit down, order our drinks, coffee and juice. The waitress comes back and takes out order. It’s Seth’s turn, we are all anticipating cereal, just to spite us. But nope, he ordered real breakfast food, we all drew a sigh of relief and laughed. We ate our final breakfast at the lake and Seth did not leave anything on his plate. I couldn’t think of a better way to end our trip.

Booger Boy

Booger Boy

Have you ever made fun of someone behind their back for a nasty habit? Sure, we all have. Have you ever done it to their face? Maybe. Over and over and over again? Probably not. Now ask a child that same question, better yet ask your inner child. Go back to when you were in Kindergarten through Third grade, you might know what I’m talking about. Now see if you can remember what it was that was so socially unacceptable. Was it the kid who wore the same clothes 3 days in a row? Was it the type of Lunch Box that child had? Was it the kid who occasionally peed in his pants? The smelly kid? Or was it the kid that picked his nose and ate it? Either way this kid exists in every Elementary School. And in my elementary school, I was the Booger Boy.

Not only was I the Booger Boy, I was also the new kid. What a better way to be socially accepted, brand new (in the middle of the school year no less) with a disgusting nose digging habit. But what did I know, my dad was a nose digger, we do what we see and I did what I saw. So now I’m the new nose-picker-booger-slurper in class. I don’t really remember when the onslaught started, or who started it, but it came and it was relentless. On the playground, at the bus stop, in the classroom, it was ewww booger boy, ewwww he ate it! Apparently I was so enthralled with clearing my nostrils it did not matter in the moment. But later on it did take a toll on my psyche. Think about a thing that would make any kid feel awkward, I felt times ten. So anyone who would talk to me I was totally OK with. Enter the other new kid.

We had another new kid who was right off the boat from Japan, literally, not a lick of English. Surely you can make fun of someone who doesn’t speak the native language. I mean he wouldn’t understand anything you were saying. Plus, that would be one less kid making fun of me, wooohoo! So, yes the other new kid did not make fun of me. I actually helped him learn a bit of English, and no, booger and nose picker were not any of the words I taught him. I spent the rest of that year trying not to pick my nose in public. But occasionally I would relapse and a finger would find it’s way in the nostril.

Something I have always wondered, how much nostril juice do kids have? What was my aversion to tissues? Was I afraid of blowing my ears out? Did I enjoy being teased relentlessly? To most of these questions I hold no answers. What I do know is that I was (and maybe in some peoples eyes still) the Booger Boy from Second Grade. It’s not something that I ever wanted to admit, ever. Someone once asked me if I remember what I was called back then, I lied, said I have no idea what they were talking about. I was ashamed, and didn’t want to bring old boogers back to the surface.

So why talk about it now? It’s fucking funny. I have learned a long time ago that if it don’t kill you it only makes you stronger. I know it’s a bit cliché but it resonates. One thing I want everyone to take away from this story is not pity, or regret, but humor. Laugh with me, and know that I’m laughing with you.