Welcome To My Neighborhood: Part 2

I wrote a story about the neighborhood I live in, and it turned the place upside down. Accusations of abuse, illicit drug use, coat tail riding and excessive dog hair. All of these accusations have been directed toward me, all because I said what I wanted to about people whom I choose not to socialize with anymore. They have called me every name you could imagine and even took on different personas to verbally (I use that term very loosely) abuse my wife and children while responding to the story that is posted online. I wish this story wasn’t true, but seriously, I can’t make this shit up.

Facebook. A virtual place to network, reconnect and catch glimpses of peoples lives, if you allow them. I “friended” a few of my neighbors on Facebook, but never have I considered them my friends. It was more of a gesture of kindness rather than I-want-to-get-to-know-you better gesture. I would post stories and links to my writing and when they would see me on the street or at the bus stop, they would compliment me, tell me how funny and talented I was. I don’t take compliments well, no matter where they come from, but I was still pleased that people enjoyed what I wrote. I never pretended to be their friend, nor has my wife or children for that matter. I despise hypocrites and ignorant people drive me bat shit and in my opinion, that’s what some of my neighbors turned out to be. So I wrote a story about the neighborhood (changing all the names to protect the stupid), the way I see it, through my eyes. I un-friended them on Facebook and then the shit hit the fan.

Leslie, who is the forty-something-frosted hair-muppet sounding-coochie flashing-Bon Jovi fanatic emailed my wife and asked her why I un-friended her on Facebook. My wife didn’t respond and she never asked me the numerous times we would cross paths at our childrens bus stop. She read the story which was posted on my “blog” (by blog I really mean a place to park my stories until one day someone would pay me oodles of money for them) and wrote several nasty emails to me, telling me that I was a “horrible person” and she is going to “pass the story to the entire neighborhood, so they can see how horrible I really am.” My first thought was “GREAT!” More people will get to see my writing. My second thought was, “is she really going to show this to other people? I mean, she flashed her forty something BonJovi loving vagina to people, does she really want to admit that?” Apparently she does.

Shortly thereafter I received an email from Nickleback’s wife. Nickleback is another character in the neighborhood, who would rather blast a song about a blow job at one in the morning than get one from his wife. Now if I spoke a paragraph worth of words to her in three years, that would be generous. Her email was laden with psychological evaluations, and scolding me for “dragging people’s character through the mud”. My retort was “the names are changed, do you really think someone in Tuscaloosa, Alabama reading my words are going to know who I’m writing about?” And asking me why I “moved to the neighborhood in the first place.” Really? I’m going to assume that there is an equal opportunity housing code somewhere that states you are not allowed to tell prospective buyers of a home that at the other end of the block live people who will judge you because you don’t hang out with them. It’s not like you can Google the neighborhood and get the douche bag factor of a certain house. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have moved here in the first place. Get it. You don’t know what you’re getting into when you buy a home, it’s like the biggest gamble of your life, but we all take the risk and have to deal with the consequences. Oh, Nickleback’s wife didn’t send another email, she got the point. And this was just the tip of the coochieberg.

Days went by and I started getting strange comments on my blog post. Really strange. They were from a “writer” named “Jeremy”. He was telling me that my writing was too negative, I have no ethics and he was keeping me on watch, I was going in the “book of those who write negative”. Being the most inquisitive person I know, I started doing some research. First was to check the email address of the person leaving all of this gobblygook. The blog site I use as I’m sure most of them are like this, require you to leave an email address if you are going to leave a comment. “Jeremy’s” email address was there and it was his entire name at gee mail. I thought wow, that was easy. I Google his name and guess what, nothing. I then email “Jeremy” and ask him who he writes for and where I can view his published work. He never responds. On this site they also list the IP address and I thought, awesome, at least I can see where this alleged writer lives. I Google the IP address and you’ll never guess where it was located, yes, the town I live in. By the power of deduction I figured it to be one of two people, Coochie Flasher or Tight Walls. But Tight Walls is a neanderthal and can barely form a sentence. That only left one suspect, the one who sounds like Gonzo from the Muppets sucked helium while riding those really bumpy roads on a test track. Coochie Flasher Leslie.

My wife then receives an email from the big horticultural hypocrite across the street, the one who thinks the word decapitation is not age appropriate, but condones violent video games for her first grader. This email was also drenched with accusations of abuse and psychological evaluations. We had no idea that we lived on a block full of Dr.’s and PhD’s. The hypocrite had explained to my wife in this email that she notices signs of abuse happening to my wife and children. Really? And this is the first you mention it? You don’t say anything for almost a year and now all of a sudden she gets called on her shit and the accusations fly? Funny how she left her son with me numerous times this past summer, so she had no regard for his safety? Again how much more of a hypocrite can you be? In my opinion, none, she is like Rush Limbaugh and Ted Haggart, two of the biggest people who talk out of the side of their mouth for a living. Meanwhile her son, who will lie about almost everything, told her that my son looks sad all the time on the bus. We asked our son and he said “I’m not sad, I’m happy”. But hypocrites son said you were sad on the bus and his immediate response was “he cut in front of me on the bus last week, that’s why I was sad”. Straight from the mouths of babes. So no more communications has happened between us and her, good thing because I couldn’t stand there and be silently judged by this horticultural psychologist, she should stick to talking to plants.

The comments on my story were getting more frequent, more personal and more libelous. Leslie was now making wild accusations, alleging that we broke our daughters arm on purpose and that we neglect our children. Again, if you’ve noticed all of this abusive behavior and haven’t contacted the proper authorities, what good are you as a parent yourself? She said that I drink as much as her husband Dean. Yes, I enjoy beer every now and again, and I even get drunk on a very rare occasions, but to be dependent on alcohol to deal with listening to Bon Jovi and a Muppet voice constantly, I am not. And the last time I checked I didn’t need a breathalyser installed in my car to prove to the ignition that I was sober. Nor did I have to ask Club Mommy to blow in it to start the car so I could get more booze. Yes he did ask her to blow and not just in the breathalyser.

More comments were being posted which added more hits to my blog. She was emailing this story to everyone she knew. Hundreds of people on a daily basis were checking in to see if anything else was being written. I was at the bus stop one morning with my children and Tight Walls Dean decides to wake from his Jim Beam slumber to take his daughter to the bus stop. I’m standing there with my children and he comes up from behind me and gets way too into my personal space and asks in a Chicago-guido way “You got a problem?”. Last I checked I don’t have any more problems then the average person on the street, but this is no average street. I tell him “No, you have the problem, deal with it.” He goes on and on about how I’m fuckin’ this and I’m fuckin’ that, all in front of the children. He didn’t have the common decency to wait until they were on the bus. But I’m the loser, no one likes me. Good thing because with friends like him, well you get the point. He also tells me that he’s been in my house and saw excessive dog hair, and how filthy I live. Really? Well I’m sorry that I have dogs and I was on vacation, thanks for letting me know. Oh, did I mention that his tight walls only lasted a week or two before his basement flooded. Yes all the bragging about how it took him almost a year to finish his basement and get the tightest walls ever, were washed away because you didn’t service your sump pump. Thought you might like that. Anyway, things are getting heated and he’s getting more aggressive.

Words are exchanged and he screams “I’m gonna kick your ass!”. I ask him to, “please, please kick my ass.” He gets in my face, literally, his nose to my chin, like Ivan Drago and Rocky Balboa, yelling at me to hit him, while flecks of Jim Beam spittle jump off his mouth. I don’t move a muscle, I’m staring him down and begging him to hit me. He says “I’m not gonna do it!” What? All this for nothing? He just proved what a giant douche bag he really is. I mean who says they’re gonna kick your ass and then get to the stare down and not throw a punch? Tight Walls, that’s who. I haven’t been in a fight since the eleventh grade and back then I got my ass kicked, but the last thing I was going to do was back down from a bully in front of my kids. The children get on the bus and he still did nothing. He and his wife are obviously a match made in one of the seven layers of Hell, she flashes her pussy and he is one. I feel sorry for their daughter, I just hope they can keep her off the pole.

After that incident there was a brief lull on the blog. I went to New York and my wife was going to the bus stop with not a word uttered to her. Fantastic. It’s over. But little did I know what was going to happen next. It’s Halloween, I’m at my mothers apartment and calling to check on the kids and wife to see if there is any ding dong ditching, toilet papering or egg throwing happening to my house. The neighbors had no idea that I was not home. I’m checking my email and low and behold what do I notice? More nonsensical comments from the Coochie flasher on my blog. Telling me the the neighborhood is wondering where I am and that I’m too much of a pussy to answer the door. I proceed to email her and tell to leave my wife and kids alone. No more email responses from the queen of the silent vagina monologues.

I then notice an email from our phone company telling me that I have a new voice mail. We have our voice mail sent to our email so we can hear it wherever we are. I didn’t recognize the number, but the voice was unmistakeably familiar. It was a female Muppet, with the slur of a drunken sailor, I’m surprised I didn’t hear Bon Jovi in the background. She went on a two and a half minute rant about how “the neighborhood wants me to come to the door so they can kick my ass” and “where are your wife and kids, are you beating them?”. Then there was this “momentarily you will have people at your doorstep, I’ve called the Lake In The Hills Police department and they know you, the neighborhood talk will be whether or not you answer your door you puss”.

I call my wife and ask her if the doorbell has been ringing and she says yes, but she has not answered it, it is Halloween, so a ringing doorbell is to be expected. I hang up and think that everything is OK, the neighbors are drunk and being the people that they are, douche bags. Then I get a phone call from my wife. Tight Walls was at our door ringing the bell incessantly, screaming for me to come outside, my wife told him I was not here and to just leave. He, being the belligerent disrespectful drunk that he is, starts to yell and curse at her! Calling her bitch, asshole and the ever sacred never call a woman word, cunt. I tell her to call 911. She made the phone call and they are on their way. While she is waiting for the Police a second phone call is made and this one is even more vile and nonsensical at the same time. The Coochie Flasher is sounding more drunk saying things like “I have friends in the police department, I asked if I could toilet paper your house and they gave me things to talk about, miss fashion K-Mart.” “They all know how psychotic you two are, you are really nuts. Everybody knows you!” and then the icing on the crazy cake “your husband was kissing me, he told me how much he hated you! He know all about my dry pussy because he stuck his dick in it!”. Now that’s about the most craziest thing I’ve ever heard of, seriously, I’d rather bang my Dyson vacuum then some big assed, Bon Jovi loving apparently dried up forty something year old pussy.

The police arrive and my wife is telling them the story and playing back the voicemail for the officer, when out of sheer stupidity the doorbell rings, and guess who it is, Tight Walls. Did he not see the police car in the driveway? How much of a drunk do you have to be? That has to go down in history as one of the dumbest things to do, ever. Gee officer I didn’t notice your car in the driveway, I’m here to harass these people, that’s OK right? Well the officer answered the door and said “You’re exactly the person I want to talk to.” With that being said the officer leaves and takes Tight walls to his home, three houses down. We did not hear anything for about an hour. My first thought is that they were showing him my stories. And guess what, they did. More fans for me!

I’m on the phone back and forth with my wife asking her what’s going on and she has no idea. I’m getting frustrated, nothing is being done. What the hell could they be doing down there? Finally the officer arrives and tells my wife that she does “have a case of telephone harassment, in Illinois it’s a Class B misdemeanor, would you like to press charges?” And my wife’s initial response was “no just tell them to leave us alone”. What? Really? These people will never leave us alone, until we move, which we planned on doing in the very near future. I ask her to reconsider and logically explain the circumstances. The only way these people will stop is if they are told to stop by the authorities. My wife agrees and guess what, they went down to the Coochie Flashers house and arrested her. Handcuffs and all. My wife had to wake the kids and go down to the police station to file a report. That’s almost enough justice for me, but to top it all off, her husband couldn’t pick her up, he was too drunk to drive. All of her neighborhood posse that was going to get me and all of her “friends” on the police force, left her there. In the only pokey that she has experienced in a while. Finally, Nickelback’s wife and an older man, come to bail her out on two counts of telephone harassment.

Since that night not one word has been muttered, not one doorbell rang, not one phone call made or one keystroke posted. All is quiet, until, maybe, Part Two.

Test Strip

The other day my wife, children and I had to go to a beauty supply store. The European sounding one that ends in “a” but does not begin with an “s”. We were not going for my wife, we were going there for me. No, I don’t wear make-up, I needed cologne. I don’t make it a point to bring the whole family to choose how I smell, but this was one important bottle of eau de toilette. I was going to New York City for the most important meetings in my life and I wanted to smell good. Not that I smell bad, but all the cologne I own is not carry on an airplane approved. I never buy the smallest bottle, I always buy the largest, it’s a better value. We were on the hunt for a carry on an airplane bottle of something that smells better than me.

I typically wear colognes by Issey, Burberry, Polo (not the green or blue but the black bottle) and some by Calvin Klein. So, I went directly towards the one I know. When it comes to buying “new” scents I have a great amount of trepidation. I like what I like and trying to get me buy something new is almost impossible. One time as a teenager, someone for the birth of Christ day gave me a bottle of Grey Flannel. Have you ever smelled that? It smelled like wet dog rolled in mud covered in a old musty gray flannel blanket. Now I don’t know if these people liked me and were playing a joke, or did they really think that this would smell good on me, maybe even manly. But I took one whiff and never wanted to smell that smell again. But someone liked it. And that’s the thing about the scent of cologne, the same scent can smell different to many people. Especially children.

We are walking down the aisle, in which all the cologne is shelved alphabetically by designer/brand, not by the name of the scent. I’m looking for a small bottle of my favorites when my children, who are seven and six, want to spray the cologne on the test strips and then inject their opinion as to which cologne I should purchase. My kids think I smell like cookies, they say that the cologne that I usually wear makes me smell like cookies, Eau De Pilsbury to them, seventy five dollars a bottle to me and worth every dime.

My wife is spraying many different scents onto test strips. And let me say what a great little invention these test strips are. I don’t remember them from back in the day. We had to spray it in the air, wait a few seconds and then stick our faces in the vapor that was left to determine whether or not we liked the lingering scent. Then, at the department stores you had the ever annoying “fragrance models”. They actually paid people to block your path spraying you as you hurried by and ask you to try this or that new designer fragrance. I never, not once stopped to get spritzed. Did they target everyone or only the people who made eye contact with them? Were they selective in their spritzing? Did they have quota on the number of bottles sold? I’ll never know. Because today it’s a lot easier to walk through the cosmetics section and not leave smelling like you just went to a strip club. If you’ve ever been to a strip club you know what I mean. That smell of smells. The stripper, who is wearing lotion (hopefully none with glitter in it), deodorant, hairspray and perfume then add the cologne of every man she has been giving lap dances to all evening. That smell. They should bottle that scent up, call it Jacked. Because all your money just got jacked from your wallet and the only thing you have to show for it is smelling like the perfume counter at Macy’s circa nineteen eighty seven.

My wife is still spraying and my kids are taking the test strips and saying “daddy get this one” or “daddy this smells like wet grass with juice on it”. But none of them smelled like cookies, I was a little disappointed, I wanted to smell like cookies, new and improved cookies. But sadly, none of them smelled like cookies to my kids so I bombarded my nose with more confusing scents. There were some that smelled like wet socks and potpourri. Others that were so musky they should have been separated and put in it’s own enclosure as to not disturb the other colognes.

Then there are the description of the scents. Woodsy. Have you ever been in the woods and said, I need to smell like rotting bark, dew, wood and pine needles? I have not. I’ve been in the woods once in my life and was not compelled to stay. Floral, for men? Next. Citrus, that I can handle, it’s light, refreshing and who doesn’t want to smell like left over Sunny Delight? Then there are the clean scents, the ones that smell like baby powder, fresh linens out of the washing machine. I like clean scents. I could probably just spray myself with Fabreze and get the same effect, but I’d rather spend forty dollars for an ounce of Armani Code. Which is the cologne I selected. It was my wife’s favorite and I decided why not try something new. It smells nice and clean to me, to my children not so much.

When we got home after dinner my kids had all of these test strips asking “Why didn’t you like this one? Why didn’t you like that one?” I explained to them I only wanted to buy one of them, not all of them. My daughter asks “daddy can I smell you”, which she asks all the time, because she wants me to smell like cookies. I say sure and put my arm out and she takes her nose, puts it on my arm and sniffs one long sniff and says “bananas, daddy you smell like bananas.” Then my son now wants to make sure that his sister is correct in her smell evaluation, asks if he could smell my arm. He grabs it, gets his nose as close to my arm without touching it and three little sniffs later he says “yes, you smell like bananas”. They run up the stairs chanting “daddy smells like bananas, daddy smells like bananas.”
It wasn’t the “cookie” response I was hoping for but at least they didn’t say I smelled like a strip club.

Welcome To My Neighborhood!

What happens when you have tight walls, a basement dweller, a club mommy, a coochie flasher, a Mother of the Year who’s child failed Kindergarten, ding dong ditchers, a rabid Nickleback fan, hypocrites and Canadians? You have my neighborhood. I don’t live in a major city, but just outside of one, I live in the suburbs.

A few years ago my wife and I decided that she should try to pursue her fashion buying career outside of Richmond, VA. Because when you think of fashion, Richmond is not on the top of the list. She sent out resume after resume. Finally a major company called and said they would like to interview her. They fly her out to their Chicago headquarters and a few weeks later they call her to make an offer. She accepts. I make the call to our Real Estate agent, the house goes on the market and within two weeks our house is sold. The problem now is, we don’t have a place to live. The company wanted her to start work almost immediately. She leaves for Chicago, I stay behind with the children.

Besides starting a new job, living in a new place, trying to get her bearings straight, she also has to find a home. We were assigned a Realtor and he took her around and around and around. After two weeks it was time for me to make my presence. I get on a flight, come to Chicago, meet with the Realtor and decide that he was an idiot. We looked at several houses, decided on one and put a contract on it. I tell him that we need an answer within twenty four hours and he tells me “we don’t do things like that here in Chicago, we put the time is of the essence.” We go back and forth about what time is to different people and made the decision, in the eleventh hour, on a Saturday night, to fire him. This should have been my first warning, but I ignored it.

We searched the Internet from the extended stay hotel where my wife was temporarily residing, we even got old school and took out the phone book. We found a real estate office in the town we wanted to live in and see that they opened at nine, on a Sunday. Hallelujah! We met with an agent, give her our parameters, explained what happened and told her in a sarcastic tone that time is of the essence. She agreed, drove us around and the last house we saw was according to her, in a great neighborhood, lots of kids and families. I’m not sure if was out of desperation or the giant master bedroom or maybe a combination of both. But we decided to put a contract on the house and less than twenty four hours later the owners, a relocation company, countered. The negotiations went on for about a week and then finally a price was agreed upon. We had a deal. Little did I know this would be my season in purgatory.

It was early November and everything was set, the movers were scheduled and the closing date confirmed. We were sad to leave Virginia but excited to live outside of Chicago. After two days of traveling I finally see the Chicago skyline. We make it to the hotel we were going to stay at for a night or two. The following day we do a walk through of the house and head over to the closing. The closing took forever, I was getting frustrated, my kids were getting hungry, I just wanted this to be over and done with. All the signatures were gathered and we now legally resided in Illinois. The movers were scheduled to be there first thing the following morning. We were all tired and had dinner and laid down to sleep. The next day was going to be interesting.

We get to the new house before the movers. We open the door, let the kids run around and unleash the dogs to let them get acclimated to their new surroundings. I was just waiting for them to mark their territory. Some people give you a candle as a housewarming gift, dogs crap and piss on your rug. We had many housewarming gifts the first few days. I hate housewarming gifts.

The movers took almost no time to get our belongings into our house. It also took no time for a neighbor to pop her head in the open door and say hi, we live next door, welcome to the neighborhood. She seemed nice enough, and very peppy, but to pop your head in while the movers are bringing stuff into a house seems a bit premature. Hi, now get out is what I was thinking, but you really can’t say that to a new neighbor or can you? She leaves and my wife and I look at each other puzzled, remembering that no one in Virginia came over to our house for at least a week, we were a bit taken aback. Was this a good thing or a bad thing, only time would tell.

Unpacking anything, unless it’s a gift, is not fun by any means. Deciding on where to hang pictures, candles, vases, books and placement of furniture is not at the top of my favorite pastimes. It’s between standing in line a the DMV and having a tube shoved down your pee hole. At least when you’re at line at the DMV you know there is an end to it. Not like unpacking, where boxes seem to magically appear after a few months. We unpacked, hung the pictures, changed the light fixtures, made trips to the home improvement stores and were making our new house our own.

It was unseasonably warm for this time of year, kids were still playing outside and the lawn still needed to be cut. One day from across the street came over who I call the club mommy, introduced herself and her children. She was in her early to mid thirties, tall, blondish hair, trendy glasses and was dressed like she was ready to go to a club, a BeBe shirt that was almost to tight, trendy Capri’s and almost stripper heels. I was thinking, does she really dress like this all the time, or just when she wants to make a first impression? Her name was Suzie and her husbands name is Bill. I could tell right off the bat that she was the social butterfly, but I wasn’t sure on who’s social calendar, again she seemed nice enough, she had a son my kids age so that’s good, right? As for Bill, he was a mystery to us. Only catching glimpses of him going to and from work.

After Suzie made first contact, the rest of the neighborhood must have decided it was OK to talk to us. We’d all say hi, tell them where we were from, both recently and originally. I had so many questions about the town. Places to go, things to do and restaurants, more specifically pizza places, this was Chicago, sort of. And every time I asked about a restaurant, I received a different answer. What? This was a town of less than thirty thousand people and less than ten miles in diameter, with more pizza places then there should be. We took every one’s and decided that they didn’t know shit about pizza. And there was warning number two, but I ignored it.

New Year’s Eve was just around the corner and club mommy Suzie, the Canadian and several other neighbors were having a little get together and invited us. We said sure, we can get our drink on and meet some of the other neighbors. And meet them we did. Bill finally made an appearance away from his house and cave of knowledge. That’s what I described his basement, he worked from home and would only watch educational programming and listen to books on tape, but not fiction. He would listen to titles that were far from the norm. The history of Mesopotamia and other how to put you to sleep titles that I had no intention of remembering. Then there was Dean, the aging guido with his too black hair and gold rope chain complete with Italian Horn and Crucifix and his wife Leslie who looked as if she just stepped out of a Bon Jovi concert, in nineteen eighty six with big frosted hair and the accessories to match. Which I also learned that evening that they sleep in separate bedrooms, and he drinks as if Armageddon was near. There was Ben the Canadians husband, who is what I can only describe as genuinely nice. We also met Terry and Rob. They had three boys and were the epitome of mid west rednecks. They asked if we put our children in sports and I told them not yet, considering my son was only four years old at the time. Her response was well “sports are more important than school here, you really should think about it.” And there was warning number three. The winter finally arrived and socially we went into hibernation.

The spring arrived and the kids had cabin fever. The weather was getting warmer and daylight longer, we were longing to be outside, having a cold beer and good conversation, that’s what we became accustomed to in Virginia. But not here, no one here had a front porch, so we made do by hanging out in the driveway. It became the meeting place for some of the neighbors, we would hang out drink beer and talk. If it went a little further into the evening we would usually end up at Suzie and Bill’s backyard.

When the alcohol was full throttle, it was like a shot of asshole serum. Dean, the guido, is a heavy drinker, has had so many DUI’s he’d once had a breathalyzer installed in his car. He has one of the best personality traits ever, he has an opinion about everything. He tried to convince you that everything he did, ate, listened to and watched was the best. He was the best at his job, he could do whatever he wanted. “I could go tell the boss to go fuck himself, but I’m so good at what I do I won’t get fired. They need me there, they know that.” Thanks Col. Markinson for making that abundantly clear. You’re the best, we need you to be the best drunk on the block you can be.

Another famous Dean moment is how he got the nickname Tight Walls. It was a summer evening, and the party started without me, I was working. I had no intentions of hanging out on the other end of the block but Bill was out and that was a rare treat. I’ve learned that he and Ben were the only two people I could converse with without wanting to rip my ears off. Everyone was well on their way to drunksville, so I decided to play catch up. I walk down the street and see Dean talking to my wife, Bill and Rob. Dean tells me “he finished doing his basement”.

“Great!” I say, as I know where this is going.

“It took longer than I wanted, but you should see the walls, I did it all myself, the walls are tight! You know how on some walls you can see the seams?” Dean says with the bravado backed by Jim Beam.

“That’s great.” Bill says with a chuckle.

“Wow.” Says the mid west redneck Rob. Who always had a one word response. Always. Every time we asked him what he does for a living, he looks at you like a deer in an eighteen wheelers headlights, then changes the subject about what he used to do. To this day I have no idea.

Dean chimes in “Seriously, they are the tightest walls you’ve ever seen. I sanded and primed and sanded so you can’t see the seams, those walls are tight.”

“Dean that’s great, you must feel really proud of your walls.” I sarcastically retort.

“Oh you have no idea, these are the best walls, they’re tight, you know what I mean, when you put your face against the wall and look down the wall, you don’t see any seams. They’re tight.”

“Yes, I got that already, you have tight walls” Bill says annoyed, he turns to walk away. My wife had already left to go talk with Suzie and Leslie. Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any more annoying, I hear the band Nickleback thumping down the street. Now I don’t mind Nickleback, but the whole album blaring out of a giant SUV at midnight on a residential street, not so much. The owner of this gas guzzling single album jukebox comes over and starts to talk to Dean, who in my mind is now known as Tight Walls. I decide it’s time to leave, there’s only so much asshole I can take in one evening. So for all the right reasons I didn’t take the long way home.

Over time, we also learned that Rob and Terry didn’t know how to supervise their children. Would you let your five year old run around the neighborhood at ten in the evening by themselves? I didn’t think so, but they do. They also allow their children to stay home from school if they don’t feel like going. It was so bad that their youngest failed Kindergarten, how do you fail Lincoln Logs and nap time? He had to go to summer school, for Kindergarten. So I nicknamed her Mother of the Year. Their middle son is the king of ding dong ditch. I told him that if he ever did it again I’ll bring him back to his house and tell his parents. That apparently scared him as much as the dark scares a ghost, none. There was another time that the middle son was about to egg our neighbors house. He had a carton of eggs in his arm and I asked him what he was going to do, he looks at me and says “Nuthin’”

“Well it looks like you’re gong to do something you shouldn’t be doing and if you do throw one of those eggs it will be the last thing you do with your right hand. So turn around go back home and put those eggs back in you refrigerator. NOW!” I demanded. He turned around and started walking home and as he was passing I also told him “Ring my doorbell one more time, you’ll regret it.” To this day we have not had any ding ding ditching done to our house.

We found ourselves outside less and less. I’m not one to pretend to be nice, either I like you or I don’t. And if I don’t like you or feel that I really don’t have anything in common with you, other than breathing I keep my distance. We still talked to club mommy and the cave dweller, but distanced ourselves from almost everyone else. Club mommy being the neighborhood gossip that she was, told us a story about Leslie. They were at a pool party on the other end of the subdivision and Leslie got so drunk that she was flashing her nether regions, yelling she wasn’t getting any. Need I say more?

The Canadians moved back to Canada. Club mommy and Cave dweller moved to Texas. We were now left to deal with Mother of the Year, Tight Walls and Coochie Flasher all by ourselves. Great. We come to find out that Club Mommy’s house was sold but the contract fell through because there was a dead possum found on the stairs, that must have gotten in through the doggie door, during the final walk through. Another month goes by and another contract is put on the house. No dead animals prevented the sale and we had new neighbors. We couldn’t wait. We learned from our realtor, who represented the sellers, that they were relocating from Wisconsin and had a son close to our son’s age. We were hoping they were somewhat normal.

They moved in and initially we kept our distance, we didn’t want to be all in their face the moment they moved in. The next thing we saw was sir ding dong ditch is over there talking to the mother of the house. He then goes on his not so merry way. Days go by and we get to know the new neighbors and they asked us if “everyone was strange at the other end of the street?”

“We really don’t socialize with them, so I would say yes.”

“Is it true that there was a dead possum in our house?” she asked bluntly.

“Yes, how did you find out?” I ask.

“One of the boys from down the street told me on the day that we moved in. He and his brother come here all the time unannounced to play with my son and then ask for lunch. Their mom also told me that sports is really big here, you really need to get your son involved.”

I chuckled sarcastically “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

We were getting along great. The children played together, we hung out, shared beer and swapped stories, everything seemed fine. Until one day and it’s always that one day isn’t it. Her son is into Star Wars and Legos. He is an only child and has every Lego you could possible imagine. He played the Wii and had all the Star Wars Lego game, that he insisted was his favorite. Now, if you’ve never played a Lego themed video game I have a bit of explaining to do. Legos snap together and break apart, if you have a Lego character with a body and a head , the head and limbs pop off. Now that you know the basic science of Legos, let me continue.

It was the beginning of the school year and the children in his class got to take home a book for a reading assignment. Now I don’t remember the name of the book but I do remember the plot. It was a scary-what-lives-in-the-closet type of book. She asked me at the bus stop if my “son has ever read it.” She looked a bit upset.

I said “I don’t recall, but what’s the problem?”

“This book is not age appropriate, it has words like decapitation and other violent words. Do you think I should email the teacher?” She was looking for validation, unfortunately she was looking in the wrong place.

“No, but that’s your decision as his parent. I wouldn’t, but that’s just me. I mean he plays Star Wars Legos on the Wii, there’s enough violence on that and all the characters get decapitated” I explain.

“Well it’s not the same thing.” She huffed.

For me that was it, there are two things that I don’t tolerate, hypocrisy and ignorance. How can you be offended by words, but not by something visual? It makes no sense. Why not open up a discussion with your children about those words and actions? That’s what I do and hope more parents would do the same. Some days I think about making a short bus tour, which would be on a short bus of course, of the most ridiculous neighborhood on the planet. Where else could you see Tight Walls, Flashing Coochies, a Mother of the Year and Canadians, all with the soundtrack provided by Nickleback? Other than my neighborhood? Nowhere.

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?”

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.

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.

Winning Quitter

We have all quit something in our lives, be it a relationship, a job, a bad habit. And most of us are better for doing so. It’s OK to be a quitter. Just make sure you are doing it for all the right reasons, not just some lame excuse. Using logic and determination will set you up to be a winning quitter. The word quitter has such a negative connotation. But I’m glad I’m one of them, for the moment, because you never know what the future holds. I didn’t take any pharmaceuticals, I didn’t become the nicotine pirate, no lasers burned my body and I was not hypnotized to quit smoking. I just quit. While I know there is a physical addiction to nicotine, I’ve felt it, but adding one drug for another, that’s ridiculous. I’d rather be irritable and grouchy then experience the plethora of side effects offered by the drug companies.

I was watching TV the other day and was bombarded with those legal advertisements. You know the ones. Been in a car accident? Have a lot of credit card debt? Owe the IRS money? Divorce? Parental rights? And then, Did you or a family member take this drug to quit smoking? I started laughing because the commercial right before this was for that drug. It had your everyday older looking grandfather type who says he was a thirty plus year smoker, praising the benefits of this tiny pill. Then the warnings came, if you feel suicidal, depressed, lack of appetite, dramatic weight loss, nervous or any other symptom that is not ordinary to you, please contact your physician. You have got to be kidding me. Suicide? Really? If you told me that one of the side effects of this drug to help me stop smoking is suicidal thoughts, I’d tell you, thanks but no thanks, I’ll take my chances cold turkey. But apparently people are so desperate to quit the nic sticks, they are willing to sacrifice their lives to get off it. Geez Mom, what happened to uncle Bob? Well honey, he hung himself, but at least he died smoke free. Sadly, that conversation happened somewhere. Don’t let someone have that conversation about you. Because that would suck.

Ding Dong

I really can’t stand it when my doorbell rings. My dogs start to frantically bark, my kids get all riled up and I have to stop what I’m doing to see who it is. Control the dogs, tell the kids to be quiet and then answer the door. It’s disruptive and I don’t like it. When it’s a complete stranger, I hate it. That’s one of the things I miss most about life in a big city, in a big building, you have to be buzzed in or announced by the doorman. Good luck getting in, you solicitor you.

But in the suburbs, people can ring your doorbell anytime they like. Ding dong, bark bark, who is it, who is it, be quiet, hush dogs, unlock the door and open to see who it is. It’s never who you want it to be, is it? It’s not the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol coming to present you with a huge check so you can move out of the burbs, back to the city where no one will ring your doorbell. Have you ever noticed those commercials? The “Prize Patrol” never shows up to a high rise building, they would never get in. Or the projects for that matter, but that’s a whole other story.

I thought selling door to door was on the list of employment endangered species. Left for kids hawking cookies, candy and wrapping paper. I had a friend that when he was in college, sold knives door to door. He hated it and did not make much money, if any. But he signed up for and stuck with it. Not me. I once answered an ad in the newspaper for manager in training needed, unlimited earning potential, no experience necessary. Fantastic, sign me up.

I call the ad, a woman answers the phone asks me a few basic questions, then says they are having interviews the following day. Great, I’ll be there. I arrive fifteen minutes before the interview, and sit in a waiting room with about six other potential inexperienced soon to be rich managers in training. People are filing in, most of them young, a few middle aged, but all are not dressed like managers in training, these must be the underlings.

I was always told that you must dress to impress on an interview, regardless of the job. Even on a modest budget one can look well put together. I decided that a manager in training should look like a manager. I was in a dark navy pinstripe suit, white dress shirt, tie and black wingtip shoes. The other candidates were dressed accordingly as well. Blazers, dress pants and some form of business footwear. The people that were coming into the office were wearing wrinkled shirts, cheap pants and sneakers, finished off by really horrible ties. Just think stereotypical fast talking salesman. At that moment I thought about leaving, unfortunately it was only a thought.

Next, we were asked into another room, the meeting room. It was a room with a giant white erase board, and about eight rows of chairs. We were asked to take a seat on the perimeter. A man/boy, if you don’t know the type let me explain. Slicked back hair, blue dress shirt with white collar and cuffs, big bold power tie, charcoal gray pants and black shoes (bad ones at that). But he was no more than twenty or twenty two. He looked out of place in his clothes. The chief of the tribe. He greets everyone in a boisterous tone, tells everyone about the “products and services” they will be selling this week. And these poorly dressed people are all hooting and hollering. Giving high fives, and getting all riled up. It was as if I was at a tent revival, just waiting for the snakes to come out and everyone would start speaking in tongue. Well the snakes came out, but the tongue was all to familiar.

This was Manhattan, but for some reason or another these people didn’t sell anything in Manhattan or Queens or Brooklyn or the Bronx and not even Staten Island. They sold and I use that term loosely, in Connecticut. They wanted all the bright young management trainees to go with a seasoned territory sales manager all the way up to Stamford, Connecticut. What? This should have been my second chance to escape. But alas, no. I stayed. We were teamed up and I got the pick of the litter. A forty something dirty blond haired man with a thick mustache, badly wrinkled shirt, loosened second hand tie, rolled out of bed pants and walking sneakers. And he smelled of that stale aftermath of a night of drinking. We are then told that a van would take us to our locations and drop us off. My third chance to run like hell and I did not take it. I was determined to be a manager with unlimited earning potential.

We were selling discount ticket packages to the New York Yankees. We were told on the van if anyone questioned our credentials to just leave. What? We finally arrive at our destination, an industrial park. I’m in a suit and hundred dollar shoes, you want me to walk around most of the day selling what I think is fake Yankee ticket packages? Yes they do. My “partner” has been doing this for three weeks, says he likes working outdoors, meeting new people and loves the “thrill of the kill”. Great they had me paired up with a failed used car salesman, fantastic. I don’t talk much, I don’t think I said ten words to him most of the day.

I watch him weave his tale to unsuspecting suckers. They look at me then they look at him, they think I’m his boss. He even referred to me as his boss a few times, just to try to close the deal. I was offended. Told him not to mention me at all. I emphatically told him that I will stay outside while he goes and makes an ass of himself. He went on and on about that’s a sign of weakness, you have to lead them, you have to take control, you’ll never make it in sales, you’re not a team player, you don’t know how to take direction.

After about an hour of walking from trucking company to scrap metal dealer to a corrugated cardboard facility then onto a place where they put the tax stickers on cartons of cigarettes, all of which he sold nothing, I finally inquired about a lunch break and what time do we leave. I might as well had asked him what the square root if pi was. It was only eleven in the morning, lunch, he said “do you see a place to eat around here?”

“No.” Knowing that there had to be a roach coach somewhere lurking near by.

“Well then we don’t eat.”

“Then when can I leave?”

“You can’t leave until much later, like around eight or nine, that’s when the van picks us up.”

“Really?” I ask in total dismay.

“Yes.”

Now I am thinking this is completely insane. Why would anyone do this job. Where’s the management training? Was I on some kind of hidden camera show? Or was this a cruel joke to see if you can drop some poor schmucks in the middle of nowhere and see if they survive more than ten hours? Apparently so. Now this all happened in the early nineties. Mobile phones were not prevalent. Pagers existed but not were not very effective if you were not near a phone. At our next unsuspecting victim, I decided to wait outside and show no initiative, hoping he would have to call in the troops and van my ass out of there. But no, that didn’t happen. Instead he asks me for a cigarette, I enthusiastically tell him to get his own and I walk off. My feet are killing me, I have no idea where I’m going, but I just needed to get the hell out of there.

I walk back to one of the businesses we went to earlier and ask them if there is a train station near by. The woman behind the desk tells me that it’s about five miles away. Great. There is no way that I’m making five miles in these shoes. She tells me that they get “harassed by those sales people at least twice a week, you look too nice to be doing this, I’ll give you a ride to the station.”

“Thanks, you have no idea, thanks again.”

She even asked if I needed money for the train, I told her no thank you and we were on our way. She then told me about what they have to endure from the traveling band of snake oil salesmen. One week it’s childrens books, the next week it’s fake cologne. I had no idea. I had seen these people on the street of New York and heard stories from friends. So where are the salespeople in New York City from, Connecticut? I thanked her for the ride, got on a train and never answered another management training with unlimited earning potential classified ad ever again. I still see them in the paper and online today and chuckle while thinking to myself, suckers.

The success rate of going door to door has to be abysmal. Like a guy in a night club dropping the same pick up line night after night, it has to work at least once or else why bother. You have to either be a sadist or you are so used to rejection that you have leather in place of skin. With an exception of the Jehovahs and the Mormons, well maybe they are a bit sadist. But either way you look at it, it’s not a way business is conducted.

We have had all types of people ringing our doorbell and with the exception of the neighborhood children, none of them were successful. Magazines, really? Selling magazine subscriptions door to door sounded fishy, because if I wanted discounts on my magazines I would find a web site for that. Do you really think I’m going to give some kid my name, phone number and credit card information, no. And what do you know, it was a scam, we saw a story on the news about it, go figure. Then there are the lawn care companies, we’re in your area, we notice your lawn……slam. I don’t even let them finish. I do that with most people who ring my doorbell unexpectedly. Imagine selling knives door to door today, who is going to let you in the house? Sure come on in, you don’t look like a dangerous person with all those sharp knives in your case, please show me how sharp they are. Hell no. As much as we all don’t like the infomercial, they have given us a way to slam the virtual door on the salesman. But that Sham-Wow guy, I would buy anything from him.

Then there was a Saturday morning, about nine or so, when my doorbell rang. My family and I were planning on going to the store. I look out the side window and notice a man/boy. I decide to avoid him. We are about to leave, so I go out to the garage and start my car. He is still waiting at my door, then walks down the path and says “Hello, I’m……..” I notice his attire. White button down shirt, tie, black pants, and black Timberlands with a faux hawk atop his head. Yes, Timberlands and a faux hawk.

“What do you want?” I snap.

“I’m with Edward Jones, we are opening a new office in your area, ever hear of us?”

“Yes and not interested.” I turned and walked away.

I was thinking, really, you must be joking. As if I would carry on a conversation about my investments with a kid wearing black Timberlands. For those of you that don’t know what Edward Jones is, it’s an investment house of sorts. Have the stock brokers been reduced to making cold calls door to door, dressed in work boots? Maybe. But who in their right mind would give personal financial information and take any type of investment advice from a kid showing up at their door on a Saturday morning dressed in work boot with a faux hawk. No one. People might listen to his spiel, nod their head in agreement, and pleasantly take a pamphlet with a business card attached, but to actually give him a chance to gain a client, he would have a better chance of meeting Elvis.