When I was six, I had my first bout with rage. I was made fun of pretty frequently by adults and children alike. My mother and father told me to just ignore it, keep walking, pretend you don't hear it. I became very skilled at keeping a straight face. My brother Chris, rarely ignored the taunting. His rage and physical brawn scared a lot of kids away. School was not so bad in the beginning.
Occasionally random people decide they must have a picture of me. It feels like I am being followed by paparazzi. They appear out of nowhere with their phones, sometimes hiding behind poles, sometimes blatantly flashing in my face. I assume they need the photos to show their friends, because I am not famous (yet.) I don’t understand the compulsion to take pictures of me getting toilet paper at Walgreens or looking haggard on the subway. But as my mother always says, there is no accounting for taste.
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I don’t understand close talkers. The ones who get so close to your face, you can see their tonsils and smell their breakfast. Due to my height, many people believe it is a requirement to get right in my face to hold a conversation. (Is there a manual out there being passed around entitled “How to talk to little people?” If this is the advice being disseminated by said book, all copies must be thrown out.) There are three types of close talkers, the leaners, the kneelers and the chairs.
The leaners, get right in my face to start a conversation. Many of them double over and put their hands on my shoulders. I must first state, I am an extreme germaphobe. When strangers and known dirty people get too close, the leaning over touching thing sends me into code red . If you have known me for any length of time you can recognize the signs. My face and body tighten up. My lips get stuck in a pursed smile. Meanwhile, my brain has shut down and there is a ticker tape in my head repeating “Why are you so close?, Why are you breathing on me? Have you washed your hands lately? Did you just try to hug me? Back Up!!!! Back Up!!!!”
It’s a scientific fact that sound travels, we don’t have to be so close. But you can’t tell the kneelers that. This close talker group believes it’s appropriate to kneel in bars to speak to me. They always say, “I want to look you in the eye,” as they get down on their knees. Some of them attempt to hug me while they’re down there. Thru my pursed lips, I ask them to please get up off the ground, because A. They are blocking the bar. B. Everyone is staring. C. No one is really tall enough that I can’t see their eyes if standing. Somehow the kneelers never hear my pleas, despite being right up in my grill.
But, my absolute favorite close talkers, are the ones who ask me stand on a chair. Again, so we can look each other in the eye. (There are a lot of people in the world, hung up on direct eye contact.) My reply is always, “I can see your eyes from down here, just tip your head a little to the south and I’ll tip mine a little to the north.” Some of them try to insist, by grabbing a chair and patting the seat. I refuse and they insist, until I excuse myself to “use the restroom.” Honestly, I am not that interested in the conversation that I’d hold it standing on a chair. Would you stand on a chair if you were talking to Yao Ming? Would you feel like a fool if you did? Because, you sure would look like one.
Despite the close talkers, most of the time I go about my day like everyone else until some genius asks me to stand on a chair.
Yesterday would have been my Grandpa Reedy’s 110th birthday. He was born just after the turn of the century, the last of nine children in Natchez, Mississippi. My great-grandmother was already a grandmother, when she gave birth to Grandpa. His father was nicknamed Shakespeare, due to his propensity for getting drunk and reciting Shakespeare from his front porch. This must have left quite an impression on Grandpa, because Shakespeare was one of his favorites.
Unfortunately, his father died when he was twelve and his mother sent him to live with his older brother in Missouri. At this point, his life became difficult. His brother was not what you would call stable. (He dropped out of school in the sixth grade, to free up time to gamble and run the streets.) There is only one story I could get out of grandpa about this period in his life. One year his brother asked him what he wanted for Christmas and grandpa said, “Candy” thinking he would understand that meant chocolate. His brother apparently didn’t realize this and bought him a box of hard candy. Since that was his only gift, he had a hard candy Christmas that year. Despite all of this, my Grandpa put himself through high school, college, masters and Phd programs. He was a great teacher, an avid reader, latin scholar, fantastic storyteller, lover of Barbra Streisand music, Shakespeare and food.
When I was growing up grandpa lived two hours away in Jefferson City. My father went to visit pretty regularly and I always jumped at the chance to go with him. Because to me, grandpa’s house was magical. It was a shrine to his past life, like a museum. The playroom where my father and his brothers played was exactly how they left it, toys and games on the shelf ready to be played. My Uncle’s slide was in the side yard and his bed still had a chain of gum wrappers on the headboard. Soda was never in a can, only glass bottles. (The fact that there was soda at all, was pretty exciting to me.) My grandmother died before my father met my mother, but her dressing table was exactly how she left it (including hair trimmings from a do it yourself haircutting session.) Her study, which still smelled a little like her, was filled with books, plays she had written and her typewriter. The whole house seemed like this other world, stuck in time, like a living time capsule.
Food was an obsession of my grandfathers. (side note: he was skinny) I think it comforted him and it became a way we connected. During our visits, there were three things I knew we’d eat; spaghetti, Duff’s Buffet and Zesto’s Ice Cream.
Grandpa made the best spaghetti. It wasn’t traditional Italian spaghetti. His was sweet, garlicky, salty, smoky and decidedly southern. He was not a spaghetti snob, he was an addict. (As am I.) I always hated when my family went out for pizza. It felt like a wasted visit to an Italian restaurant. I found out Grandpa and I had the same feelings on the subject, during one of his visits to our house. The family was deciding what to order for dinner. The consensus was pizza, that is, until grandpa announced, “I don’t know what the big deal with pizza is anyway. It’s not that good. I prefer spaghetti.” “I thought in my head me too, me too.” We were partners in spaghetti.
At some point during every visit to grandpa’s house my father would say, “Who wants to go out for dinner?” My grandfather’s response was always “How about Duff’s?” My father attempted to protest, but I was usually already yelling “Yes, yes, yes!” in a fit of excitement. He was outnumbered and he knew it. Duff’s is a prime example of what’s wrong with American food. Of course it’s a buffet, but with a twist. The steam tables were motorized lazy susans, kind of like an airport baggage carousel. When it’s your turn you stand between two gates at the steam table of your choice and grab food with tongs. If they are out of fried chicken, you just stand there while the table rotates around. The workers behind the wall refill it, kind of like baggage handlers. As a kid, I thought that was awesome. There was an unlimited supply of fried chicken, spaghetti, and fruit punch coming from the wall! (And no mom to stop the gluttony!) My grandpa and I were in heaven, my dad not so much. Once we had our fill of fried chicken, we went to Zesto’s, the local ice cream store, because everyone agreed on that!
Grandpa was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was 11 and eventually died when I was 13. His decline was pretty rapid and brutal. He lost his ability to walk, read, speak and eventually eat. I prefer to remember our times eating spaghetti and pigging it up at Duff’s.
I’ll end with my favorite rhyme of Grandpa’s
Here comes that woman down the street, flipping and flopping her great big feet. (This was usually said, while sitting on the porch, smoking a pipe and people watching.)
Recently, I have had a couple of strange encounters that makes me think I may not be the only black, female, little person with a red afro in Bed Stuy.
The other night, I got off the subway and headed towards the corner grocery store. As I approached the store, I heard this woman frantically screaming. This being a fairly common occurrence in Bed Stuy, I didn’t turn around right away. But this woman just kept screaming “Miss, Miss.” “Excuse Me!!!” Um Hellooo..Miss.” When I finally turned around to see the crazy lady, she was right behind me and out of breath. I realized I was the “Miss” and I had never seen this woman before in my life. I said “Hi” and then she said, “My daughter is graduating from High School and I need a seamstress.” My face must have said “Huh?” Cause she asked, “Aren’t you the seamstress?” I said, “No, sorry.” My response didn’t seem to faze her, because she continued. “I need someone to make an outfit for my daughter, we didn’t realize she was going to graduate until today. We only have two weeks.” It seemed she was under the delusion, if she pled her case well, I might agree to be her seamstress. (Like I was lying about my identity and just refusing to take her business.) I said, “No, I’m sorry that’s not me.” Then she said, “I should have kept her number. Well, I thought it was you.” Then she muttered under her breath, “There must be another one, I need the other one.”
Two days later, I ran into my elderly neighbor (persistent suitor) on my way to the subway. He asked, “Can I drive you to work?” I said “Oh, No Thank You.” (exaggerating how thankful I was.) Then he said, “I have a car, I can drive you.” “You wouldn’t have to pay for a cab.” I said “No thanks, I’m fine, I take the subway to work.” Then he said, “You have that store over on Fulton, it’s a quick ride.” I said, “No, I work in the city.” “Oh, someone told me you had a tailoring store over on Fulton.” “Nope, that’s not me.”
Hmmm……… Me thinks we may have another Pam situation on our hands.
I woke up early today to prepare for my annual trip to St. Louis (Home.) Because I am a chronic procrastinator, I had not packed a stitch of clothing three hours before my plane was to depart. I am pretty adept at packing quickly, which really means I pack everything I own. My suitcase is the size of a dresser. Anyway, I called a car and dragged my enormous bag downstairs, along with a hiking backpack and my purse. (Told you, I packed everything.) The car arrived while I was still struggling with my bags and trying to lock the front door. The driver parked, sat in the car and stared. I said to myself “Well, I guess he’s not getting out, I hope he reminds me to do something nice for him.” When I started down the front steps, the driver’s face turned to panic. He opened the car door and slowly got out. As he headed for the front steps, I quickly realized he was a stroke victim (I am a jerk.) He stumbled up the steps to help me, while I said, “Oh no, don’t worry about it,” but his male pride took over and he dragged my bag down the outside steps and threw it into the trunk. (It’s now confirmed, I am a jerk.) When I got into the car he said, “Uh, where you, uh going.” And now I realize he doesn’t speak English and my Spanish is rusty at best. So we found a strange way to communicate through my broken Spanish and his broken English and we got to Laguardia on time. I tipped him really well, to make up for my jerky thoughts.
When I got into the terminal, the security line was so long and dense I couldn’t see the ticket counters. It zig zagged through the entire front ticket area and looked to be at least an hour-long. I get really itchy in lines and this experience was no exception. I started to pick out people from the line that I hoped were not on my plane. There was an old lady in a bad wig, dragging a small dog carrier by the shoulder strap. The dog was perched on top of the carrier like he was riding on a sled. She stopped to ask a question of the Indian American TSA agent managing the line. As the TSA agent began to answer, the old lady cut her off and said “Well you aren’t from here, you don’t speak English, never mind. I thought, here’s hoping that “bag” won’t be on my plane. Then there was the French family who spent their time screaming at each other. Although, screaming in French is prettier than in English, it’s still screaming. The father was also on his cell phone during most of this. Sometimes he would pull the phone away from his ear, add his two cents to the argument and then resume his phone conversation. When he got to the screener, he did the most reasonable thing, I have seen anyone do. He stood, blocked the line and continued his cell phone conversation for about ten minutes. I didn’t want them on my plane either, but because they were French I figured I was pretty safe they wouldn’t be. I finally got out of the security line with time to spare. So, I headed down to my gate, which turned out to be a door to the tarmac. You know the ones, where you board a bus to get to your plane. These are the worst gates, because they are usually boarding eight planes, that are all leaving within five minutes of each other, from one door.
There were hoards of people standing around, frantic, frustrated and confused. Everyone was crowded around the desk, poised and ready to run as soon as their plane was called. As I was standing around, I noticed this Yuppy couple with a toddler. The mother was running around with her toddler strapped to her in a Baby Bjorn yelling at her husband to, “Get the toy, get the toy, get the toy!!!” The husband was on the floor digging through the diaper bag frantically trying to follow his wife’s directions with no success. His wife finally rushed over and reached down and snatched the toy out of the bag. The child seemed to be completely unfazed, although the mother was acting like it was the kid causing the drama. I prayed they wouldn’t be on my plane.
The agents finally called pre-boarding for my flight and I did what I never do. I took the out, used my height and pre-boarded. It was wrong, I fully admit it, but I couldn’t deal any more. Once on the plane, I felt a little more relaxed. The flight attendants had Christmas carols playing over the speaker and I settled into my seat, but the solace was not to last. The old lady with the dog appeared and sat across the aisle one row ahead of me. About five minutes later, the Yuppy couple appeared on the plane. The mother and toddler sat in first class, which was only three rows ahead of me. The father was in coach. (He seemed relieved.) This was going to be a long two hours for the rest of us in the front of the plane.
The drama started early, when this other couple arrived and stood next to the row where the Crazy Dog Lady was sitting. The man said, “Excuse me ma’am but you are in one of our seats.” Crazy Dog Lady responded with, “No, no this is my seat.” He said, “Well, we don’t really care if you sit there, but we have to have two seats, where is your seat?” Her response was, “No this is my seat sorry.” The couple sat down in the row in front of me, I guess deciding that it wasn’t worth the fight. But, then the owners of those seats arrived and they had to get up. Long story short, the ground crew was called and they asked the “CDL” to get up, which then started an argument. The crew woman kept asking the Crazy Dog Lady for her boarding pass which she of course didn’t have, so the ticket desk was called and it turns out she was supposed to be in the row in front of where she was. Everyone sat down in their respective seats and things seemed calm down again. That is, until we backed away from the gate and Yuppy Mommy stood up and started frantically rocking her baby and pacing up and down the aisle. The flight attendant got on the loud speaker and said, “Please sit down, we can’t leave until everyone is sitting down.” Yuppy Mommy obliged, but not before rolling her eyes and taking a deep breath. We finally took off twenty minutes late, but at least we were in the air. Things seemed like they were going to be calm. There were no babies crying, the crazy dog lady’s meds seemed to have kicked in and Yuppy Mommy seemed to have mellowed out.
But wait, I spoke too soon. The captain turned the seat belt sign off and as if on cue, Yuppy Mommy jumped up from her seat and started bouncing the baby up and down the aisle. She went into the flight attendant area and stood in their way. Then she started dancing with the baby down the coach aisle, shoving her child’s feet into everyone’s face. (The Baby was not moving. She showed no signs of being awake.) The flight attendants had to walk around her to serve drinks. A couple of times the attendants said, “Excuse me,” but YM acted perturbed like the attendants were in “Her” way. I prayed for sleep, but it didn’t come. It couldn’t, the guy next to me was elbowing me in the side every time he turned the page of his newspaper. This seemed to be the longest two hours of my life. If I wasn’t being assaulted by YM and her Baby Bjorn, I was being elbowed in the gut by the guy next to me. The eleventh time the guy elbowed me, I groaned and he stopped.
Back to Yuppy Mommy. She had to be told several more times to sit down, including during landing. She spotted Crazy Dog Lady and decided that her child had asked to pet the dog. (The baby had not asked to pet the dog. She hadn’t even seen it, she was asleep.) The flight attendants had enough and walked up to “YM” and asked her to please sit in her seat, so we could land. She finally did, but only begrudgingly. When we finally landed, I jumped out of my seat as soon as I possibly could and ran out of the plane to freedom. I may have left stuff behind, but my freedom was more important. I have never been so happy to see an airport terminal. Freedom Sweet Freedom!!!
Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!!
Several months after I moved to Philly, Reuben and I were able to rent an apartment. We both had been living with his parents, until I could find a job. It was early December when we moved in. We spent the next few weeks trying to furnish our apartment and buy Christmas presents on our meager salaries. He suggested Wal-Mart. I had never actually been in a Wal-Mart. I only shopped at Target. I’m kinda high-end. Nevertheless, I acquiesced, because my wallet said Wal-Mart, even though my heart was at Target.
I was a little overwhelmed by the size of Wal-Mart. The store was so large. We got a cart and started wandering through the aisles picking up household items and arguing about space and necessity. Reuben had a penchant for things featuring Bette Davis and I had one for toilet paper and throw pillows. Don’t Ask! We decided to split up for a while to cool off and feed our addictions, without the other’s intervention. I headed towards the throw pillows and that’s when things got interesting. I was looking at some amazing floor pillows, trying to figure out how I could get them past Reuben, when a band of kids of varying ages passed by. They were all a little unkempt. One of the smaller children had a kool-aid stain around his mouth and another had snot running down her face. The older kids clothes were visibly dirty and their hair was uncombed. They were screaming, laughing and tearing it up in the Wal-Mart at midnight. They were also completely unsupervised. As they were passing, one the of the older boys (he looked about 10) spotted me, stopped and called to his fellow ragamuffins to come look.
Let the games begin.
They stood at the end of the aisle and stared, I focused my gaze on the shelf. After about a minute, I had enough, so I turned my head and stared back. They were startled that I was aware of them, so they ran. This was not to be the end of our encounter, instead they decided to stalk me. They were quick, agile and organized tracking me from aisle to aisle. Their strategy was to stay at the end of the aisle and peer around the shelves giggling and pointing. When it looked like I was going to change aisles they ran several ahead and watched to see where I was going. Their precision at tracking was pretty good, so I decided to play along. I faked them out a couple of times by making like I was going to change aisles and then I didn’t. That didn’t fool them. They gave me about a minute and when I didn’t move, they ran back to their original positions. During one of my fake-outs, one of the swarm faltered. The oldest girl got a little too excited and ran into me. After that tactical error, they regrouped and decided to split in half. Now they were positioned at both ends of the aisle. When one of them wanted to take a closer look, they walked quickly down the aisle, staring at me with the side-eye. The rest of the swarm, remained at the ends waiting for their turn. (Kinda of like a Soul Train Line.) During the oldest girl’s next turn down the aisle, she decided to break with tradition and stood in front of me doing Rockette kicks. Her big finish was to circle me doing a jazz hand shimmy. The Swarm was in hysterics, I just stared blankly. I really wanted to laugh, but that would break the fourth wall. I have never seen a band of children work together in such unison. They were as organized as a paramilitary regiment. They kinda looked like the children of militia members.
The game had been going on for least twenty minutes, when I finally met Reuben in the bedding section. I was carrying a giant throw pillow, which immediately started an argument. Reuben was never and will never be pro throw pillow. I didn’t mention the swarm, although they were still in hot pursuit. When they followed us to the next aisle, Reuben realized what was happening. He asked, “Has this been happening the whole time?” and I answered “Yes, don’t worry about it.” They followed us to one more aisle and Reuben had, had enough. He announced “That’s It” and then marched over to the swarm and clapped at them, like animals. Their faces went from joy to shock. They weren’t prepared to be addressed directly, so they just stood there with an “Oh Sh@t” look. Then Reuben yelled in his deepest guttural voice “Get out of here!!” They spread like buckshot. Reuben followed them part way down the aisle clapping at them as they scurried off. I died laughing right there in the Wal Mart. Reuben walked back and said “Crap, that was annoying.” To which I replied, “See, If we had gone to Target, this wouldn’t have happened.”
The first day of the rest of my life, started pretty uneventfully. The dress code was casual at best, so I didn’t have to bother with ironing. I dressed in fifteen minutes and was out the door within a half an hour. When I got to the “office,” everyone was already there. The Misfits were a lot mellower this morning. (Hung Over) Tracy was lying across the top of the sofa. She opened her eyes and waved when I walked in. Rich and Dan were both sleeping, sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. Toothless was sitting at the receptionist desk, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I was fine with that, because she was still cursing under her breath. I didn’t see Tara, so I sat down on the couch in front of Tracy and waited.
Tara appeared at one of the back doors about five minutes later. She waved me over and I followed her through to the poster storeroom. The towers of posters were so tall, I couldn’t see over them. Tara walked me through the entire selection of posters. She said “Every morning we take at least twelve and sometimes up to twenty with us.” Tara sold two the day before, which apparently is a great day. I helped her pick out replacements and then we loaded her car. John came into the room and screamed “Morning Meeting.” I followed Tara into yet another garage, which turned out to be the old dude’s office. The room was pretty bare except for a desk in the corner and the only light came from the top windows of the garage door. The rest of the windows were covered in brown butcher paper.
I had never been to a business meeting so I wondered if we were going to talk about sales projections, territory and competitors. (I had no idea what any of that meant, but I heard it on TV.) Turns out, the morning meeting was more of a pep rally. We stood in a circle holding hands and John started the meeting by leading us in a prayer of sales. After a moment of silence, he started clapping vigorously. Everyone else followed suit. The clapping was followed by yelling; Hey, Hey, Ho, Ho and then a weird sales chant. Suddenly, everyone (including me) started running in a circle yelling and waving their hands about. I bet you’re wondering, why I didn’t run for the nearest exit. The problem is I went to theatre school, where improv games are a rule not an exception. I just assumed they borrowed the techniques to better their salesmanship. (I had never been to a sales meeting, anything seemed plausible.)
Once everyone was properly pumped, we disbanded and headed to our cars. Tara and I got into hers and drove away from the city. We smoked and rode around for ages, traveling deeper and deeper into the Pennsylvania countryside. Def Leppard and Fleetwood Mac was the soundtrack of the day. Tara and I sang at the top of our lungs with the windows open and our hair blowing in the wind. I felt like I was on a road trip. Finally, Tara said she knew of a spot that hadn’t been tapped yet. She made a U-turn on a police turnaround and drove back two exits. Once off the highway, we drove down an industrial road for a couple of minutes until we came to an office building. Tara pulled into the garage, we got out and she grabbed two posters from her trunk. We walked into the building and suddenly Tara seemed nervous and a little lost at what to do next. (At this point, it finally clicked that something was off.) She studied the building directory for a few minutes and then pointed at the name of an accounting company. We took the stairs to the second floor and walked directly into the office without knocking. The whole room was filled with white, middle-aged, grey haired women, who turned in unison and stared at us. My face started to burn with shame and embarrassment. It felt like we had walked into someone’s home uninvited. Tara nervously said “Would anyone like to buy some art?” The oldest of the women came to the door and asked us to leave. Tara said “Sure” and we walked out of the room and then ran out of the building. As we were running, I started to question my participation with the company. Tara didn’t seem all that comfortable with her participation either, but neither of us expressed it, we just ran.
As we were loading the posters back into the trunk, two women from the office appeared across the garage with wallets in hand. They called to us and asked to see our selection. In the end, Tara sold two posters. She turned to me after the ladies left and said “See, that was a great sale.” (I think she was trying to convince herself.) We drove around the rest of the day singing and talking. We both really liked Tusk by Fleetwood Mac, so we played it at least twenty times that day.
At 3:30, we went back to the “office.” Toothless was still at the front desk when we arrived. Tara and I sat down on the couch and Toothless struck up a conversation about a lingerie catalog, she was thumbing through. Then she started regaling us with her and John’s sexual escapades from the night before. Apparently, she had dressed in a french maid’s uniform and you can fill in the blanks, but I will say there was a lot of laughing and grunting noises made during the telling of the story. I sat quietly with a strange smile pasted on my face, hoping they wouldn’t notice how uncomfortable I was. John came out and asked Tara to come to his office. She whispered to me, that she was going to give me a glowing report. About five minutes later, John called me in. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to him. He asked if I would like to continue and I said “Yes.” (Still can’t explain why I didn’t take the out.) I have a problem with follow thru, sometimes I follow thru to a fault. John said “Great, come back tomorrow same time and you’ll go out on your own.” I knew I wasn’t ready for that, but my pride would not allow me to say so. I drove back to Sarina’s with a pit in my stomach knowing I would have to go back there tomorrow.
When I got home, Sarina quizzed me about how it was. I said “Great,” leaving out all of the details. I spent the whole night tossing and turning in bed. I just kept asking myself “How in the world am I going to sell posters out of my car?”
I was exhausted the next morning, but I got up early and drove back to the “office.” Tara greeted me with a big smile and Rich came over and said “I’m going to help you set up your car. Can you pull it around to the back?” Rich turns out was a really nice guy. He got in my car and put my back seats down and then lined my trunk with a box. We walked around the storeroom together and picked out some posters. He told me which ones sell the best and then he loaded them up, just in time for the morning meeting. The meeting was the same as the morning before, lots of yelling and clapping. (I was hoping the meeting would never end, but it did.) The moment finally came for me to go out on my own and sell posters to unsuspecting normal people. I was so scared.
I got in my car and drove around for about an hour, until I worked up enough courage to get out and try. I stopped at a dentist’s office, walked in with my samples and the receptionist gave me a puzzled look. I asked her if the office had any interest in new art work. She said “I don’t handle that.” Then the dentist appeared behind her and said “Sorry, I collect art and spend a lot of time and money investing in original art work. I wouldn’t put cheap reproductions in here.” I said, “Sure, your art is really nice, thanks.” I slunked out of the office completely embarrassed. I drove around for another hour, until I made the decision to go back to Sarina’s. I just couldn’t do it. So, I parked the car in the garage, sat on the couch and watched TV for the rest of the day. I called Reuben at work. (We didn’t have cell phones yet, so it was a dead giveaway I wasn’t selling.) He said “Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I said “Oh, I’m quitting, I couldn’t do it.” He response was “It’s only Noon.” I said “Uh-huh, that’s all I could handle.” He laughed and said “Why don’t you come over for dinner after work.” I said “Ok.”
I drove back to the office and everyone was so excited to see me. Rich asked “How did you do?” I said “Oh, I didn’t sell anything.” Tara said “That’s ok, it’s only your first day.” John said “We should keep the posters in your car, so you don’t have to load up tomorrow.” I knew I wasn’t coming back the next day, so I said “I’m not sure they will be safe because I park my car on the street in Center City. Can I leave them here?” John said “Sure, we’ll leave them in a pile, out-of-the-way.” I left the office, but not before I told everybody that I would see them tomorrow. (I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.)
Around midnight, I called the office and quit via the answering machine, citing a family emergency. That call ended all contact with the poster cult, but I still wonder what happened to everybody, especially Tara. I sort of felt like I abandoned her, but it’s every man for themselves. To this day every time I hear Tusk by Fleetwood Mac, I think of my time with the Poster cult.
I leapt out of bed early the next morning, ready for the day. (Definitely, not normal behavior.) My morning routine is usually a long and painful drama that sometimes ends in tears, but always includes snarling. But not this day, I had an interview in my field and was on the path to success. I was so sure this was my job; I treated myself to the garage. Parking excursions were not something I could handle, while preparing for the most important interview of my life.
I watched morning television in my suit until it was time to go. (I needed to get used to wearing it, I was going to be a business person.) Two hours before the interview, I left home armed with hand written directions, my poor ability to follow said directions and a full tank of gas. (The previous weekend I got lost in Reuben’s neighborhood for two hours. I just kept going up and down the same street looking for my turn, FOR TWO HOURS!!!) Given my track record, I had to prepare for the worst. But, I knew in my heart this day was different. (I only got lost twice and arrived forty-five minutes early!)
As I pulled into the parking lot, I got a little nervous. The location didn’t seem very arty. Maybe I had written the address down wrong. Maybe I was lost again, because I seemed to be in an office park for body shops. I stopped at the first garage and asked the mechanic if I was in the right place. He said “Yes” and pointed to the end of the parking lot. I drove down and parked next to the “office door.” (It had a sign on it that said office; otherwise it looked like a body shop.) There were old tires stacked by the door and other miscellaneous body shop debris lying around. This should have caused me more pause than it did. Instead, I decided they were a company of underground artists who spray painted building murals. In their free time, they did work on canvas. Presumably, they were Philly’s answer to Warhol’s Factory. I sat in my car and imagined myself running with the artistic elite.
At 3:45, I decided it was time to go in. When I opened the door, an unsettling feeling came over me. It felt like I was peering into another world (One where the sun was not welcome.) Everything went dark, as the door shut behind me. The room’s only light came from a couple of half dead fluorescent bulbs. The receptionist was sitting at a desk off to the side of the room. I walked over and said “My name is Cara, I am here for my 4:00 interview.” She looked up from her romance novel briefly and said “Ok”, then pointed across the room at the seating area. It was furnished in “Early American Parents Hand Me Downs.” (Brown nubby plaid sofa, an old ratty coffee table and a puce shag rug.) I perched on the very edge of the sofa, because it looked like it had been through a flood. The walls were covered in framed reproductions of the masters most recognized work (Monet’s Water Lilies, Dali’s Melting Clocks and Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.) It wasn’t as underground chic as I thought it would be.
The receptionist walked to one of the doors at the back and screamed through, saying something to the effect of your four is here. I recognized her voice from my phone interview the day before. She walked back to the desk, grabbed her purse and started packing up to leave. As she was doing this, a toothless woman with horrible bleach blonde hair came out of the office and sat at the desk. Toothless slammed drawers and mumbled curse words under her breath while a cigarette hung precariously from her sunken, red lips. (Her drags were so long and deep she finished half the cigarette in one.) She pulled a giant pile of cash out of a drawer and started counting, never removing the cigarette from her mouth. I wondered if they were running a back to work program for homeless people.
The receptionist left and then one by one the strangest band of misfits arrived. First came Tracy, she was a skinny, jumpy, teenage girl, who laughed loudly, often and at inappropriate times. Then came Rich, he looked a little like Anthony Kiedes during the drug years, (but not as clean.) Then Dan, he was a football player type who liked to say f*ck a lot. (Also missing a few teeth.) Finally, came Tara, the most normal of the group. (She kind of looked like Stevie Nicks and was the only one who seemed to have bathed recently.) They could have been in the cast of Trainspotting except for the Philly accents.
I was so mesmerized by the Misfits, I found myself unable to stop staring. Dan and Rich play wrestled while Tracy was giggling in weird spastic spurts. They were making so much noise, the room was vibrating. Toothless started screaming unintelligibly at them. In unison, the Misfits screamed back. It seemed like a hostile exchange, but then everyone broke into laughter. I turned my head for a second to watch this old dude (he was 30) walk through the room. When I turned back, the misfits were focused on me. Rich (Anthony Kiedes) asked me all the obvious questions like “Are you applying? (What else would I have been doing in a garage/office in a suit?) “What’s your name?” “Your accent is weird, where are you from?” The others sort of chattered behind him with comments like. “Oh that’s cool.” “Her accent is weird.” Then, as quickly as they had focused on me, they went back to screaming at each other.
Tara turned to me and quietly started coaching me on what to say during my interview. She also gave me the social structure of the clan. Apparently, toothless was soon to be the wife of the boss. The whole band of misfits was in the wedding, which was going to be a Wiccan ceremony in the woods. (I had no idea what that was, but I smiled and nodded.) Then she told me that John (The Boss) was a Druid and Toothless was a high priestess (It was hard to believe she was anything but just plain high.) The men were to wear robes and the women, corseted wench outfits. Toothless chimed in and started describing her bridal wear. She was going to wear an outfit made entirely of white sheer lace, possibly with her crotch out. She wasn’t really sure yet, but it would have a hood. I was now actively stamping down a little voice in my head that was telling me to run.
John finally came out to get me. He was a tall guy about my age with long greasy red hair and a big red bushy beard. He was dressed like a burnout, in cargo shorts and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. John took me back to his office. It was a horrible mess of paper, old filing cabinets and the back wall was a windowed garage door. (The windows had been blacked out with construction paper.) We both sat down on either side of an enormous metal desk covered in mounds of paper and an ash tray that had apparently, never been emptied. I handed over my resume. He took a quick look and then started asking me about my personality. You know the questions, i.e. (“Are you a go getter?” “Do you like people?”) I said, “Yes” enthusiastically to everything. John told me that he had started six months earlier selling reproductions and now he had his own crew. He also said “Your success in this business is completely dependent on how much effort you put in.” I told him about my aspirations in photography and my time working in retail. He said, “Boy you sound like a great fit. I would like for you to come back tomorrow at 8am for training with Tara.” (Thank G*d it was Tara.) Then he said, “You’ll shadow her on sales calls,” (I wondered where we would be calling.) “Then you can decide if this is really something you want to do.” I said “Thank you so much for the opportunity.” (I still wasn’t sure what the “opportunity” was. I knew it involved selling art posters, but to whom and where?) The lack of information didn’t seem to have any effect on my excitement. We shook hands and I walked out of his office and Tara gave me a look and I gave her a thumbs up. She smiled, nodded and said congratulations. I left the garage/office on cloud nine. (A job was a job.)
I decided to find Reuben and tell him the good news. So, I drove out to his parent’s house and relayed the day’s excitement to him and his mother. Both of them “looked” excited, even though I was giving them a very vague description of a job. Naturally, I left out detailed descriptions of the people, office and the Wiccan stuff.
Reuben and I went out for a celebratory dinner and then I drove back to Sarina’s to prepare myself for my first day of work. For the first time since I moved to Philadelphia, I went to bed excited. If this worked out, I could start school! Things could only get better…… Tune in for the next installment.
I moved to Philadelphia at twenty-three without a plan. Well, no real plan. The general idea was to go to photography school, but I hadn’t spent much time figuring out how I would pay for it. (No concept of money) I already had bachelor’s degrees in Political Science and Theatre which qualified me for, well, not much. My work experience at the time consisted of seasonal retail work, food service, an internship with the London Labour Party and one year as an office manager. I figured I could find a job doing “something” and then go to school at night. How hard could it be?
Philadelphia has some of the best art schools in the country. Also, my best friend (Sarina) and my college roommates (Bob and Reuben) were there. If I am being honest, the art schools were a secondary draw. Anyway, Bob, Reuben and I were planning to move in together and relive old times. (Party) They went apartment hunting in my absence and found a great townhouse in Center City Philadelphia. Things were perfect.
Enter Bob’s girlfriend, whom he left in Ohio. She decided at the eleventh hour to move to Philadelphia too. Luckily, the townhouse was big enough for all of us. Everything seemed great. (More Roommates=Cheaper Rent=Beer Money) Bob’s girlfriend and I decided to coordinate housewares and get to know each other over the phone. From my perspective, the conversation went well. As it turns out, she didn’t feel the same way. Bob called me two nights before I was to leave home and said we couldn’t live together. (Wonderful birthday present) “Moose” didn’t think it was a good idea (After this, I never called her by her given name.) Since we were no longer going to live together, Bob suggested I stay in St. Louis. I told him that living together was not critical to my move or my life. I probably was not that articulate. (Lots of four letter words) Reuben was living with his parents, so it wasn’t essential for him to find an apartment. (Bob, as it so happens, was also living with Reuben’s parents.) I was angry and scared. “She’s leaving home” by the Beatles was on repeat for twenty-four hours, while I cried and packed. (My brother tried to hide the cd six hours in.) Two days later, without a home, a job or a plan, my Dad and I packed my car and headed towards Philadelphia and my new (uncertain) life.
I moved in with Sarina and her roommate Alix, until I could find a job and an apartment. But, finding a job proved more difficult than I thought. I called several temp agencies I worked with in St. Louis. Over the phone they were confident they could find work for me. However, once I turned up at the agencies, the work miraculously disappeared. (a common theme in my life and job searches) I had an interview with a student travel agency and again nothing. Alix taught me how to sneak into a U of Penn computer lab to look for jobs on the internet. (The internet was still fairly new in 1998 and Sarina and Alix didn’t have a connection at home.) I responded to hundreds of want ads, but for all the effort, I still wasn’t able to find work.
My car also turned out to be a major obstacle in finding a job. Sarina’s apartment was in Center City Philadelphia, which meant I spent most of my days moving my car every two hours. (The show “Parking Wars” isn’t actually dramatizing.) Competition for spots was so fierce, it sometimes took an hour to find a new space. There were frequent screaming matches among the car mover set and in some cases arguments turned physical. Fresh from the midwest, I hadn’t cultivated my aggression yet. Philadelphia requires aggression to perform the most basic of tasks. (i.e. grocery shopping, drive thrus, post office, pumping gas and most importantly driving.) During my first month, I lost many a parking spot, by being polite. Sometimes I would pull up to a spot, turn on my blinkers and then before I could even turn my steering wheel, someone would come behind me and throw their car in the spot. (Parking blinkers in Philadelphian translates to, here’s a spot, take it.) The use of blinkers in Philadelphia is always ill-advised. It’s literally asking people to take advantage of you. During my early days, I was taken advantage of a lot. But, by the time I moved four years later, I was the fiercest, most aggressive, volatile driver of all my friends.
One day on one of my parking excursions ( I had five daily), I picked up the Philadelphia weekly, (the free newspaper.) I also got lucky and found a spot in only 30 minutes. I ran home quickly and started looking through the classifieds. (With 1 hour and 45 minutes, until my next excursion, I had to run.) My eye caught this bright yellow ad that said “Do you like Art?”, “Do you like people?” Come work in a relaxed environment around art. We are currently hiring sales people.” This was exactly what I was looking for. I knew this was it. I called immediately and a young woman answered. I told her that I saw the ad and was interested in the position. She asked me some rather basic questions like “Are you good with people?” “Do you like art?” “How much experience have you had with sales?” I told her about my love of art and my time working in a department store and how I much I just love people (I was a theatre major, I laid it on.) She said great, “Please come in at four tomorrow for an interview.” I couldn’t believe my luck! Finally, an interview. I was so excited, I couldn’t wait for Sarina and Alix to come home.
When they got home a couple of hours later, I met them at the door with my news. I described the job as working for an art gallery (The ad never mentioned gallery and neither did the woman who interviewed me, but what else could it be?) I laid out my interview suit that night and double checked my directions. I was so hopeful.
This is the first installment in my Philadelphia series. Please come back for the The Interview. You won’t be disappointed…
When I was a kid washing the car was a treat. My brother Chris and I went crazy when dad let us help. To be honest, we were never much help. Washing the car was really an excuse to have a water fight. (Translation: Express all of our pent-up sibling aggression.)
Chris’ car washing duties were far-reaching (He was and is as tall as I am short), he got to scrub the sides of the car, the windows and most importantly, he got to use the hose. I was so small, I was relegated to washing the white walls. Most kids graduate from white walls by the time they are eight. Not me, I was eight, the size of a four year old and still on white walls. Everyone knows it’s the least glamorous duty, as there is no access to the hose. This also made me defenseless during water fights. (My brother was not charitable and I always ended up soaked.)
Our car was an enormous 1970s station wagon with faux wood metal paneling (The Brown Bomber). You know the ones with their own zip code. By the time I started Catholic school the next year, it had become a great source of embarrassment. My dad drove me to school and every morning the bomber shot off a disgusting, smokey exhaust bomb in the schoolyard. Kids used to see it approaching and scatter like buckshot. But that was later, at age eight I still wanted the responsibility of washing it.
One summer afternoon, while my brother was at sleep-away camp, I asked my dad if we could wash the car. (I was an opportunist. I also got the toy out of the cereal that week.) Dad surprisingly said yes and got the bucket ready for me. I spent some time negotiating my release from white wall duty, but dad just wanted to get the car washed. He started rambling on about how “He had other things to do, like work blah, blah,” and to “Just wait, I’ll be back.” My dad went in the house and I begrudgingly started on the white walls. I finished them quite quickly and since my father wasn’t back, I seized the “opportunity” and started washing the “fine wood grain paneling,” (what I could reach of it at least). Having completed the paneling and still no sign of my dad, I figured I’d start on the hood. I couldn’t reach it from the ground, so I climbed up, scrubbed, climbed back down and rinsed. Then genius set in and I decided to do the roof. So, I climbed on the massive roof and started scrubbing. I had to work quickly, because there was no telling when my dad would reappear. Needless to say, I would have been in deep trouble, if he caught me wandering around the roof of the bomber.
I was scrubbing hard, when suddenly, I felt like I was being watched. I looked up and cars were slowing down in front of the house, some of the them actually stopped. One lady called out, “Are you ok?” I said yes and continued with my scrubbing. Then she asked “What are you doing?” I said, “Washing the car.” (uh duh) Then she said, “Do your parents know where you are?” (I didn’t really have time for this lady’s questions, I was on a deadline.) Then she asked if my parents knew what I was doing. I looked her straight in the eye and answered yes. She believed me, because little kids are bad liars, I wasn’t really little and had long since mastered the art of lying. So, she drove off, probably very puzzled. More cars stopped and stared (It was like a parade.) The attention didn’t faze me. I was used to a lot of attention (All little people are), but I kept on with the business of washing the car. At this point I needed the hose. I climbed back down, grabbed the hose, climbed back up and stood on the roof rinsing. I was having so much fun! I didn’t have to share with my brother and my dad was too pre-occupied to tell me to stick to the white walls. As I was hosing down the roof, my neighbor, Mr. Giovanni stopped his car and said, “Cara, what are you doing?” I said, “I am washing the car.” (In my head I was like uh duh, what does it look like I am doing? What is wrong with these people?) Mr. Giovanni shook his head, laughed and drove to his house. This should have been my warning to get off the roof, but I was having too much fun spraying the water.
Mr. Giovanni reappeared on foot, just as my father was coming out the front door. The jig was up, I was surrounded and caught red-handed. I was standing on the roof of the car with a hose. (There was no way explain that.) My dad said, “Cara what are you doing?” (Again, In my head, I said uh duh what does it look like?) I answered, “Washing the car, you were taking too long.” Mr. Giovanni was in hysterics at this point. All my father could say through his laughter was “Well I wondered why traffic was stopping in front of the house.” I didn’t get in trouble that day. My dad couldn’t stop laughing long enough to reprimand me.
P.S. I also got out of white wall duty!!!
My very first concert was a New Kids on the Block concert at Six Flags. I begged and pleaded with my mother to let me go un-chaperoned with my friends. My mother bottom lined it and said “Go with me or don’t go at all.” The surly teenager in me didn’t want to be seen with her, but my love of the New Kids overrode the horror and embarrassment of attending with my mom.
Concert day arrived and I drove my mother crazy all day. I wanted to go when the park opened at 8am (The concert didn’t start until 8pm.) My mother threatened to call the whole thing off, if I didn’t cool it. So I cooled it long enough to get in the car. We finally left at Noon and I forced my mother to listen to a NKOTB retrospective, during our 45 minute drive. (45 minutes was all it took to go through the entire New Kids catalogue.) When we arrived, one of the workers told us that we needed to head towards the amphitheatre right away, because the line had already started. This set my teenage angst into hyper drive. I was relentless with the complaints. Some examples of my grievances: “I told ya so, I told you we weren’t going to get good seats, we’re going to miss it, you ruined this for me.” (I’m annoying myself now.)
We reached the line and my hopes of actually seeing the concert were dashed. The line was two blocks long and the amphitheatre was tiny. We joined the line anyway. I quickly made friends with the people on the other side of the fence. (The other side of the fence was the front of the line, I’m no fool.) My new friends eventually said “Hey you want to cut with us?” I gave my mom the “I Love You Mommy Look” and she said “ok.” Keep in mind, cutting the line would require my mother to crawl on her hands and knees in amusement park dirt (Eww). The vision of my mother’s rear end crawling underneath the fence is still imbedded in my brain. (That’s LOVE people!) I just knew this was going to be the best day of my life. I was going to see the New Kids up close and personal. What more could a thirteen year old girl ask for in 1988?
The gates finally opened and everyone rushed in. My mom and I got 8th row seats. I was so close I thought I might get hit with Jordan ‘s sweat. (Oh the joy!!!) The lights went down and Tiffany (the opening act) came out. I could have cared less about her, but a major problem revealed itself when she started singing. Everyone stood up and I couldn’t see the stage. (Actually, I couldn’t see anything but the rears of the people in front of me.) My hopes were dashed again. I had worked hard and come so far, just to be stuck watching asses. To add insult to injury, my personal space was being invaded by the foulest of smells. I was gagging, it stank so badly. I realized the smell was coming from the rears of the people around me. I pouted and held my nose through most of the concert. The only bright light of the whole evening was when a security guard rescued me and let me hang out in the orchestra pit for ten minutes. That totally made up for the rest of the concert. I could almost touch Jordan . (Cue 13-year-old swoon.) It was all I wanted out of life. I left the amusement park on a complete high. My mother and I drove home to the sounds of NKOTB, until she lost her mind and pulled the tape out of the stereo. She also put the mother’s curse on me, you know the one. “I hope you have a child just like you, yada yada.” (I don’t have any kids yet, so only time will tell if the curse worked.)
I went to two more concerts in high school with the same results. As soon as the concert started, I got the wrong end of the ass. I don’t go to concerts any more. If I want to stare at random people’s asses, I’ll just ride the subway.
PSA: Little People are subject to YOUR ASS- Wash your nether regions. Little People come very close to your derrieres. We don’t choose it, it just happens to us. Take a shower; wipe your ass- save a little person.