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SIMPLE LIKE THAT

April 29, 2013 //
1

SIMPLE LIKE THAT

A moment’s research discloses that effective tour guides should possess the following characteristics: patience, courtesy, diplomacy, selflessness, tact, organization, caring and sensitivity.  Indeed, in separate tours to Costa Rica and Panama, we enjoyed Anita and Miguel, respectively, who embodied all of those facets.  Imagine our surprise at the initial group meeting in Madrid, ahead of a three-week tour, when the guide, a short, intense man dressed in jeans and wearing a cap, introduced himself, as follows:

“I am Jiao.  I am to take you through Spain though I was expecting to be in my favorite country, Portugal, this week.  But, well, the company told me I have to be here.  So, well, what can I do?  Here I am.”

A woman raised her hand.

“Not now,” said Jaio, thrusting his chin ahead of his face like a bantam rooster and tugging on his suspenders. “I am speaking.”

The assembled thirty or so travelers looked taken aback.  Most probably concluded, as I initially did, that Jiao was simply nervous and a little overwhelmed by logistical and paperwork concerns, hence his abruptness.  He continued:

“You must be on time to the bus each day, well, in fact, be ten minutes early.  Jiao does not want to wait for you.  And, just so you understand, if you are late, you can take a taxi to the next town, because the bus will be gone.  Simple like that.”

Several of us tittered nervously.

“I am serious,” said Jiao.

“Are you going to hand out name tags?” asked a man in the front row.

“Why should you need name tags?” asked Jiao.

“We usually get them to help know everyone,” responded the man’s wife.

“Let me explain to you,” said Jaio, scanning the entire group.  “This is not going to be like every other tour.  Jiao runs his tour in a, well, special way.  The only name you need to know is Jiao.  But, well, I am sure you will learn each other’s names in good time.  Simple like that.”

With that, Jiao handed a pile of papers to one of the guests and indicated with a waving motion of his hand that they were to be distributed, then strode out of the room.

“On the bus by 7:50 tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder, as he disappeared.

Our group appeared to be stunned into silence by our introduction to Jiao.  Most whispered to their spouses or seatmates.  A few introduced themselves to neighbors, but most attendees, many of whom had arrived from far-off places like Australia and Asia, were beset by jet lag.  Concerned about waking up on time, they dispersed towards their hotel rooms.

“That was interesting,” I said to the couple beside us, the only people under forty in the group.

“Is that normal?” asked the husband, in a lilting accent of India.  “We have never taken a tour before.”

“Not in our experience,” said my wife.  “I hope he will relax.”

Alas, her optimism was not rewarded.  Jiao’s behavior remained churlish.  The following morning, as we were to depart for Valencia, he sat unapproachable in a far corner of the breakfast room.  He did not respond when guests said “Good morning.”  His only value at the hotel appeared to be brusque but efficient-looking management of the group’s luggage.  He flicked ashes from a cigarette as he supervised the bellman and the driver wrestling our bags into the belly of the bus.

“Jaio has never lost a bag,” he boasted to no one in particular.  “This group will not ruin my record.”

As we drove, Jiao occasionally activated the loudspeaker from his position in the front seat.  He read facts and figures, in a monotone, from a large binder.  Some of the information was relevant to the passing scenery, such as a town’s population and history; other information seemed random and improvised.  Often, he would compare something about Spain to his preferred country, as in:  “You see the apartment buildings on the left.  Well, they are not much to look at.  In Portugal, they really know how to design.  Simple like that.”

Jiao generally spoke only with the bus driver, in Spanish.  Occasionally, however, he would favor the travelers in the front of the bus with disjointed bits of personal philosophy and history.  “My third wife is waiting for me now, well, at home.  We have been together eight years, since I left the seminary.”

“You were studying for the priesthood?” asked a surprised guest.

“Why not?” said Jiao, defensive.  “I am a man of spirituality.”

“But priests can’t marry,” said another guest.

“Ah, you think you know so much,” Jiao responded.

Another theme of Jiao’s was the purity of his body.  At rest stops, he ostentatiously retreated away from the crowd to the far end of the parking lot with a yoga mat.  One day, while we re-boarded the bus, I could not resist noting the dichotomy of what he referred to as “refreshing his temple” with the cigarettes he invariably consumed immediately afterwards.

“But I am a European man,” he replied, as though that explained everything.

By the end of the first week almost everyone was imitating Jiao.  “Well” was included in every second sentence and declarative sentences were punctuated with “simple like that.”  As we approached each of the ten cities on the tour, Jiao emphasized that “this is my most favorite city in all of Spain.”  Positive statements from Jiao were welcome after several hours of dour monotone or disinterested silence, but his impossible use of the superlative for every town called into question any hint of sincerity.

Soon enough, my fellow travelers exhibited accent-imitating skills as we referred to each passing church as “my most favorite cathedral in all of Spain” and pointed out the window at “my most favorite olive tree” and “my most favorite stop light.”  Boisterous laughter accompanied Jiao’s explanation of Spinoza’s philosophy as seeking “the porpoise of life.”

“Are we going to an aquarium then, mate?” blurted an Australian.  Alert to any perceived lack of respect, Jiao castigated us like an angry seventh grade homeroom teacher:  “You make fun of me.  Well, that is it.  Today I will not speak.  If you want to switch tour guides, just call the company.  Simple like that.  I will give you the phone number.”

Several of the guests called the number and learned that we would have to wait several days for a replacement tour guide.  Meanwhile, Jiao would act on a lame-duck basis.  Even more awkward, he would continue to travel with the tour for several additional days, until we arrived at a town with a train line back to Madrid.

“Is it worth it?” asked a guest over dinner.

“He’ll be even more miserable for four or five days,” said another traveler.

“We are enjoying the sights in spite of him,” I noted.

“And he is good with the bags – that’s important with so many loadings and un-loadings,” said a woman from Malaysia.

Simultaneously, several of us blurted:  “Well, I have never lost a bag, simple like that.”  We laughed.  Jiao’s defects were helping us come together as a group.  We decided to stick it out with Jiao.

At the mid-way point of the trip, as fate would have it, we arrived with several other guests in the lobby of our small hotel one morning to overhear Jiao shouting maniacally at the staff.  One of our group’s suitcases was apparently loaded by a bell-hop onto a different tour bus already headed north to San Sebastian.  That day, we were headed south to Seville.  Jiao slammed his fist on the front desk.  We admired his passion and truly felt a tug of sympathy for Jiao.  After all, besides his belief that Portugal is a better country to visit than Spain, there was nothing he was so proud of as his perfect luggage record.  We wondered which of the thirty of us was to be without a suitcase.

Still red-faced and muttering, Jiao studied his check-list and approached the knot of us gaping from the other side of the lobby.

“Uh-oh,” I said to my wife.  “He’s looking at us.”

“Mrs. Sanders,” he said.  “I am sorry to say that your bag has been, well, misplaced.”

“Well,” I said, unable to catch myself.  “Can’t we just call the other bus and get it back.”

“It is a different company,” said Jiao, “and I do not have their phone number.”

“Can’t the hotel reach them?” asked my wife.

“That is what I was just asking these, how do you say, idiotes,” said Jiao, indicating the front desk.  “They do not have the information.”

During the ensuing days, we received daily updates from Jiao on what came to be known in the group as “luggage-gate.”  First, he told us it would be delivered in one day, “simple like that.”  Next, he said that would not be possible because that would cost 500 Euros (about $650).  Next, he told us to buy new toothpaste and hairbrushes, etc. since it might take another day.  By the third day, he told my wife to buy herself a new outfit “on him.”

“Jiao,” I said.  “You should not have to pay out of your own pocket,” I said.  “Wasn’t it the hotel’s fault?”

“They deny it,” he said.  “They are not honorable like Jiao.”

“Has the bag definitely been located?”

“Yes, for sure!” he said.  “I think so.”

Finally, on the fourth day without luggage, we arrived at a hotel to find my wife’s bag waiting for us.  Jaio’s persistent hourly calling throughout the previous two days had finally paid off.  He reached into his pocket and promptly reimbursed us 100 Euros we had spent on clothes and toiletries.  We were relieved and appreciative for a moment until Jiao blew the good feeling all at once, announcing to everyone:  “Well, my amazing effort has returned my record to perfection.  I hope you will all remember the struggles I suffered when you think about the gratuity at the end of the trip.  Simple like that.”

The final days of the trip passed quickly.  The group had become more cohesive and enjoyed taking in the sights together.  Jiao was less of a factor, speaking infrequently to avoid derision and staying aloof at all the stops.  He made a final embarrassing appeal as we arrived back at Madrid:  “My friends,” he began.  “This tour had some, well, good things and some bad.  But I hope you enjoyed the beauty of Spain and know that you are the most favorite group I have ever led.  I invite you all to become my Facebook friends so that Jiao and you can continue to travel through life together.”

“If this is his most favorite group,” the man across the aisle said, “his others must have all ended in fist fights.”

Upon arrival at the final hotel, we were handed surveys to complete.  Nearly everyone stated their intention to savage Jiao, to make sure he never led another tour.  We left a generous tip for the driver but almost nothing for Jiao.  I agreed that a self-centered, narcissistic, egotistical, insincere and hypocritical person should not be a tour guide, and my numerical ratings reflected that; however, I could not resist noting truthfully in the “comments” section that Jiao was “unique.”

At breakfast the next morning, before heading to the airport, I was shocked to see Jiao approaching my table.   He appeared distressed, with tears running down his face.  My adrenaline spiked as I feared he would attack and I raised my arms in defense. I imagined that my review had cost him his job.  Instead of hitting me, Jiao grabbed me in a bear hug.

“What’s happening?” I blurted.

“You wrote the nicest thing anyone has ever written about me,” said Jiao.  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“You read the reviews?” I asked.  “Aren’t they sent confidentially to the company?”

“I always read my reviews,” said Jiao, still regarding me with affection.  “No one ever acknowledged that I am unique.  You are now a friend for life, simple like that.  I will always stay in touch.”

I gradually extracted myself from Jiao’s arms. I did not know what to say, but I was happy to have given him an expired e-mail address.

“Best of luck,” I said.

“You, too, my friend,” said Jiao, worshipful.

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Categories Modern Society, Spain travel

KNACK FOR KNICK-KNACKS

April 15, 2013 //
5

A KNACK FOR KNICK-KNACKS

Our new neighbor, Irene, is a delightful person, but a troubling influence.  Irene does not play golf, tennis or bridge.  Her sport is shopping and her new partner is my wife, Katie.  The two embark on expeditions like hunters on safari, but with less drama.  The prey, after all, is stationary.  Today’s need is to reinvigorate our master bathroom.

“What’s wrong with our bathroom?” I ask.  “It has all the necessary plumbing.”

“It lacks pizzazz,” says Irene.

“We need a magazine-holder,” says Katie.

“What’s wrong with the usual spot on top of the trash can?” I ask, knowing my question will not merit a response.

“We also need a nice mirror, a new soap dish, and some fresh decorative towels.”

“But we don’t even use those towels.  They can’t be any fresher.”

“A brighter tone will bring out the walls and trim,” says Irene, indulging my ignorance like a patient kindergarten teacher.

I look around and try to picture the walls “brought out.”  They look okay as they are, I think.  Clearly, I lack the vision that is ingrained in Irene, a vision so admired by my wife.  Considering how beautifully Irene’s home is decorated, I acknowledge she is one of those individuals with a gift for making space undeniably more appealing.  Knowing the final result will be positive, I can only protest the anticipated expenditures half-heartedly, like trying to hold back a tsunami with bare hands.

“Does our credit card have a high enough limit?” I ask.

“I took two, just in case,” responds Katie.

“Don’t worry,” says Irene.  “There is a great sale.  You will save money today.”

Ah, the coup de grace of wifely shopping arithmetic.   If the original price is $150, and its sale price is $90, by purchasing the object, one “makes” $60.  Buying three such objects “makes” $180, and so on.

“Should I expect you for dinner?” I ask.

“Oh, don’t worry about us.  We’ll get something to eat while we’re out,” says Katie.

“You’ll love your new bathroom,” adds Irene, kindly trying to reassure me.

“But I’ve never wanted an emotional relationship with my bathroom,” I think to myself.

Katie smiles confidently as she and Irene depart.

Six hours later, they enter through the garage, laden with boxes.

“Wait until you see what we have for the dining room,” announces Katie in greeting.

“Dining room?” I ask.  “I thought this was a bathroom event.”

“We did that, too,” says Irene.

“We did great,” says Katie.  “We found wall sconces.  The room will be dressed up.  One sconce will go on each side of the window.”

“We can hang them right now,” says Irene.

“Aren’t sconces light fixtures?  Don’t we need an electrician?” I ask.

“You will be happy,” says Katie.  “These sconces hold candles.  No electricity is involved.”

“Wow,” I say, impressed.  “We’re using technology that was in its heyday hundreds of years ago.”

“We knew that would appeal to you,” says Irene.

Two boxes yield metal forms that complement our chandelier.  They are surprisingly light, unencumbered by wiring.

“Shall I get a ruler and a pencil?” I ask.

“For what?” asks Irene.

“You know, to eyeball where to put them.”

Irene has an expression skirting the line between dismissive and amused.  She reaches into her jacket pocket and brings out a contraption resembling an Altoids box.  “This is a laser measuring instrument.  It will show us exactly where they should hang.”

Handling the instrument like a surgeon, she continues, patient, but firm:  “there is no ‘good enough’ in home furnishing.”

Only minutes later, we are bathed in flickering light in our newly “finished” dining room.

“So romantic,” I say.  Both women examine my expression for sincerity.  “I’m serious.  It looks nice.”

And indeed it does.  Even a long-time veteran of “good enough” home décor appreciates a job well done, and simply, and, of course, at half-price!

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Categories Modern Society

DIANE

April 1, 2013 //
2

DIANE

 

Diane was not just any housekeeper.  She worked for us for years; she happily babysat for our kids; she brought her kids’ hand-me-downs to us.  It would be an exaggeration, and a cliché, to say Diane was “a member of the family.”  But her Bronx-inflected greeting every Monday morning was part of our household routine, followed by her guiding of our vacuum and her wrestling with our laundry. Therefore, it was particularly shocking when a wad of several thousand dollars hidden transparently in a bedroom drawer disappeared, the same week Diane quit via phone message.

We left return messages for several days before Diane finally picked up.

“What happened?” asked my wife.

“Oh,” said Diane.  “I broke my leg in a skiing accident, so I won’t be working anymore.”

That response was not credible.  If Diane had said she injured a shoulder while bowling, or twisted a knee food-shopping, such things would have sounded improbable, but within the realm of possibility.  As to her skiing, it would be more plausible for me to say I was injured driving the lunar module.

Diane was not an athlete.  She was an overweight forty-something woman whose condition made her look much older.  Our already simmering level of suspicion boiled over.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us, Diane?” asked my wife.

Silence.

“Diane?”

“I can’t work for you anymore,” she said.

“Really?  After five years, that’s all you are going to say?”

“Un-hunh,” said Diane.  “My leg is in a full cast.”

The final embellishment sent us to the phone book in search of a private detective.  We had never looked in that section of the directory before but there were a surprising number of entries.  Most offered divorce-related services known as “infidelity surveillance.”  Several touted “low fees” and one offered “free advice.”

“Which one do we pick?” I asked.

“Free advice is a good place to start,” said my wife.

“You should probably call,” I said.

“Why should I call?  You’re a lawyer,” said my wife.

“But you are better at this sort of thing,” I said, reflexively adopting my default position of learned helplessness.  “Plus, he’s probably used to dealing with women, you know, checking up on their husbands.”

Like Diane, I’d embellished too far.

“That’s it,” said my wife.  “You’re handling this.”

I took the phone with husbandly resignation and dialed.  Though the address was local, the call was to an 800 number to assure, the ad promised, it would not show on our phone bill.  I expected someone who sounded like Humphrey Bogart to answer but, instead, a cheery female voice said:  “Detection services, how may I help you?”

“Um, I think I need to have a woman followed and photographed.”

“Is it your wife?”

“Oh, no.”

“Is she someone else’s wife?”

“Yes, she is, but, um, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Okay.  Why do you need to have her followed?”

“Our housekeeper has, we think, taken some cash from us and she says she can’t work because her leg is broken.  We suspect it may not really be broken because she’s not really the skiing type.”

“How much are you missing?”

“I’m embarrassed to say it is about $4,000.  It was in my bureau.”

“That’s a lot of cash to have lying around.  What sort of business are you in?”

“Is that relevant?” I asked.

“Not really,” said the woman.  “I just asked out of professional curiosity.”

“That’s good,” I said.  “I mean, there’s nothing improper about my business, but it is good you are curious, I guess.”

I was starting to feel uncomfortable.  Why did we keep so much cash around?  Some of my clients paid with cash; we simply liked to use it instead of credit cards.  Still, the sock drawer was not a good idea.  I resolved at that moment to buy a safe.  After all, if Diane had just taken $100 here and there, throughout the years, we would never have noticed.

Meanwhile, I described Diane, provided her address to the detective, and agreed to pay $250 for a day’s stake-out and photographs.  It only took two days for her to call back.

“The subject definitely does not have a broken leg,” reported the detective.

“Terrific,” I said.

“She shops a lot.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said.  “She just came into a lot of cash.”

“That’s not all,” said the detective.  “She changes outfits throughout the day and wears several wigs.”

“Hunh?”

“It looks like she is doing surveillance on her husband.  She follows him around town.”

“That’s interesting,” I said.  “It’s all news to me, so what do I do now?”

“You can charge her with theft.  Just call the police, and they will confront her with the pictures I took.”

The concept of Diane tailing her husband in a series of wigs was laughable.  But the idea of her on-going buying binge with my cash was not.  When I called, the police were businesslike, but also intrigued with my cache of cash.

“What line of work are you in?” asked the officer over the telephone.

“Some of my clients pay with cash,” I said, resigned.  “We’ve just been too busy to get to the bank.”

“Nice problem,” he said.  “Do you keep a gun?  A lot of divorce lawyers keep guns.”

“No,” I said.  “I do not have a gun.  I am a real estate lawyer; it hasn’t gotten that bad, yet.”

“Okay,” he said, sounding skeptical.  “We will have a talk with your housekeeper and see what she has to say.”

The next day, a young officer appeared at my door.  He handed me a thick envelope.

“Here’s your $4,000,” he said.

“Wow, how did you get it back?” I asked, impressed and relieved.

“We sat down with the perpetrator and told her what jail would be like.  We told her if she gave the money back right away, we’d consult with you, but perhaps you wouldn’t prosecute.  It didn’t take long.”

“She still had $4,000 right there?” I asked.  “She’s been on a shopping spree.”  It occurred to me with a sinking feeling that we might have underestimated how much Diane had found in the drawer.

“She had it, alright,” he said.  “Are you willing to drop the matter?”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Just that her life’s been crazy lately, and she thinks her husband is cheating on her.  So she bought new outfits and wigs.  I’m not sure if that’s so she could follow him around undetected or if that’s so she could impress him.”

While I pondered both improbable possibilities, he continued:  “I don’t think just a new outfit or hair style is gonna do the trick.  She’s no beauty.  But, hey, you never know.  Some guys, y’know, have different tastes.  So, are you satisfied?”

“Oh, yes, officer.  Thank you so much.  We won’t prosecute her.  This is definitely a lesson learned, perhaps several.  Great work.”

“Excellent,” he said.  Before he left, he handed me an envelope addressed to the Policeman’s Benevolent Association.  “I’m sure you’ll remember what we did.”

I thought about poor Diane, and how desperate she must have been to have done something so awful.  For a moment, I felt sympathy for her.  But then I pictured her promptly retrieving $4,000 and wondered how much more I may have contributed to her throughout the years.  I was careless and she was a crook — a regrettable combination.

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Categories Modern Society

KNOW-NOTHINGS

March 27, 2013 //
0

KNOW-NOTHINGS

 

Pity the poor stock broker.  Like a cleric, he must pretend to know answers to the unknowable.  And he must do this for commercial gain.  His livelihood does not depend upon maintaining a congregation that is programmed to believe.  Rather, he must constantly convince new investors to become followers, while tending to a flock that inevitably becomes skeptical.

I used to tend towards atheism in replying to the question of belief in God.  Ironically, it is through experiences with stock brokers that I have moderated to agnosticism.  After all, stock brokers have shown me that absolutely no one knows anything.  I am certain there are exceptions among them, but I have never experienced anything except complete incompetence.  Nonetheless, my first-ever stock broker eventually showed me that it is possible for redeemable human characteristics to shine through even the thickest money-losing fog.

My “professionally guided” investment career began one evening in the 1986 when I wandered into a storefront Dean Witter office seeking advice.  Manning the front desk was Vinnie Santangelo, a dark-haired fellow several years older than I.  I introduced myself.

“Stuie,” he said, coming around the desk to shake my hand.  “Can I call you Stuie?”

“I guess,” I said, without enthusiasm.  Only people aiming to become familiar too quickly or to annoy had previously called me that.

“Have I got investments for you?” he asked.

I waited for him to continue.

“Do you believe I do?” he asked.

“Yes?” I answered, assuming he was asking rhetorically, but now less certain.

“Definitely, Stuie,” he answered.  “I have incredible opportunities for you.  I can turn your mountain into a mole hill, or your mole hill into a mountain!”  He looked confused for a moment.  “I always mix that up.”

I wondered if the use of that metaphor was his own or something suggested by Dean Witter.  Probably, I should have found an excuse to leave immediately, but Vinnie’s quirkiness was somehow intriguing.

“Sit down right here,” he said, placing me in a chair.

Vinnie piled the desk in front of me with glossy brochures.

“These are funds,” Vinnie explained, indicating the literature.  “You get the benefit of people with lots of wisdom.”

“What’s in the funds?” I asked.

“Stocks, bonds, all sorts of stuff,” he said.

“Can I start with a couple thousand dollars?  I’ve only been working a few months.”

“Sure,” said Vinnie.  “I’ve been working for five years, but I only have a couple thousand dollars, too.”

I appreciated Vinnie’s honesty but his admission did not indicate investing prowess.

“How long have you been a stock broker?” I asked.

“Investment counselor,” he responded, with mock gravity.

“Yes, investment counselor,” I corrected.

“Actually,” he looked at his watch, “about eight hours.”

“Um,” I said.

“I was assistant manager at Silver’s Gym.  Before that, I was an athletic trainer.   Stuie, you wouldn’t believe what some of the girls there will do after hours.”  He made an insinuating gesture towards his crotch.  Then he winked at me, the first person to do so in my adult existence.

I sensed strongly that Vinnie was not going to make me rich.  Yet, his openness was refreshing.  He had none of the guile I had been accustomed to in law school or in my first months of practice.  Perhaps, there were areas of life where Vinnie could teach me things.

“This stuff,” he said, indicating the brochures, “is boring.  We should go out and get a drink.  I’ll show you the life of a young financial analyst.”

“You were promoted from counselor?”

“Whatever,” he shrugged.

The life of a financial “whatever,” I soon realized, involved attending happy hours at somewhat sleazy bars with Vinnie’s co-workers and crashing Dean Witter in-house presentations.  “Just wear a suit and act like you belong; you can eat all the free food.”  There, between mouthfuls, I learned that the prime expectation for a stock broker is to sell company products.  Yes, independent funds could be sold, also, but the highest commissions were earned by pushing Dean Witter funds, regardless of how appropriate they might be for the customer.

Without fail, Vinnie would nudge me at some point during such meetings and point at a waitress or one of his few, female co-workers.  “Not bad, eh?” he’d say, in a salacious tone.

I should assure the reader that Vinnie’s attitude towards women was not something I embraced.  Yet, I was significantly younger than my brothers, so I had not learned anything from them in this arena.  My father was not of an age or temperament to impart wisdom about girls.  And my friends at college and law school were even more sheltered than I was.  Thus, from a purely sociological viewpoint, Vinnie was helpful to me.

Besides gorging on Dean Witter food and placing my modest nest-egg in underperforming investments, our friendship consisted of occasional terrible golf and lunches at a local Italian restaurant, where Vinnie provided examples of flirting technique.

“Come here, honey,” he would say to a matronly waitress twenty years older.  “You look so lovely today.”  Amazingly, to me, most women enjoyed his banter.  As soon as they were out of earshot, Vinnie would whisper something awful and profane:  “I’d do her in a minute, but I’d keep my eyes closed.”

“Vinnie, I could never talk to a woman like that.  You’re leering at her.”

“What’s that mean, Stuie?  Is that bad?”

“Well, it’s not respectful.  Would you want a guy to look at your sister like she’s a piece of meat?”

“They love it,” he proclaimed.  “You should try it.”

I could never imitate Vinnie’s carefree aggression, but I did learn how far a simple smile can go, accompanied by a compliment, however insincere.

“There is no way I could treat a girl as just another notch for my belt, like you do,” I scolded.

“You’ll learn, Stuie,” he said.

Vinnie shared his deeply felt philosophy:  “Women are made for being chased.  They wanna be pursued!  It’s their thing!  It’s us guys who can’t ever get pinned down.  You and I are just gonna disagree on this one.”

I was shocked, therefore, when Vinnie called one day to say:  “Stuie, I went to a teeth cleaning and found the love of my life.”

“The dentist?” I asked, waiting for a punch line.

“The hygienist,” he said.  “I’m totally in love — for real.”

I did not know what to say.  My exemplar of male chauvinism was smitten.  My instructor in cavalier behavior had turned to mush.  The Italian stallion was broken.  Suddenly, my infant bar-hopping phase was over as quickly as it had begun.  We still had lunch together, but our only evening activities were double dates.  In less than a year, Vinnie married the lovely Gina Mangano and settled delightedly into domesticity.  I met my wife one year later and moved to another town.  We shared occasional dinners as a foursome and celebrated together the anniversary of meeting our wives which, coincidentally, was October 10.

What was still unresolved was the reason I had met Vinnie in the first place.  He was my stock broker.  My business was successful and my account growing.  However, it was not growing as quickly as the overall market, and I did not know what to do.  Vinnie’s fund choices were mediocre and his ventures into individual stocks were worse.  A rare profitable pick was RJ Reynolds, a stock Vinnie added to my account despite my stated desire not to own cigarette stocks.

“Money’s money,” Vinnie said.  “We could just buy chocolate or toy companies, if you want, and lose money.”

“We’ve done that,” I reminded him.

One day, Vinnie called to suggest we sell my 200 shares, which had increased in value by $2,000.

“They aren’t going to run any higher,” he assured me, affecting an authoritative tone.  I agreed to sell and enjoy a rare profit.

The next day, the business world was shaken by news that RJ Reynolds was merging with Nabisco.  The stock nearly doubled.  The ill-timed sale cost me thousands of dollars.  I knew Vinnie did not have pre-knowledge of the deal (though the idea that his Dean Witter manager was accumulating shares for the company account did cross my mind) but I was still disappointed.

“We should not have a friend as our stock broker,” said my wife.

“I know, I know,” I said.  “But how can I fire Vinnie?”

The conversation was repeated several times over the ensuing months, and I struggled with how to find the words to fire Vinnie whenever I thought about my account.  The issue was like a ball and chain.   I felt nearly ready to explain my move to Vinnie, however painful it would be, when the telephone brought another shock.  Between sobs, Gina told me that, after enjoying a typically wonderful Italian dinner, Vinnie had developed a headache.  When it did not go away for two days he went to the hospital.  There, the doctor told him it was a migraine, prescribed medicine, and sent Vinnie home.  Two hours later, Vinnie suffered a brain aneurysm.

“He will live,” she said.  “But it’s really bad.”

Over the next six months, Vinnie recovered the ability to speak and to walk, with a cane.  However, his vision was impaired.   As a tribute to his personality, Vinnie was surrounded by family and friends.  When we called or visited, it seemed like a party was going on.   I never talked about business.  My account seemed trivial under the circumstances.

“Are you angry about this?” I asked once, amazed by his apparent carefree attitude.

“It’s nothing, Stuie” he said.  “You just gotta go with whatever life offers.”

Later, I asked my wife:  “Could I ever be as optimistic as Vinnie if something like that happened to me?”

“You’re not even that optimistic now,” she said.

One day, the office administrator called, and said:  “I’m so sorry, but you will have to move your account to another manager.   Vinnie is going on total disability.”

My conscience was torn.  Moving the account was my desired outcome, and I also avoided telling Vinnie it was my idea.  Yet, my two-pronged relief resulted from my friend’s personal tragedy.

“I feel awful, but I also feel a little lucky about the account” I confided at home.

“Yes, it’s not the way you wanted this to go.”

“That’s for sure.  I hope I don’t have a curse for thinking such a terrible thought.”

Perhaps, my superstition became prophetic.  In the ensuing decades, I have never befriended my stock broker.  Each time I fire one, it becomes easier and more of a relief.  Unfortunately, Vinnie’s poor investment choices were merely a prelude.  Subsequent performances by my stock brokers have rendered Vinnie’s level of mediocrity the best I’ve ever experienced.

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Categories Modern Society

HONESTY

March 18, 2013 //
5

HONESTY

“You can’t handle the truth!” is a movie line, delivered with gusto, by Jack Nicholson.  Is it relevant to everyday life?  To the extent that job interviews are a part of life, for some people, the handling of truth is a major consideration.

The subject recently arose when my daughter participated in a series of interviews that resulted in a new position.  Her performance was doubtless on the up-and-up, and she approached the meetings with confidence bordering on swagger.  Perhaps, that is because she was a marketing major, with a focus on “packaging,” both literal and figurative.  How different from my first series of job interviews several decades earlier.

I spent the year after law school in California as an aspiring screenwriter, playing tennis by day and skimming scripts for low pay at night.  Occasionally, I sat at my typewriter where I experienced writers’ block so complete as to approach paralysis.  I stared at the typewriter and concluded, with a strong dose of self-pity, that my blockage stemmed from having completed law school and taken the bar exam.  It was constantly on my mind that if I passed, I had a paying profession, just waiting for me to “buckle down.”

In reality, I did not have enough life experience and/or film knowledge to produce viable screenplays.  One typically pristine Hollywood morning, I paused between games to examine my tennis group.  Besides me, a 24-year-old aspiring writer was a 34-year-old aspiring actor, a 44-year-old aspiring director, and a 54-year-old aspiring producer.  In a “Eureka” moment, I realized one could aspire one’s entire life where the sun shines and courts are available.

As far as I knew, none of my fellow aspirers had a profession available to him and none had outstanding student loans.  Once I learned I had passed the bar exam, it was only a few days before I packed up the Toyota and returned east.  Though I never desired to practice law, after my epiphany, the ability to earn money and proceed with life was compelling.

I sent letters with resumes to firms throughout the Philadelphia area offering them the opportunity to employ me.   I was naively confident when several prospective employers contacted me for interviews.  Unfortunately, the parable of “lambs to the slaughter” soon came to mind.  The first interview, in Downingtown, went like this:

Partner:  “I see you were not on law review.”

Me:  “I played on their softball team.  Those guys really liked to study, so they always needed me.”

Partner:  “Were you near the top of the class?”

Me:  “Not at all, but I did better than some of the kids from foreign countries who didn’t speak much English.”

I did not get the job.

My next interview was with the District Attorney’s office in City Hall, and proceeded, as follows:

DA:  “Do you have a prosecutorial temperament?”

Me:  “Hunh?”

DA:  “Do you feel the bad guys should be put behind bars?”

Me:  “Oh, yes, definitely, but only if they are guilty beyond any doubt.  I worked in a clinic in law school and tried to get prisoners released if the prosecutors took short cuts.”

I did not get the job.

My third interview was with a small firm downtown.  I thought I was “in” since the lawyer meeting me was a Dickinson College trustee, where I had gone to college.  Things deteriorated quickly:

Attorney: “What fraternity were you in?  I’m Phi Delt.”

Me:  “I’m Kappa Wu.”

Attorney, raising an eyebrow:  “Kappa Wu?”

Me, knowing enough to have a sinking feeling, but not sure what to say:  “It wasn’t a real fraternity.  It was just what my friends, um created to, um, sort of, um, make a little fun of fraternities.”  I scrunched my face as one would when expecting a loud crash.  The interview concluded shortly thereafter.

My fourth interview was with another suburban firm.  I was ready for the law review question and the fraternity question.   The goal, as I now understood it, was to answer honestly, but not amuse or offend.  Two lawyers met with me in the library.  After initial pleasantries:

Lawyer #1:  “I understand you graduated a year ago but have not been employed.  Did you fail the bar exam?”

Me, with bravado:  “No, I passed the first time.”

Lawyer #2:  “So, what have you been doing since graduation?”

Me:  “I really wanted to be a screen-writer so I went to Hollywood to try.”

Lawyer #1:  “Didn’t you want to be a lawyer?”

Me, recognizing a patch of quicksand ahead, and trying to avoid it:  “I thought it would be good to ‘get the writing thing out of my system.’”

Lawyer #2:  “What if the ‘writing thing’ had worked out?”

Me, sensing danger, but certain that honesty was the best policy:  “I would have loved that.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to be a writer?”

Lawyer #1:  “I’ve always only wanted to be a lawyer.”

Lawyer #2:  “Me, too.”

The interviewing process was not going well.  I belatedly admitted I needed help.  I called my brother, a prominent attorney in Los Angeles.  Much to his amusement, I recounted my experiences.  You have to “frame” your answers, he said.  He suggested I explain my year away, as follows:  “I know that practicing law will be my passion for the next forty years and I want to devote all of my efforts to it.  Therefore, I thought that traveling the country for a year would be a mind-broadening experience and prepare me to focus thereafter exclusively on my career.”

He suggested I explain not being at the top of the class, as follows:  ‘I felt it was important to have a well-rounded law school experience, so I focused on clinical work and also on taking a variety of classes, no matter how difficult.  That is why my grades were not as high as they could have been, but I am well-prepared to practice law.’”

“But what if the truth is that my grades were actually terrible?” I asked.  “If it weren’t for the kids from Vietnam and Mongolia I might have finished at the bottom.”

He paused for a long moment.  “I hate to say this, but if you tell the truth, you will probably not get hired.”

“What if I lie and they check?”

“You will definitely not get hired.”

“Are you suggesting I lie and hope they do not check?”

A long silence:  “I could never suggest that you lie, but — just hope they don’t ask specifically about class rank.”

I received another interview and approached it with a different perspective:  less open, perhaps, but more prepared.  So long as they did not ask directly about my grades, I told as compelling a story of an ardent young attorney as anyone could want.  The law was my love, my focus, my lifelong passion.

Like magic, I appeared to be a wonderful prospect.  The interviewer at the classy New Jersey firm was so impressed that he called in two other partners to meet me.  No one mentioned grades, so delighted were they with my visionary, year-long trek across the country.

“I wish I’d done that,” said one.

“What a wonderful idea,” said another.

“You must have seen so much,” said the third.

“Oh, yes,” I said.  “You can hardly imagine.”

I neglected to say my cross-country trip was completed in less than four days and the only sights I saw were three Hotel 6’s with entrances off Routes 40 and 70.  A job offer ensued and, for better or worse, I was firmly ensconced in the life of a young associate within days.

Is there a lesson here?  Is honesty always the best policy?  What would I say if one of my children asked for advice before an interview?   As my brother said, I could never tell them to lie, exactly, but, sometimes, the truth may need a little finesse.

Tags , ,
Categories Coming of Age, Modern Society

EYES

February 26, 2013 //
2

EYES

Until he backed the Oldsmobile into a tree outside a restaurant, we did not know the extent of my father’s inability to see.  According to my mother, it was still twilight when he failed to notice the sycamore, and the tree trunk was enormous.  The car was only mildly dented, but my father had banged his head on the steering wheel.

“Did he have too much to drink?” I asked my mother the next morning, with a mixture of doubt (he rarely drank to excess) and, ironically, hope (it was a possible explanation).

“No,” she whispered.  “He just didn’t see it.”

We heard his footsteps in the hallway, and my mother put her finger to her lips.

“Good morning,” said my father, without conviction, as he entered the kitchen.  He held an ice pack against the side of his head where an ugly lump protruded.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, feeling stupid immediately.  Obviously, it must have hurt.  My question revealed my discomfort with the situation.

“It doesn’t feel good,” he replied.

I did not want to stare at the purple and blue bruise, but I could hardly keep my eyes away.  I had never seen my father look so vulnerable.

My father was seventy-seven but rarely wore his glasses.  He insisted that he did not need them, except to read.  The family had referred to him as “Magoo” for years, but never within his hearing.  Along with his hair darkening and comb-over, it was clear his appearance was vitally important to him.

“Lou,” said my mother.  “I made you an appointment at the eye doctor this afternoon.”

“Why?” he asked, appalled.  His response struck me as funny, though not in a “ha-ha” sort of way.

“You might have done some real damage to your eye.  A doctor has to see it,” she said.

“Accchhh, doctors don’t know anything,” he scoffed, repeating a line I had heard all my life.

“You can’t just ignore it,” she stated.  Looking at me, she said:  “You should come along.  It will be good for you to get out of the house.”

She was right about that.  Since returning home after college graduation, I had spent hours each day in my childhood bedroom studying for the bar exam.  However, accompanying them on a trip to the eye doctor was not exactly an excursion.  The mission potentially teemed with tension.  I would act as a combination chauffeur and kidnapper.  Most importantly, perhaps, I would be nearby when the doctor brought up the sensitive issue of my father’s continued driving.

I drove the three of us in my father’s Oldsmobile to Wills’ Eye Institute in Philadelphia.  It is a prestigious institution located in a massive stone building.  When we arrived, I let my parents out of the car at the entrance while I parked.  I planned to meet them in the waiting room.  When I arrived, my parents were engaged in an animated discussion, whispering loudly to be heard over a television talk show ironically featuring a collection of bickering spouses.

“I am going in with you,” said my mother.

“Not necessary,” said my father, his tone angry.  “I am not a child.”

She persisted.  “It will do some good if one of us asks some questions.  And you never do.”

“I’ve come here for decades and handled this myself,” he said.

“That’s the problem!” she proclaimed.

The debate would have continued if the nurse had not interrupted, addressing my father:  “The doctor is ready for you.  He’d like your wife to come in, too.”

My father startled as my mother rose and strode in ahead of him.  I noticed for the first time that there were other patients in the waiting room.  They looked at me sympathetically, like I was one of the participants in the talk show.  I tried to distract myself with a People magazine.

My parents re-emerged after thirty minutes which seemed like hours.  Both appeared stone-faced.  My mother simply whispered to me:  “I’ll tell you later.”   We traveled home in suspenseful near-silence with my father in the front passenger seat and my mother in the back.

Once home, I hovered near my mother in the kitchen as my father went silently upstairs.  He acted deflated.

“Well?” I asked.

My mother seemed to be choosing her words carefully.  “He’s basically blind in his left eye,” she said.  “And he’s not so good in the right eye.”

“He blinded his eye bumping his head?” I asked, shocked.

“No, the bump is not the problem,” she said.

“What do you mean it’s ‘not the problem?’”

“The doctor said he’s been blind in that eye for forty years.”

“Hunh?”

“The doctor said he has been blind in the left eye for forty years, and now he has a cataract in the right eye.  Basically, he has about twenty percent vision in one eye.”

The reality dawned that my father had concealed his poor vision his entire adult life, from his wife, from his family, and from any official at the DMV, if any ever checked.  Surely, he had learned to compensate in earlier years so that he could function with only one eye.

My mother concluded:  “The doctor said he told him years ago to stop driving, certainly at night, but he never shared that information at home.”

It was hard to process all the thoughts and memories that went through my mind.  My father was loving and devoted.  However, he had knowingly driven me and other family members, day and night, countless times over the years.  I thought of our harrowing trips ten years earlier to my trumpet lessons along the winding Wissahickon Drive, a challenge even for able-sighted drivers.  I was so tense during the rides that it is not surprising I was so tense when I played!

After the cataract was removed and my father’s right eye returned to normal vision for a seventy-seven-year-old man, he refrained from driving after dark.  He never expressed appreciation for my mother’s ability and willingness to drive, but he did accept his place was in the passenger’s seat.  He still insisted he was able to drive during the day, however.  No one would be his passenger, but he occasionally drove himself to a haircut or lunch with a friend.  He never told any of his friends that it would be better if they picked him up.

As my father passed eighty, my mother wrestled with how to end his driving.  We all knew it would be difficult.  Sometimes, he just sat in his car in the driveway.  What was he thinking?

The dilemma was surprisingly solved one day.  My mother told me matter-of-factly on the telephone his car had disappeared.

“Was it stolen?” I asked.

“Seems like it,” she replied, cryptically.

“Who would steal a sixteen-year-old powder blue Oldsmobile Cutlass?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, unconvincingly.  “I really don’t know.”

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

“No,” she said.  “There’s no point.”

“Insurance?”

“Not worth it,” she said.

“That’s it?” I asked.  “That’s the whole story?”

“That’s the end of the story.”

Tags , ,
Categories Coming of Age, Modern Society, Parenting, Retirement

VICARIOUS APPLICATIONS

February 11, 2013 //
2

VICARIOUS APPLICATIONS

A long train of parenting milestones has reached its caboose.  The “baby” is applying to graduate school and we may never again live vicariously through the application process.  While we are asked for opinions and impressions and our input is sometimes considered even when it has not been requested, our preferences are not critical.  It is bittersweet to recognize our youngest child is an adult and will ultimately make the final choice himself.

It seems only months ago that we were hanging on his college choices.  The eight schools to which Sam applied, and their responses, could easily be dredged from my memory cells.  At that time, he was still under our roof, sharing our meals.  Correspondence arrived by mail and, thus, we were usually ahead of him when news was imminent.   We could place the envelope on the dinner table and watch as he opened it.  Or, on occasion, we would obtain his permission to open the envelope before he arrived.  Now, four years later, the process is handled exclusively by him on-line.  If a physical piece of mail does arrive, it is only to confirm or repeat what he has already learned and told us several days before.

The one constant in the application process is that I pay.  When I whined to my wife that I’d probably spent $500 on graduate school applications, I thought I was picking a number so high as to be ridiculous.  I expected her to say:  “Don’t be silly, they only cost $300.”  Instead, she said:  “It was more like $1,200.”

Once you get into a good PhD program in chemistry, however, it’s free.  I did not learn this wonderful fact until Sam was well into his third year of undergraduate studies.   A friend who is a chemist explained that the schools provide education and living expenses in exchange for the student’s work as an indentured servant/researcher for approximately five years.   It’s almost like enlisting in the army except without the fresh air and bullets.

I also learned that graduate schools are ranked as though they were basketball teams.  Lists inform if a school is “top ten” or “top twenty” or even “top-half.”  Unlike a basketball team, however, the metrics for these rankings do not shed light on the young participants.  Instead, placement is derived from some combination of reputation, facilities, publishing history, and all-around money-making prowess of the faculty and the institution.  The players remain anonymous while the managers and administrators soak up the glory.

The first time we vicariously applied to college was twelve years ago.  At that time, my wife and I were both working full-time, had two younger, parent-intensive (meaning, a lot of driving) children at home, and the subject child, our oldest daughter, was consumed with soccer.  We did not focus as much on the academic merits of a school as on the soccer coach and facilities.   For a few weeks, she was inclined towards a school where the coach appeared interested in her.  When she visited, however, she detected a distinct chill.  Though she still had several options, the spring-of-senior-year weeks flew quickly, and anxiety arose accordingly.  Thus, when Binghamton University’s coach expressed interest, and was heartily endorsed by her soccer club trainer, the quest was over.

The next child was singularly uninterested in the process.  While I expressed enthusiasm and acquired tee shirts from each school she was forced to visit, we sometimes were unable to get her out of the car.  There was no fun, no anticipation, just the drudgery of heavily editing insincere essays.  Though she was not of a scientific bent, she nearly agreed to attend a six-year pharmacy program just to end the search.  Fortunately, a glance at a chemistry text-book and the recognition that most of the coursework was in that realm made her agree that finding a suitable school required some share of her attention.  When we alighted upon the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, and the chance to tell her classmates that it was only five minutes from the beach, a happy ending was at hand.

In Sam, a confluence of factors made his college search more meaningful for those of us who were sharing it.  First, he was our only child at home for his senior year, so there was plenty of focus.  Second, he was an excellent student with stunning SAT scores, so the schools on his list were exciting.  Finally, he was relatively interested in his college choice.  By that, I mean that he was willing to look at several of the schools that he applied to and he was willing to write his own essays.  Yet, he was not interested in following up.  Much to our frustration, he was not willing to contact a professor, or meet with an alumnus, or engage in speculation.  Rather, he submitted his applications like one threw darts at a dart-board, and hoped for the best.  As a vicarious experience, it was not satisfying; though Sam was happy to enter UNC, we had a nagging feeling that he had left some chips on the table.

What a difference four years makes!  Vindicated by his stellar performance and the excellence of the UNC chemistry department, neither of which was certain four years earlier, Sam could apply to the top tier of graduate programs.  This circumstance provided no end of speculative enjoyment to us.  After all, any of the eight schools to which he applied would allow for an excellent sticker on the back window of the car.  In addition, if anything, Sam’s desire to consider, discuss, wonder, ponder, contemplate, etc. the pros and cons of each school on his list became almost excessive.   Though I admit to also having the schools and their characteristics memorized and prioritized in accord with Sam’s daily assessments, his mother has been enjoying a virtual full-time avocation.

The important thing, of course, is that he makes the right choice and is happy with it.  Yet, there is an undeniable parental thrill with each acceptance; we add another notch to our belts, another tribute to our parenting.  As January dawned, the month of responses, first one came in, then two more.  There were three the next week, and one the following week.  Seven acceptances out of eight schools with only one more to go!

Does he want to be near or far?  How important is the weather?  Is the program large or small?  How much is the stipend?  What is the housing situation?  All of these questions were weighed daily.  How could he choose between three schools all ranked number one?  (Don’t blame me; I don’t create the lists).  The considerations became all-consuming.

The excitement of seven acceptances overhung everything else, as did a crucial question; to which parent could it be attributed?   In the end, we decided it must be a mysterious combination.   After all, even though I do not have one molecule of chemistry aptitude, I know he was not adopted.   Pride grew each day as the acceptances were disseminated to friends and relatives across phone lines and cyberspace.  Probably, several people are refusing to accept Facebook posts anymore.   Finally, we looked at each other and concluded, as we should, the accomplishment is really all Sam’s.  We are just overly interested bystanders, who need to let it go.  Let him make his choice.

When MIT ultimately provided the only rejection, we tried to respond with equanimity.  “It’s just as well,” we said.  “He doesn’t need another place to visit.”  “All of the schools are excellent.”  “It would have been too much for his ego if he had been accepted everywhere.”

Do we believe that?  Hmmmmmmm.     When I’m sitting in the audience to vicariously accept Sam’s Nobel Prize, his speech will definitely include the line I will insert:  “MIT should rue the day they rejected me, and my parents!”

Tags ,
Categories Modern Society, Parenting

BEWILDERED BY BEST BUY

February 4, 2013 //
2

BEWILDERED BY BEST BUY

 

Waiting for the Best Buy’s Geek Squad to arrive affords ample time for writing.  When he says “between eight and noon” one can settle in until at least 11:45 before the first phone call advises that he is “running a little late” and will arrive before two.  The second call, at 1:50, advises that he is lost because his GPS does not work.  By 2:45, when he arrives, one could have made a good start on a historical novel.

Our recent experience was instructive.  One day, the picture on our three-year-old television suddenly appeared psychedelic.  After the novelty of green tongues, purple skin and red trees subsided, we considered our options.   Uncharacteristically, we had not only chosen to purchase a warranty with this television but also knew where to find it, taped to its back-side.  The warranty extended to a date several months in the future.  So far, so good; in fact, merging on miraculous.

Upon arrival, our Geek proved to be enigmatic.   He turned on the television, made several diagnostic noises, like “hmmmm” and “ahem,” and advised:  “I see what the problem is.”

“Yes?” I said, anticipating a wise solution.

“The colors are messed up,” he concluded.

“Yes, that is why we called,” I said, after determining that he was not being ironic.

Wordlessly, he walked past us and back out the front door.  My wife and I looked at each other.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

We craned our necks to look out the front window where we saw that he was standing beside his van making a phone call.  After ten minutes, he was still outside and I tired of waiting in the living room.  I walked out behind him, just as he was asking:  “Then what happens?”

“Is everything okay?” I whispered, to get his attention.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, as though he had forgotten me completely.  “I’m just making a phone call.”

Again, the lack of irony surprised me.  I went back inside and resumed waiting.  Finally, he came back in, and said:  “I’m ordering the part.  It’s a common problem.  I can install it on…” he consulted a note pad, “… January 18.”

“That is two weeks from now,” I replied, showing that I, too, could state the obvious.

“Yes,” he said.  “We are busy installing everyone’s Christmas purchases this time of year.  It’s tough to schedule repairs.”

“Two weeks is kind of long, isn’t it?” I said, hoping for a reprieve.

“Fourteen days,” he said, without affect, showing that he, too, could calculate.

We have a second television, so this was not a major deprivation for us.  Still, I wondered aloud why a whole van would not contain a part that was a “common problem.”

“Don’t be so logical,” wheedled my wife.  “It’s always like this in the real world.”

She likes to point out how the “real world” operates, from time to time, so that I acutely appreciate how often she handles repairs, warranties, service calls, etc. by herself.

The two weeks proceeded uneventfully.  On January 17, I received a phone message from the Geek Squad:  “Please call us with regard to your repair appointment.”  I called the number provided and heard the following announcement:  “You have reached a non-operating number at Best Buy.”  I checked the number on the message and tried again, with the same result.  I concluded they were calling to confirm the appointment for the next day.

As the following morning turned to afternoon, the phone rang.  I raced to answer it since the caller i.d. indicated “Best Buy.”

“Mr. Sanders?” said a woman.  “I left a message yesterday, but didn’t hear back from you.”

“That’s because the number you left is ‘non-operating,’” I said.

“Oh, really?” she said, sounding skeptical.

“That’s okay,” I said.  “What time shall I expect the, ah, repairman?”   I hesitated to say “geek.”

“Maybe next week, ‘cause the part wasn’t shipped.”

“Why is that?”

“It just wasn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she stated conclusively.

I felt that I was like an eight-year-old asking why I could not have candy for breakfast.

Several days later, a phone message from Best Buy advised of a new and exciting twist.  The part that was “ordered” turned out to “no longer be manufactured.”  As a result, said the voice, we should go to our local Best Buy with our warranty in hand and obtain a replacement television!  This development sounded too good to be true, but we dutifully drove to the store and a twenty-something-year-old salesperson cheerily confirmed, after a feverish session at his keyboard, that we were entitled to a new, “equivalent” television.

“You can buy anything up to $799 which is what you paid the last time,” he said.

First, however, he wanted to show us potential upgrades.

“You won’t believe what you can have now,” he declared, sounding like Robert Preston in The Music Man.   “By golly, in the three years since your last purchase, televisions have undergone a technological revolution!  For instance, DVD players have given way to streaming; HD has been eclipsed (or did he say ‘augmented?’) by 3-D; and, your computers and games can run through the television.”

I nearly said: “I’ve never played a computer game,” but I did not wish to appear totally hopeless.  “Can we balance our check-book on the television?” I asked, combining actual curiosity with facetiousness.

“Check-book?” he asked, looking confused.  That effectively answered my question.

Much to the salesperson’s embarrassment, however, each attempt to demonstrate a feature ended in failure.  On the first two sets, the controller would not access 3-D; at the third, he could not change stations; at the fourth, he had no volume control.  If this man, who is surrounded by the technology all day, every day, and whose enthusiasm knew no bounds, could not access basic applications (I’ve always wanted to use that word in the flow of a sentence) how could we access the evening news?

Inevitably, we chose the same LG 42-inch television that we had, now priced at $1,199 thanks to all its “features,” but fortuitously on sale for $799.  “Even exchange,” our helper touted, as he pointed us to “check-out.”  According to the cashier, a dead ringer for Steve Erkel, however, the “system” showed that our old television was only worth $649.

“How can that be?” I asked.   “My receipt shows that we paid $799?”

“The equivalent television is only valued at $649 now.”

“But this is the same television,” I said.  “It is simply updated.  You do not even have a stripped-down $649 version now.”

“That’s true,” he conceded.  “But you owe $150.”

“The salesperson said we were making an even exchange.”

“He doesn’t know how this works.  He is just there to sell products.  Here is where the business is done,” said the cashier, with impressive self-assurance, especially considering his modest position.

I shrugged to express regret to the people now accumulating behind me in line.  With the impatient eye-roll of a parent dealing with a six-year-old having a tantrum, the cashier offered to call the manager.

“Please do,” I said.

He slipped away from the counter to speak furtively in the telephone.   He nodded, frowned, shrugged, glanced at me, nodded and whispered some more.  I could not tell how the conversation was going but he returned to say:  “Sorry, but you have to pay the $150.”

I was feeling helpless with anger and exasperation, but my wife, so experienced in this realm, calmly said:  “Let us talk to the manager.”

The cashier looked jumpy as a tall, skinny man emerged from an office with a name-tag indicating that he was the manager.  My wife launched pre-emptively into a presentation about the “warranty” and the “equal exchange” and “what the salesperson said” when the manager, baffled, held up his hand and said to the cashier:  “I told you to put it through at no cost.”

Erkel looked abashed and said, unconvincingly:  “Oh, ah, I didn’t understand.”

Finally, we had a happy ending.   But I was still baffled by the entire experience.   Why was speaking to Best Buy’s “geek” so unsatisfactory?  Why was their telephone number inoperative?   Why did their demonstration models fail to work?  And, what’s with the cashier?  Did he have a need to put down his co-worker?  Did he want to impress his boss by getting a better deal for Best Buy?  Did he have some scam going, or was he just incompetent?

Thanks to the warranty, we now have a brand new television with numerous capabilities that we may someday use and appreciate.  Even the remote controller is space age compared to the ancient version of three years ago.  Imagine, our previous controller did not double as a Wii wand, whatever that is.  As we were leaving, I thanked the manager for helping.

“My pleasure,” he said.  “If you have any trouble setting it up, just call the Geek Squad.  It can’t be any simpler!”

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Categories Modern Society

DESIGNING WOMEN

January 14, 2013 //
1

DESIGNING WOMEN

Our previous house of eighteen years was a woodsy contemporary.  Soaring, exposed-beam construction was clad in brown cedar shakes.   Windows in every angular geometric shape, from the rhombus to the parallelogram, provided views of the surrounding trees, along with insurmountable challenges when replacement was necessary.

We moved in with young children so we were too busy to focus on the prevailing decoration.  However, 1991 was only several years removed from the vividly colored era of the mid-1980’s.  In spite of our work-and-child-rearing-caused obliviousness, we sensed that there can be such a thing as “too much” when it comes to the shade of purple known as mauve.  The house had mauve walls and mauve shades, mauve carpeting and mauve tiles.  If there were a tree that grew mauve wood, it would be certain that our kitchen cabinets would have been mauve; however, they were actually composite materials clothed in bright white.

The seller of the house was genuinely kind.  We liked her and she liked us.  The fact that she was a hard-working, long-commuting and uncomplaining person made her admirable; the fact that she was also blind made us indisposed to hold her responsible for the pervasive purple.  Surely, some decorator took advantage of her situation and a close-out price on mauve paint and materials.

We chipped away at the mauve unsystematically for several years.  The master bathroom gave way to blue and white tile; the entrance floor covering was replaced by stone; and, the living room carpet was ripped out to reveal beautiful hardwood floors underneath.  The re-finishing of those floors, however, was such a horrendous experience, in terms of dust and disruption that we needed two or three years to recover.  When it came time to resume the re-making of the house, my wife had an idea:

“Why don’t we hire a decorator?” she said.

“What would that do for us?” I asked.

“It would provide someone with expertise who could look at the overall situation and bring a decorating scheme together.  We would not be doing rooms impulsively, one at a time, without a comprehensive plan,” she said.

That all sounded so reasonable that I failed to see the yellow lights flashing as we approached the intersection of momentum and expense.

“Do they charge to provide an estimate?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said.  “I will make a call.”

So it came about that NS entered our lives, the Martha Stewart of our county.  She swept out of her white Jaguar one day and into the house with a white cape flowing behind her.  I could not see anything behind her designer dark glasses, but I could not fail to notice the massive rings on her fingers.  It was as though she had won the Super Bowl eight times.

“Ohhhhh,” she said in a vaguely British accent, as she surveyed the scene.  “Ohhhh, this won’t do a’tall.”

“Is she really from England?  Or is she from Long Island?” I whispered to my wife.

“Shhhhh,” she said, following NS on her self-directed tour.

“She’s wearing a cape,” I pointed out, quietly.  “I bet we pay extra for someone who wears a cape.”

“Shhhhh,” said my wife, giving me a look that showed she meant it.

NS and my wife communicated for several weeks until, one day, I was informed that the project was scheduled for installation.

“I’ve seen the plan,” said my wife.  “The colors are dramatic.  The material is luscious.”

“Are we going to look at it or eat it?” I asked.

“We are going to enjoy it,” she said, with confidence and pride.  “No one in this town will have a living area like ours.”

I pulled out of the driveway on the way to work the next morning as several small vans arrived.   They disgorged what appeared to be an entire Eastern European soccer team.  One man nodded at me, and I was sure I detected an enigmatic smile.  “What does he know that I do not know?” I wondered.  I concluded I was paranoid.

The office was busy that day and I did not think about the project again until I was nearly home.  The last van pulled away as I arrived.  I noted that my wife’s car was not there; she was picking up the kids on her way home from work.  Prepared to be blown away by what I saw, I strode with great anticipation into the foyer and beheld our high-ceilinged living room-dining room area, and the adjacent family room.

I was definitely blown away.  Instead of mauve the walls were now an overwhelming mint green.  It was like being immersed in a tub of pistachio sorbet.  Over each of the windows and doorways was a heavy and swirling green-blue material that formed what appeared to be an onion dome.  I took a deep breath and sat down in the middle of the floor.  How could I be gracious about this when my wife arrived?  It looked horrible to a laughable extent, but not the ha-ha kind of laugh.  We had paid $5,000 for an “expert” to turn an open, angular space into something that was a bizarre amalgam of looping and swirling shapes; no longer nondescript the rooms were nearly beyond description at the other end of the spectrum.  It was so shocking that I was speechless as I heard footsteps emerging from the garage.

The first to enter the room were my son and daughter who simply stared, wide-eyed.

“Whoa,” said my seven-year-old son, finally.

Last in was my wife who spared me from having to speak by immediately bursting into tears.  She put down some packages and took a spot beside me on the floor.

“It’s hideous,” she said.

The other three of us remained silent for a reasonable interval before the bravest of us, our nine-year-old daughter, ventured a question.

“Mom, was this what we were expecting?”

“It looked so good in the drawings,” said my wife.

“Did you ever get a swatch of the material?” I asked in as gentle and non-accusatory a tone as possible.

“Yes,” she said.  “But the swatch is only about eighteen inches.  It isn’t overwhelming.  This…” she indicated our new surroundings… “is overwhelming.”

“Phew….” I let out a breath.

“Phew….” repeated our son.

“I hate it,” said our daughter.

“Let’s get rid of it,” said my wife.

“Really?” we all asked at once.

“We may as well make a party of it.”

And so it went.  I brought two ladders up from the basement and we gathered some scissors and screw-drivers.  My wife and I cut and disassembled the curtains from over the windows and the turbans from over the doorways.  The children triumphantly threw the discarded materials into trash-bags.  By the end of the project everyone was giggling.

“Never again,” we agreed, with regard to decorators.  A lesson was learned.  From that point forward, we went to stores and bought what we liked.  We hired artisans to paint rooms and install wallpaper or sconces as we chose them and, eventually, the house was fully re-made in our style.  It required several months to cover the mint green walls with a beige faux finish that we all enjoyed, but, by that time, we were old hands at home décor.  When NS’s assistant called to ask if she could come photograph the job for NS’s portfolio, my wife took passive-aggressive pleasure in responding:  “Sure, come on over!”

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Categories Modern Society

CONSISTENCY

January 7, 2013 //
1

CONSISTENCY

Jimmy was our teenaged neighbor when we were freshly married and living in northern New Jersey.  Unlike the typical high school students in our high-achieving town, Jimmy was not fixated on attending an Ivy League college and in obtaining the BMW that was certain to follow.  Rather, he was interested in auto maintenance and handyman tasks.  This desire was useful, since his parents’ collection of aged hatchbacks required the former, and our semi-renovated Victorian house required the latter.

When Jimmy was not peering under the hood of a car whose color was unknown to nature, he was in our house destroying old plaster walls and discovering new sources of seepage.  He worked deliberately but charged so little that it never occurred to me to complain.  Jimmy was a quiet perfectionist.

Jimmy’s parents were devout church-goers but his Dad truly sought salvation in the performance of his favorite football team.  His mother found excitement and happiness in her garden.   Besides odd jobs, surprisingly, Jimmy’s passionate interest was in fundamentalist Catholic theology.  To that end, for a couple of years after graduating from high school, he sported hair and a beard like Jesus’s.   He saved his earnings from repair jobs and a part-time position at an auto body shop to visit sites in Europe where minor miracles (as opposed to the big splashy ones, like the parting of the Red Sea) had taken place.

Jimmy’s eyes misted over when he described a shack in Poland or Romania where thorns had reportedly turned to flowers or water had turned to wine, or some similar cause for skepticism on my part.  Each place was named for an obscure saint with a previously unheard of name.  Jimmy’s absolute sincerity precluded overt ridicule; one had to respect his fervor.

When my office required construction of a wall, we called Jimmy.  When our basement needed painting, we called Jimmy.  Even though he finally entered Rutgers on what was to become a leisurely, seven year journey, Jimmy remained available to complete an assortment of household projects.

The primary personal characteristic of Jimmy, who, around age twenty-seven, became known as “Jim,” was a sense of indecisive acceptance.  “Yeah, well, you know.…” he would say regarding almost anything.  Faced with disagreement, he would say:  “Yeah, sure, I guess.”  Responding to a question, he would answer, “Well, maybe, I suppose.”  Despite his extreme passivity, we sensed there to be acute intelligence somewhere deep inside.  Jim was unfailingly patient and kind; he designed and built a soaring tree house for our children with leftover wood, and then refused payment for the work.

After he graduated from Rutgers, Jim found work as a mechanic for a trucking firm and moved to an apartment closer to work.   One day, I saw him arrive to visit his parents and I rushed to greet him before he went inside.

“How’s the job?” I asked.

“Well, you know,” he replied.

“Is it interesting?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You should consider design school or architecture,” I stated, with conviction.  “That tree house is amazing.  You have a special talent.”

“Yeah, I guess.  Never really thought about it,” he replied.

“Great to see you,” I said.

Jim took a moment to reply.  He seemed to be pondering what I had said earlier.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, trailing off, more distracted than usual.  Then he brightened, and his voice caught with emotion:  “I’m going to Bulgaria next week to see where Saint (Unpronounceable) prevented a flood by reversing a river.”

“That’s great, Jim,” I said, trying hard to sound sincere.

“Can you imagine what it would be like to be a saint?” he asked.

I shook my head.  “I definitely cannot.”

I was gratified, several months later, when Jim’s mother told me he was starting architecture school.  I thought I might have made an impact.  Shortly thereafter, we moved to a different town and lost touch with Jim and his family, except for annual holiday cards.

Several years later, we were having a vacation house constructed in Costa Rica.  Our builder was confident that he could obtain all the necessary permits with the plans he drew up himself, but he was surprised to find out he needed a sealed and certified architect’s plan for the complicated roof line.

“It’s urgent,” he said.  “I’m so sorry for this short notice.  I’m afraid that if I do not have an official plan to present when the inspector comes out next week, he will not be in the region again for months.  The whole project will be held up.  Do you know any architects?”

We did not know any architects, we thought, at first, then remembered Jim.  Sure enough, his parents told us that, at age thirty-five, he had recently become a fully licensed architect.  He worked at a small firm in south Jersey and, they were sure he would be delighted to supplement his meager income with a moonlighting assignment.

“After all,” said his dad, “a roof system for a whole house is more exciting than the baseboards and mantel pieces they have him working on now.”

“Do you have an e-mail address for him?” I asked.

“He hasn’t gotten around to that, yet,” said his mother.  “But here is his phone number.”

Like his dad, I thought Jim would be excited to create drawings for a vacation home overlooking the Pacific Ocean.  I was surprised it required several messages before he called back.

“Hi, yeah, I heard about the house,” he said.  “I guess I could draw up something.”

“Jim, the floor plan is already done,” I explained.  “We need a roof system drawn up, but we only have a few days.  Can you do it?  You can be creative, like with the tree house.”

“Okay, I guess…. I suppose,” he said.

Jim agreed to come up and meet with us the next day.  We spread out the floor plan on the dining room table and provided photographs of the mountainside lot and its views of the Pacific Ocean.  We waited in vain for some reaction as Jim stared impassively.  He started to speak and stopped several times:  “…this room, uhhhh… hmmmmm, yeah, okay, hmmmmm….”

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, after a long pause.  “I guess, ummm, this will work out.”

After another hour of similar hemming and hawing, Jim said he would produce a plan in a day or two.  He asked if he could charge $50 an hour and said he could finish in just six or seven hours.

“Jim,” I said.  “This would have cost us a minimum fee of $5,000 with an architectural firm.  I won’t pay you less than $1,000, no matter what.”

“Whatever,” he shrugged.

I could not resist asking Jim a question before he left:  “Do you enjoy being an architect?”

“I suppose,” he said.

“Do you remember when I suggested you consider it?”

He looked perplexed.

“Hunh?” he replied.

I dropped the subject.   Jim justified our faith by producing a series of precise and interesting drawings and calculations in just two days.  We e-mailed them to our builder who pronounced them excellent.  Our architectural crisis was averted.   Jim needed weeks of prodding but he finally forwarded an invoice, his #001, for $1,000.

We forwarded early photographs of the construction to Jim since we thought he would find them exciting or, at least, interesting.  We did not hear from him.  When the roof finally went on and his job #001 was actualized, we mailed him color photographs and a note thanking him for his help.  Again, we did not hear from him.  Afraid that we did not have the right mailing address, we called Jim.

“Did you receive the pictures?”

“Oh, yeah, I got them.  Thanks,” he said.

“The house looks stunning, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess.  It looks pretty good, I suppose.”

We hung up feeling vaguely unfulfilled.  Perhaps, we wanted to pierce his wall of seeming indifference.  Perhaps, we wanted to hear an architect enthuse about our house.  Perhaps, we wanted Jim to express just one iota of wonder at his own, earthly accomplishment.

Upon reflection, we had to conclude that Jim’s outlook and behavior is not ours to change.  It is hard enough to influence immediate family members; how could we presume to influence what excites a mere friendly acquaintance?  Finally, who knows?   If consistency is a sacred virtue, Jim might well be a saint someday.

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Categories architecture, Modern Society, Reflections, Saintly belief
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