Chapter 3. It’s Too Close To Call

I’ve flirted with politics before. I spent a year on the doors for Citizen Action, educating folks of the dangers of toxic waste from the Ohio factories and profiteering from the power companies. It was like I was born into it. I was like a sponge when it came to progressive causes and I boiled the fifteen-second elevator “they’re screwing us” speech down to a science. People were running for the checkbooks when they saw me coming. It all came to a screeching halt because of…

wait for it…

…a girl.

That’s been a recurring theme in my life. When my romance flamed out, I lost my passion for the job. Or more likely, the shift in focus allowed me a closer examination of both myself and the fund-raising aspects of the job. After a particularly smarmy door where I talked a woman out of twenty-five dollars that she really didn’t have, I walked away feeling dirty. I quit that night.

The experience wasn’t all bad. It whet my appetite for politics and started me on my social justice addiction that I have today. A few years later, I honestly don’t remember how it happened, I got involved with a fun little group call the League of Pissed-Off Voters. It led me Get Out The Vote (GOTV) as a volunteer for the John Kerry campaign. It’s barely a blip in the radar of my life, but I met a few wonderful people who I cherish to this day. It was a feel-good campaign. We were the resistance against the war-mongering Bush-Cheney administration and we were going to knock them out of office. I remember making a final push to get voters to the polls on election day and then racing to the bar to watch the returns.

Things were going great. It was a nail-biter, but we had a few good things going in our favor. As I sat with my compatriots at the bar doing shots, we cheered at every state that went our way and grumbled at the alternative. It was coming down to Ohio, and that’s where we were. My efforts that day could actually swing an election. It was that close. The screen on CNN flashed to a graphic of the state map and the caption;

“98% in. It’s too close to call. The majority of uncounted votes are Cuyahoga County.”

A roar went up from my friends. We had done it. Cuyahoga County was the largest Democratic stronghold in the state. Forty percent of all D votes were located in that county. No way the Republicans can pull it out. We did another round of shots. It was maybe thirty minutes later that the graphic changed.

“George W. Bush has been reelected to a second term in office.”

The air went out of the room. The best way to describe it is stunned silence. We did not know how to react. My first thought is betrayal. The assholes had stolen the election right out from under us. That feeling persists to this day. I can rail on demand about Voter Suppression for all the livelong day. Between engineered precinct confusion, thrown-out ballots and electronic voting machine skullduggery, I’m still convinced that the bad guys stole that one.

We weren’t quite done. In January of 2005, I rented a car, packed some friends in, and headed to DC for the largest protested inauguration in U.S. history. More than 50,000 strong lined the parade route that the Bushes would travel. I marched with Code Pink, demonstrated outside the American Enterprise Institute, shouted slogans at the black-clad stormtroopers of the DCMP (and got pepper sprayed for my efforts), bonded with activists from Anarchist University, and partied hard.

I’d had a taste of the resistance elixir, but it took seven more years to finally make the break from the dark side of corporate America and come to the light.

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Chapter 2. I Think He Hates White People

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was working as the multi-unit manager for a bunch of restaurants in an airport. In those days I worked hard and partied harder. In retrospect, I was probably a much-hated person. I was the perfectionist who also liked to joke around. So I was constantly screaming at others for doing the exact same shit that I would do. I ran around that airport with my chest puffed out and made a mad nuisance of myself.

I was in love at the time. She was a coworker who I’d met when I first started on the job. The funny thing, she’d nearly had to fire me in my second week as a bartender. I came into the cash room one day with my till $200 short. She grilled me like she was the FBI and I was a bank robber. I was sweating prolifically, like only a fat-ass ginger can pull off. The end was nigh until I said, “Hey, wait a second. Let me see that register strip.” Sure enough, I’d punched in 33 domestic beers instead of 3, for a traveler. Whew, that was a close one.

She was Ethiopian and the most beautiful human being that I’d ever seen. Our ages were fifteen years apart, but she was definitely the grown-up in the equation. It was a steamy relationship and it was destined for the inevitable flame-out before we even started. I told her every one of my secrets before I ever kissed her. We were inseparable for a short time.

But I digress.

One day at work I was flying around in giant asshole mode. I came into the office area like a whirlwind of bad intent. I started firing staccato orders at one of the office staff. She was not my subordinate. 

“Hey Gayle, can I get such and such report?’

She gave me the side-eye glance. I was so full of myself that it didn’t even register. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” I stood there, tapping my foot I’m sure, while she took her sweet time producing what I wanted.

“Here you go.” She handed the papers to me with dead eyes and disdain.

“Thanks. See ya.” I burst out of the office beelined for the elevator. 

“Hey.” Said a soft voice behind me.

I turned with a smile and said, “Oh, hey Honey.” Or some other sickly-sweet nonsense. I know my voice dropped a few octaves.

“Why did you do that?” said my girlfriend.

“Do what?”

“Why did you go in there and yell at Gayle?”

“I didn’t yell at Gayle.” I’m sure my cheeks were burning when I said it. I am a ginger, after all.

“You didn’t say hello. You didn’t ask how she was doing. You didn’t ask about her father who just had a heart attack.”

“I was in a hurry. I need to get shit done. That’s what I do, get shit done.” 

“No.” She said, shaking her head. “You need to slow down. In my country you have to say, ‘Hello, how are you’, before you do business. In most cases you would even have a coffee or a meal before you talk business.”

“How do you ever get anything done? Time is precious.”

She grasped both of my hands and looked me in the eye. “No, Brother T. People are precious. Jobs come and go, but people are forever.” All I could do was nod in shame as she turned and walked away. As the day went on the idea of it sunk deeper into my psyche. I was being a real asshole.

The following day I tried a new tack. I was Mr. Etiquette for the day. I was small-talking everywhere I went in the airport. I realize now that it was probably jarring for all the people who were used to the asshole me. By the time I reached the office, I was in full-on bullshitting mode. It’s been a long time, but I think (hope?) the conversation went something like this.

“Good morning, Gayle. How’s your father doing?”

“Okay…” Followed by an awkward silence.

“Well, err, great. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.” This was followed by more awkwardness and work talk.

It was only later that I found out how my co-worker perceived the conversation. She went to our mutual boss saying:

  1. Terry was nice to me.
  2. I think he was lying.
  3. I think he hates white people.

They say no good deed goes unpunished.

I persisted. From that day on I have been Mr Etiquette. I start every interaction, be it pace to face or on the phone with the question, “How are you?” The girlfriend is long gone, but her words of kind wisdom have lived on.

But I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I was still a raging asshole. I would be that way for the next eight years, screaming, pounding tables, throwing things, until I finally escaped the restaurant industry for good. 

Consider this an open apology to all those who had to deal with my shit.

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Chapter 1. The Meandering Path

Why Am I Here?

It was just about eight years ago that I started a quest that brought me to this very point in my life.

I was at my wits end, a bartender turned reluctant career restaurant manager. I’d gradually worked my way down the food chain from fast casual restaurants to pizza chains. The next stop on the train was the exciting world of fast food. My career, if you want to call it that, was a succession of fast starts and spectacular flameouts. I was a raging maniac. It was not a good time to be me.

In my late forties, I found myself playing out the chain as a pizza delivery driver in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods of Columbus, Ohio, The Hilltop. I bided my time. I liked the job. I was a GREAT delivery driver. Hell, I’d been a General Manager of the two largest pizza chains for over seven years. I knew exactly what my manager needed from me and I left it all out on the streets every night. After a year in the shooting gallery, I made a simple request. Transfer me to a safer spot and I’ll continue being the teacher’s pet. The word came down from on high:”

“We can’t do it, Brother T. If we let you transfer, we have to let everyone do it.”

Now you and I both know that this is a bullshit answer. If you can’t reward your good employees, then you don’t deserve good employees. Despite feeling betrayed and unappreciated, I gave my two-week notice and began looking at my options. It never occurred to me to just go. Managing was in my DNA. I knew that I would leave them in the lurch. I remembered the countless times over the years that my employees had done the same to me.

It was time to take stock of my life. Time to stop looking for the most bucks and the best perks. Time to do something to enrich my soul. Time to stop feeding the madman that raged within.

The Bullshit Artist

I’ve always had the ability to walk into a job interview and come out on top. You could same that I’m the ultimate bullshit artist. I‘m a voracious reader. I’m able to learn things on the fly. I’m good with jargon, so I’m usually speaking the same lingo as the interviewer. And I have the ability to get along with anybody.

It doesn’t hurt that I’m a white male, relatively attractive (I guess, I’ve never seen it), with a military background and I was articulate. I seem more educated than I really am. All through school I was an underachiever. I didn’t bother with homework, studying or things like that. I was a test taker. I knew that I had a pretty good chance of scoring well. Job interviews were just like tests for me. Go in there, tell them what they need to hear, report to work on Monday. That’s how I became an internet support rep who had never used a computer before, a supervisor in a factory when I had no mechanical skills, a high-volume restaurant manager who had no formal training.

Looking back on all those interviews, I can honestly say that I was the beneficiary of white privilege. The interviewers didn’t doubt me because I looked like them. They didn’t question my past because I have a nice smile. I was tough. I was a Marine. I’d been a “manager all my life.” I used this phrase in every job interview for twenty years. It worked every time. The only times that I didn’t get a position that I wanted was when I interviewed with someone who knew about my past. That never went well. You can’t bullshit someone who already knows about the skeletons in your closet.

I Went Down to the Crossroads

I quit my job. I was at a crossroads. I was also flabbergasted. I was raised in an era where we were told, “if you work hard enough, good things will happen.” I’d often used that messaging with my employees as well. Of course, mine was often double-speak. In the service industry, especially on the corporate side, we told our people whatever it took to get them to show up and not steal from us. Most times this wasn’t enough for them to keep their jobs, but at least it gave me time to find their replacement. So now pizza world was finding my replacement. What was I to do?

There was one thing I knew for sure. I could not endure another service industry gig. One the one hand, I’d been working in restaurants for so long that self-abuse and the abuse of others was second nature to me. I had done awful things to my employees and tolerated the same from my bosses. Twenty years in the industry was enough. I needed a clean break. I was searching for menial work. I needed zero responsibility for minimal compensation. I looked back on my history. I made a list. Marine, security guard, factory foreman, Jetski salesman (what?), environmental canvasser, retail manager, Internet tech guy, bartender, restaurant manager, multi-unit manager, pizza guy, delivery guy.

The Marine Corps was NOT an option. I guessed I could still guard things, but security is hardly a fulfilling field. I could sell things (but not Jetskis). Technically (no pun intended) I could get back into IT customer service. But the field had passed me by. No more retail. No more food. My eyes kept circling back to the canvasser job. I’d had a lot of fun. I’d hooked up with one of the loves of my life. I’d been very good at it. I told you I was a bullshit artist. On a whim, I called the number on Craigslist. I had an interview. I got the job. (Just not the one I have now). That’s what I do.

I picked up right where I  left off. I was one of those guys that walk around your neighborhood and knock on your door, telling you “how bad your windows are, and I can give you a heckuva deal on some new ones.” If you own a house, we’ve probably knocked on your door. It wasn’t my job to sell the windows. I just had to get my salesman into your house and let him rip you off. It was easy. Follow the script and watch your paycheck increase. I was good at it, but I fell into a malaise. I may be a bullshitter, but I felt like I was a con artist instead. And the conning went both ways. I could twist the words to get what I wanted from the homeowner, while giving the bosses what they wanted as well. After a year of this, I needed a change. Back to the drawing board.

The next ad I replied to was for a similar job. The heading said. “Make a Difference. Change the World.” Yeah right, I thought. I called the number. It changed my life.

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A home for old war heroes and the underemployed

From A GATHERING STORM (buy the book): http://amzn.to/2nRKvdM

 

In Memory of Hank Chinaski

 

The bar is dimly lit

compared to the

blinding sunlight

that splashes on the sidewalk

just outside the door

 

I sit down at the bar

allow my eyes to adjust

to the dank interior

as I waited for the forty-something

beauty of a bartender

to notice me

and take my order

 

Glancing to the right of me

I spy a collection

of dead hi-ball glasses

perspiring their last gasps

on the poorly polished bar top

 

A peek to the left

reveals the pit-stained

unshaven

bourbon flavored vestiges

of a blue collar afternoon

 

I think

Damn what a bunch

of crusty old fucks

are these

 

I watch as the draft

tumbled down

from the tap to the

ice encrusted glass

crystals gleaming in the foam

 

The first sip so smooth

that I had to glub glub glub

the rest of it down

its crispness numbing

the back of my throat

 

Throwing my head back

I savored the heady aromas

of stale cigarettes

flat beer

and petrified perspiration

 

As the glacial ice floes

ran down the side

of my second glass

I knew

I would soon

call this place home

 

I think

Damn what a crusty old fuck

am I

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saturday night

There was a crazy,

sixties feel to the place

Dick Dale in the background

wailing on his surf guitar

the smell of scented candles

filling the air.

 

A few uptight girls

sat in the living room

basking in the artificial glow

of a pair of loony lava lamps

drinking their wine in plastic cups

whispering gossip

giggling the night away

 

I was standing

in the kitchen

talking with the cool people

about the events of the day

when the fire alarm went off.

 

Spurred by adventure

We grabbed another stout

and headed outside

to wait for the fire trucks.

 

It turned out to be a false alarm

so

 

we went back inside

opened another beer

smoked another joint

told a few more lies.

 

It was the best party

we’d had in years.

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creative evolutionary fandango

In the beginning

Jah created the heavens

And the Vibe

With one snap of her fingers

Allah set in motion

One big fucking bang

New entities sprouted

From the Tree of Life

And with a wave of the hand

Jehovah sprinkled the earth

With beings large and small

In tune with Mother Nature

I’m not getting

Into the argument

Of creationism versus evolution

It’s all one God to me

creative evolutionary fandango

 

First sentient beings

Lucy’s Ethiopian earth tribe

Climb down from trees

Walk on two legs

And evolve creatively

Paint original Sistine chapels

On the domes of their caves

Symphonized orchestration

With sticks and stones and skins and bones

and most of all

Musical laughter

epiphanies of imagination

Creating one great human vibe

 

Fast forward

Three and a half million years

To the new earth tribe

The Eternal Vibe

Continuing the tradition

Of rhythms and rhymes

Percussive discussion

Creative evolution

Swirling a magical elixir

Two parts love

Two parts imagination

And two parts love

A hearty vibological stew

 

I’m still not arguing

creationism versus evolution

it’s still one God to me

creative evolutionary fandango

We create

We love

It’s a win-win situation

 

because

In the beginning

Jah created the heavens

And the Vibe

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flamenco sketches

my fingers play over

the scarred bartop

like miles

pressing down on the keys

his horn moaning

throbbing painfully

stabbing phrases through the air

like so many voices

in a gospel choir

 

bill evans

tinkles the ivory restrained

and masterful

filling the space

like raindrops

on a warm spring night

while the great man takes a blow

 

miles starts in again

sweet sweet horn

taking my breath away

 

i play with the sweat

on the rocks glass

take a sip

of smoky scotch

inhale a lungful

of kingstown’s finest

 

i run my fingers

across your bare shoulder

texture as smooth

as the bartop is rough

hoping i can play you

like miles played that horn

cool and effortless

relentless

through the night

 

It’s 1959

we aren’t born yet

but miles knew

we’d be listening

played this song for us

best make the most of it

he’d like that

 

sketch the dance flamenco

all through the night

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