This morning about six minutes after I got up, Adam’s alarm went off. He’d snoozed it when it sounded at 8:30. Both of our alarms go off at 8:30. We both have I-phones, but his alarm sounds about 15 seconds before mine does, I have no idea why.
I digress.
I was getting ready to get in the shower, when I realized he had not shut his alarm off. I waited. And waited. Finally, I went in and said Babe? Babe? He didn’t answer. I then said, Adam? Adam? A little louder. He still didn’t budge. Adam is not a super hard sleeper, so I was surprised he didn’t respond. I have to admit, for about 1/16th of a second I thought he might be dead. Then I tapped him on the shoulder and he awoke with a start. It’s one of the reasons I started out quietly; he is easily startled when he’s asleep.
He had not heard the alarm at all. He was surprised that it was going off, and he was surprised that I had to wake him. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and then went back to take a shower.
As I was trying to wake up in the shower, I realized that calling Adam by his given name was not something I do often. We hardly ever use each other’s names. We both use “BABE” as a term of endearment. In fact, he called me at work today and I said, “Hello, Babe” and my boss referred to him as Babe 30 seconds later.
It always feels awkward when I say Adam, when speaking to Adam. I say his name all the time at work. They probably get sick of hearing about the meals he cooks for me, or the things he did for my birthday. But to say, “Hey Adam, what’s for dinner?, just doesn’t flow.
The only thing worse than using his name to address him is him calling me Jeff. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. He does it so seldomly that I always think I must be in trouble, or something must be wrong. Neither is usually true.
Which brings me to the point of this story.
When we first started dating, and it became clear that we were going to be something more than just a casual fling, he started calling me “Honey Bear.” I don’t know why? I don’t know where it came from. I, however, loved it from the start. At some point, we moved past Honey Bear to Babe. He does usually write cards to me addressed as Honey Bear. And it makes my heart grow three sizes. It makes me smile.
I’ve only ever called him Babe, that I remember.
Which brings me to the question: What do you call your significant other? Your spouse? Your boyfriend? Your girlfriend? Your lover?
I have to go now, because a voice from the kitchen just said, “Babe, dinner will be ready in 5!”
I spend way too much time on Facebook. Way too much.
Mostly it’s a way to waste time, while I’m waiting for Adam to get home. Or waiting for a meeting to start at work. Or waiting for dinner to be ready.
Today’s Facebook is very different than the Facebook of my childhood. Back when you could poke someone. Or were reconnecting with friends you hadn’t seen for years.
Obama changed that. Suddenly, Facebook was political. As a liberal, it brought out the worst of the worst. When Adam and I first started dating, while I was waiting for dinner to be ready, I was battling it out with conservative “friends.” Fun fact, when you point out that your friends are on the “dole” while voting against their own best interest, they unfriend you. This happened several times.
Fast forward 50 years and now it’s ALL politics except for a few posts from friends sharing their lives. In between the political posts and the friends, you are bombarded with shirtless men (perhaps that’s just my algorithm) and Broadway shows.
Today, I was sitting in my car wasting time, and was scrolling and came upon a post from a friend. It’s a post that circulates every so often. It harkens back to the old times, when there used to be lists of questions that you would share you answers with your friends.
This particular post was about states you’ve visited, and states you’ve live in.
It’s below:
Mark an X by a state you’ve actually stepped foot in. Mark XX for states you’ve lived in:
1Alabama XX
2 Alaska
3 Arizona X
4 Arkansas X
5 California XX
6 Colorado X
7 Connecticut X
8 Delaware X
9 Florida X
10 Georgia XX
11 Hawaii
12 Idaho X
13 Illinois X
14 Indiana X
15 Iowa XX
16 Kansas XX
17 Kentucky XX
18 Louisiana X
19 Maine XX
20 Maryland X
21 Massachusetts X
22 Michigan X
23 Minnesota X
24 Mississippi X
25 Missouri X
26 Montana
27 Nebraska X
28 Nevada X
29 New Hampshire X
30 New Jersey X
31 New Mexico X
32 New York XX
33 North Carolina X
34 North Dakota
35 Ohio XX
36 Oklahoma XX
37 Oregon
38 Pennsylvania X
39 Rhode Island X
40 South Carolina X
41 South Dakota
42 Tennessee X
43 Texas X
44 Utah
45 Vermont X
46 Virginia X
47 Washington DC X
48 Washington
49 West Virginia X
50 Wisconsin X
51 Wyoming X
Visited: 43
Lived in: 9
Wow. Not bad. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been to 43 states. And in none of them, was it just stepping foot in an airport. For all of them, it was visiting or at least driving through.
Even more impressive is that I’ve lived in 9 different states for varying amounts of time.
The longest I lived anywhere was in Kentucky. The shortest I lived anywhere, was Tuscaloosa, Alabama where I rented an apartment, moved there, stayed three weeks and promptly moved back to Kentucky. No one needs to live in Tuscaloosa, Alabama as a single gay man.
I love that I got out of Kentucky. I graduated from college and left. There was not one part of me that thought I belonged there. There was a big wide world to explore and I was going to explore it. I knew that I was meant for adventures.
Looking back on my life as a 60-year-old man, I love that I’ve had the adventures I’ve had.
In Kansas, I learned that I could do any horrible job that was thrown at me, for at least a bit, to prove the naysayers wrong.
In Georgia, I learned that it was okay to be gay. That if people cared, you didn’t need them in your life. It’s also the first time I realized that I was above average in looks.
Back in Kentucky, I learned that I was a damn good lighting designer. And once again, no one cared that I was gay.
In Ohio, I learned that I was a pretty okay teacher. Not great. Not terrible, but pretty okay.
In New York, I learned that it was better to be a big fish in a small pond, than a small fish in a big pond. Also it takes too much effort to survive in the big apple. And I’m a dam good slinging hash server. Bring on the volume. I also learned that after a lifetime of being a BAD boyfriend, that I could indeed, care for someone, love them and treat them in a way that fostered a loving relationship.
In San Diego, I learned that I am a really good goddamned lighting designer, when put up against other eally good goddamned lighting designers.
In Oklahoma, I learned that as you get older, comfort is king, and sleeping in two twin beds pushed together does not a queen size bed make. Also, I can work really fast and still produce quality work.
In Iowa, I learned that when you work with amazing people, your art is elevated. To this day, the first show I designed there is still one I consider to be my best.
In Maine. I learned that I’m a good manager. Not great. Not bad. But good. Even on my worst day, I don’t micromanage. I don’t yell. And I don’t treat my co-workers badly.
And now I’m 60. On the downhill slope of life. I don’t know how my friends from high school and college spend their time, but I often think of the choices I’ve made. Would I have been better off to do this? Would I have been better off to do that?
For example:
Should I have gone to graduate school at 30?
Should I have focused on teaching more?
Should I have stayed in Ohio, teaching, where I’d be on my way to retirement right now.
Should I have stayed in NYC and started my restaurant management career earlier?
Should I have applied at the Toyota Plant in Georgetown, that opened the year I graduated college and spent my time there, earning a pension and a reasonable retirement age.
Should I have stayed in Atlanta, and been gay and fabulous and found a non-theater career to focus on?
Should I have stayed in Southern California and focused on my design work. I was working a lot outside of school while I was there.
Should I have stayed in Alabama, gone to the University of Alabama for grad school, and perhaps had a career as an academic?
Should I have gone on a date with John instead of Adam and where would I be living if I had?
Clearly, it’s easy to go down the rabbit hole. I don’t get lost in this train of thought often, but sometimes when I can’t sleep, I get distracted with the what ifs.
But at the end of the day, I truly don’t regret 99% of my decisions.
They all worked together to make me the man I am today.
They all worked together to help me find Adam, who I love more than I ever thought possible. I have friends that love me dearly. I have a house that I couldn’t have dreamt of ever having. I have five cats who tolerate me. I have a great life.
And the moral of the story. I’m not rich. I’m not even close to retirement. I have to work until I’m dead. And, I wouldn’t trade my experiences for all the money in the world. I have had an exciting, adventurous life. And for that I’m grateful.
My time spent gaining these experiences has not been wasted. Even if some of my dreams have not come true. I remind myself when I get down about the dreams, that I could have taken a job that I hated, gotten married, had two kids, been miserable and lived a lie, like so many gay men I know. But instead, I got out.
I was actively involved in theater in high school. The story of how I got involved is a good one.
In 8th grade, a friend of mine asked me to go to the speech and drama club meeting with him, during our meeting time. Back then, clubs met during school hours a few times a month. I went, was intrigued and so I joined. I became very active in the speech club competing at tournaments all through 8th grade up through my senior year in high school.
I went on to studying lighting design and working for a bit in theater. The friend that talked me into going to that first meeting now works for NASA. Hmmm. I have sometimes wondered what I’d have done if I hadn’t gone to that first meeting.
My love of theater continued into high school. Looking back, I was pretty bad as an actor and a speech tournament person. But what I lacked in talent, I made up for with my determination. I hardly ever missed a weekend of being up at the high school by 8:00, to car pool to high schools across the state. I have lots of memories of these trips, that I suppose I might share someday.
I was also involved with the school plays starting in 10th grade. I was cast at Pop in the hit musical Gypsy. I had lines, in the third scene of the show, and was never heard from again. However, I loved the show and to this day, I see it every time I can. I’ve seen it on Broadway three times. Seen the national tour with Tyne Daly once. She is my favorite Rose. And I’ve seen too many amateur productions to count. The start of the overture still gives me goosebumps.
My senior year of high school, the theater club, of which I was an officer, held it’s end of year party. I don’t remember whose home it was at. I don’t remember much about it at all.
Except.
That it was a costume party. Because why wouldn’t it be. It’s a theater party.
The theme was The Old South. I may not remember this correctly, cut I’m pretty sure we watched “Gone With the Wind” that night. But then again, maybe not, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why else the theme would be the old south.
I wracked my brain for weeks about what to do for a costume. I didn’t have a lot of money. And I didn’t consider myself very imaginative. And I certainly didn’t want to spend money on a confederate soldier uniform. (Of course I might have been able to borrow one from many of the Kappa Alphas on campus at our local college).
Finally, I had an epiphany.
I could go as a carpet bag.
Not a carpet bagger. But the bag itself.
My stepfather, built a frame out of wood and the stretched blue shag carpet all around it. We then added fabric straps that would go over my shoulders and a cardboard piece that went over my head to form the handle.
It was not easy to move in. And I had to be helped into the costume once we were there. And I had to be helped into the house as well. Everyone was super confused when they saw me, but they all laughed when I explained that I was a carpet bag.
At the end of the night, little awards were given and I won the award for Best Costume. The prize was a book about movie musicals that I still have to this day.
Somewhere, in a box of photos, I have a picture of me, wearing the carpet bag. I promise I will find it this summer and post it.
Now.
For tonight’s post the prompt was cotton. I have no idea why? I’m not sure Adam knows why.
It’s a long shot, to connect my post with cotton, but as soon as he mentioned cotton, I started singing, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten.
Of course, I could have written about my first visit to Texas to meet his family.
He’s from Memphis, Texas, in the Panhandle about an hour from Amarillo. As he drove me into town, from the highway, I remember passing miles and miles of plants with white stuff hanging off them. I curiously asked him what that was and learned it was cotton.
I don’t think I’d ever seen cotton plants before.
However, after his prompt last night I googled whether Memphis, Texas produced cotton. And fun fact, they are the known as being the cotton capital of the Panhandle. The largest producer, has been in business for over 50 years.
I was not in a great space after the 2024 presidential election.
I was in a worse space after the inauguration on January 20th.
Like most of my friends we all coped in different ways. I turned to alcohol and reading.
I kid, I kid. I’d already turned to alcohol.
The one thing I did do, was not look at my phone before bed. I limit my social media access to the 30 or so minutes that Adam takes to shower before bed. Once I’m in bed, I’ve gone back to reading fiction. I’m almost to the end of my 6th book since then.
Not as impressive as my friends who read 6 novels in a month. But I only get about 30 minutes before bed each night. The books are as varied as you can imagine. Gay love stories. Award winning fiction. Best sellers. Historical fiction.
All of this leads me to last night.
I’m currently re-reading Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone. It’s a disturbing book on many levels but I’m enjoying it again after reading it 20 or so years ago.
Last night the main character Deloris, is taking an English class at a community college. They are given a writing prompt to write about a daily activity that brings them pleasure.
I read the sentence. And stopped and thought to myself, what daily activity brings me pleasure. In fact I didn’t go back to reading till I made a decision.
For me it’s doing the dishes.
It’s not that I enjoy it. What I do enjoy, is that it brings Adam joy.
When we are home together, Adam almost always makes dinner.
It’s a several hour project. He cuts and chops. He bakes desserts. He preps for other projects.
It usually starts with a cocktail, and I cue up NBC nightly news. Then Wheel of Fortune. Then Jeopardy. Then I move to my computer to write. He piddles in the kitchen enjoying the process.
He uses all the pots and pans. All the measuring cups. He uses all the cutting boards and knives.
Around 10:00 he’ll announce “Five minutes.”
This is my cue to set the coffee table with cloth napkins and silverware. I get the wine glasses. Open the wine and pour. We toast and then he plates dinner, on par with a Michelin starred restaurant. The garnishes, the plating, all spectacular.
Then we head to the living room, cue up whatever show we are watching and before either of us takes a bite we toast and say we love each other.
This is our ritual.
We finish eating, sometimes finish our show, before Adam falls asleep on the couch.
I quietly get up and head to the kitchen, to do the dishes.
It never takes long, even though sometimes it’s a mess.
I get everything into the dishwasher that can go in it. I handwash the rest. I scrub down the counters and clean the stove top.
30 minutes to an hour later, I’m sitting back on the couch with a cat in my lap, a night cap on the tables, and I get to watch what I want for an hour.
60 minutes later, I tap him on the leg and tell him it’s time for bed. He’ll stir and come down to myside of the couch and sleep on my shoulder for another 20 minutes or so.
Eventually he gets up.
He goes to the kitchen and always calls out “Thanks for cleaning up, babe.”
It always makes me smile.
After almost 17 years I never mind.
Last week I even cleaned up for a dinner party that he had with friends that I didn’t attend.
Washing dishes, is the one task I do that gives me pleasure, because it makes Adam happy.
I’ve spent my entire adult restaurant career advocating for my young staff to go live their lives.
I say adult, which means management.
I say young staff, because I’m probably not going to give the same advice to a 50-year-old staff member.
The advice I have given over and over and over and over, is go forth and DON’T multiply.
In 2013, we hired a young kid named Nick, who was desperate to become a bartender. BUT. He’d never bartended in his life. We struck a deal with him. Work service bar for the summer, days only, and we’ll let you bartend. He got to learn how to make drinks. We got a service bartender who wasn’t going to wait on more than 5 or 6 guests a day. And his earnings were meager.
His dream was go get bartending experience and then go to Colorado and be a ski bum. Teaching skiing lessons during the day, bartending at night.
And he worked hard that summer. But alas, he also fell in love.
And at the end of the summer he was living with his girlfriend in Maine, and bartending for me, making no money.
I told him over and over, put your shit in your car and drive to Colorado. But he was in love and said he couldn’t.
Then Christmas came, and his girlfriend broke up with him on Christmas Eve. He came back after the new year heartbroken. He had no girlfriend, a job that didn’t pay well, and he felt it was too late to go west.
I asked him one day: What’s keeping you here? He said nothing. I asked if he was scared? And he said yes. I said, “Nick. Pack a couple of big bags. Put them in your car. And go. You don’t have to give notice to me. It’s winter, we’ll manage. Just go. And I’ll make you this promise. If you can’t find work, get homesick, or worse, I’ll have hire you the minute you get back.
Two days later he was gone.
I heard from him a couple of times, and he was living his best life in Colorado.
On Monday of this week, a sous chef, who left in September, came in to tell me he was going to Colorado to cook for the summer/winter. I congratulated him. He said he was flying out to get a place, meet his new team, and then flying home to drive back across the country.
I encouraged him to tell his new restaurant that he needed an extra week so that when he drove across country is wasn’t a trip to get from A to B but a chance to stop and see the country. Everyone needs to see the Bridges of Madison County. Everyone, should stop and go to Cedar Point and ride a roller coaster.
I can’t wait to hear about his adventures.
I love nothing more than watching young people I know fly and be free.
This is a long way of saying I’m very grateful for the number of lives I’ve lived. Not always perfectly. But I’ve had a blast. I’ve lived in the following states: Kentucky, Georgia, Ohio, Kansas, New York, Iowa, Alabama (for two weeks), California, Oklahoma, and Maine. Each adventure more exciting than the next.
I really only stressed about money a couple of times, and had to ask my parents for a favor a time or two, but I just went. And I didn’t move lightly. I took a 24’ UHaul to Alabama, then two weeks later, loaded it up and moved back home, leaving the keys to my apartment on the kitchen counter. I drove a U-Haul cross country twice to get to California and back.
I have only a couple of regrets in my life. Seriously. And even then, I’m aware enough to know that the experiences I regret helped me make me who I am today. I met lots of wonderful people. I saw lots of lovely places.
I will be eternally grateful for the life I’ve lived. It’s never been boring. It’s never been for the weak of heart.
PS. I promise I’m not dying. Just sharing stories of my life in the fast lane.
Tune in tomorrow when I talk about the Grand Canyon.
I’m pretty sure I’ve shared this post before but it’s always worth repeating.
From 1995 until 1998 I taught lighting design at the Cincinnati School for Creative and Performing Arts. SCPA.
Who knew that a high school could have a teacher dedicated to all things lighting. It was a life changing adventure and I’m proud to say that my past students are spread to the far reaches of the US, still doing amazing things.
I had been mostly out of the closet before I moved to Cincinnati and I wasn’t about to walk back in and start hiding again. One of the first things I did was put a rainbow sticker on my car.
I’ve never been a huge rainbow flag person, but at the time, I thought it was important to own who I was.
First semester of my second year there, I was teaching an intro class to a group of 7th graders. I was taking roll, going through my grade book (I still have them by the way, if any of my students want to know how they did back then).
I got to a young girl, who said she was here and then asked me if the red escort station wagon in the parking lot was mine.
I replied, yes it was. I called it my family car. When I bought it, I couldn’t afford a truck and I needed a way to cart students and lights around to projects I worked on.
The girl started to giggle and and hid her mouth behind her hand and said, so is that the one with the rainbow sticker on the back. Hehehehehe.
I said yes it is. Why do you ask?
Hehehehe, I was just curious, she said, still giggling.
She was trying to be passive aggressive, emphasis on the aggressive and I was having no part of it.
I said, Do you know what the rainbow flag stands for?
She really started to giggle then and wouldn’t answer.
I didn’t wait long before I continued, the rainbow symbol was adopted by the great Reverand Jesse Jackson as a symbol to celebrate and encourage diversity. I have the sticker on my car, because I teach in a very diverse school and I want all of my students to know that I appreciate who they are no matter what.
She stopped giggling and stared at me.
I looked at the whole class and said, does anyone else have a question about the rainbow sticker on my car?
I called my Aunt Debbie yesterday, just to check in. She is the last of my mom’s siblings. We’ve been close my whole life. Well since her parents passed, and my mother became her guardian.
That was 59.5 years ago.
I check in every so often to see how she is doing. What’s up with the family I never hear from and to have a connection back to Kentucky and home.
Yesterday she asked me if I was still writing.
I assured her I was.
We talked about what I was writing. How it was going. And how much longer till I was done.
It felt nice to be asked. To have someone in my family be interested in what I’m doing.
I had told her about my writing about 6 or 8 months ago, as I needed her help. I needed facts, stories, folk lore about my family. I confessed to her that I was writing a book about my mom’s passing. Of course, that was just the way in to the rest of the story. It’s actually a book about me, my family, and where I come from.
I like to think of it as Hillbilly Eulogy without the eyeliner and hate.
Thing is, most of the people I’m connected to, that know the truth are all gone. This is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because there is no one to yell at me for the telling the truth. A curse because there is no one to confirm that it is the truth.
A while back, I reached out to Debbie to ask questions about something I was including. The death of my mother’s father. The details of which I knew with broad strokes, but did not know the exact details. I had written a chapter about his death and wanted to know how close I was to reality.
The facts were there, but I’d invented a good portion of it. Which is fine. It’s far from non-fiction. I was never an astronaut, but when the books starts, I’ve just gotten back from Mars. I kid, I kid.
When we talked 6 or so months ago we talked for about an hour. I was typing notes as she filled me in on the truth about his death, but also the stories of a million other things that I wanted to know.
My mom’s best friends? Who she dated? Where she worked? What kind of car did she drive?
I now have about 10 pages of notes that I took that night.
After we talked, I realized that most of my details of my grandfather’s death were far from factual. The question became, do I make it real? Or do I let it play out in my way?
Anyway.
I talked to Debbie yesterday. And she asked if I was still writing. It felt good to know she cared.
Someday, I’ll let her read it, reminding her that it’s my version of what I remember hearing around the dinner table.
A friend of mine, who I’ve known since elementary school, just celebrated her 60th birthday. This means that I’ve known her for 4,786 years.
We met in elementary school at Great Crossing Elementary. GO APES!!!
The school is so old, that they’ve closed it, turned it into an office building and built a great big new high school with the name Great Crossing High School. PS. I’m about 99% sure that my elementary school was a first through twelfth grade school when it was built in 1583.
It was called Great Crossing, because our indigenous friends, we stole the land from, called it that, because buffalo, before we killed them all, used to cross the creek near the location of our school.
I digress.
My friend turned 60.
Which reminded me that I’m about to turn 60. (Shop early. Shop often!)
How the fuck am I about to turn 60?
The point is, that for her birthday, and because the world is a great big dumpster fire at the moment, she decided to do 30 days of questions about books, authors, reading habits etc.
What is your favorite non-fiction book?
Who is your favorite author?
What is the first book you read as a child?
What’s your favorite book series?
It’s been fun. It’s been distracting.
Today’s question and I quote: Your preferred way to read, with percentages.
Meaning do you read an actual book? Do you read a digital copy? Audio books? Books on tape? Etc.
I answered:
Books. Actual real live books. Always.
Except:
In my life I have listened to one audio book. Actually 2. I listened to a murder mystery in the 90’s on my cassette player, and I hated it. And. I listed to an Audible recording of a book in 2014. The Talented Mister Ripley. Didn’t like that either.
Then.
In the summer of 2003, my friend Michelle read East of Eden by John Steinbeck, aloud to me, as we drove cross country from NYC to San Diego.
The back story.
I was accepted into grad school in the spring of 2003. And being me, that was full of drama that I should share here, because to my knowledge most everyone who knows me would have had no idea. And all of you would love to hear the story.
I was going to attend the University of California, in San Diego, to FINALLY get my MFA in lighting. I say FINALLY, because I’d attempted this two other times before I got to San Diego and finished it.
In July of 2003, I flew to San Diego and found an apartment. Fun fact. Do NOT go to San Diego during Comic Con and hope to find a hotel under a million dollars, that is clean, safe, and livable. The hotel I stayed in was questionable at best.
By the end of the weekend, I’d seen a production of Falsettos at Diversionary Theater, and signed a lease on an apartment. And somehow lost a friend, and I still have no idea why.
A month later, I put my shit in a 24’ U-Haul and started the trek cross country. I was driving and my friend Michelle was riding shotgun navigating.
The first day, we got to Kentucky. Lexington. Michelle was there to see her mom. I was there to see my mom. A 10 hour stop to hug some necks and say hello. I also picked up two pieces of antique furniture for my friend Jay from high school and college, who lived in L.A. and I was cheaper than a shipping company.
Day 2. We get in the truck and continue our drive west.
Fun fact.
As you drive west in a U-Haul truck, there aren’t a lot of music choices. You are constantly hitting the search button on the radio or you have static. There was no Sirius. There was no attaching the phone to the truck. It was FM all the way baby.
Fun fact: As you drive toward the middle of the country, sliding into the south, there are two types of stations available. Country. Jesus. Nothing else. You might find Billy Joel on a station long enough to hear half of Uptown Girl, before the static kicked in, or it was replaced by country or Jesus.
By the end of the first third of the second day, we were tired, hungry, and annoyed with the radio.
I don’t know how it came to happen, but somehow, Michelle ended up opening the copy of East of Eden I’d bought before the trip because it was Oprah’s book of the month.
She turned to page one, and opened it and read:
THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.
I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.
For three and a half days she read aloud to me, as I drove across the American dessert. I couldn’t take a turn as I get violently car sick when I read in a car. And she didn’t mind that I was driving the big truck.
She read. I drove.
We only took breaks when we were in a city that I had to navigate.
There were times when we’d pull into a gas station and she’d continue to read to the end of the chapter. We’d stop for food once, and she’d read another 15 minutes, becaue we were engrossed in the book.
She got us to the end of Part 3 about 90 minutes before we got to San Diego.
I have to say it is the best way to enjoy a book ever. We were able to talk about it while we were stopped for food. We got excited for cliff hangers when we stopped for gas. And we were disappointed we wouldn’t finish the book together.
I still hate that I had to read part 4 on my own like a regular person, when she flew off to Michigan after our trip cross country. (Ask me about that story).
So.
I highly recommend the book. It’s awesome.
I highly recommend letting your best friend read it to you.
And I highly recommend having your best friend read it to you as you drive across the American Southwest avoiding Jesus.
Privately I’m 30,000 words into a novel about…well something.
However, I do miss writing for an audience. Actually, I miss it a lot.
I have a million ideas. Seriously. If I was more motivated. More driven. More focused. I’d have probably already signed a trillion-dollar book deal. Or at least have published a pamphlet I leave on people’s cars. I enjoy it a lot.
So to back up, on Sunday, I worked a very long shift. And I mean very long. It was very busy. It was crazy. We are at the end of restaurant week and to be honest, it’s been a great help to an otherwise boring spring.
When I came upstairs from the office at 4:00 to check in on the staff, make sure the doors were open and inspect the dining room Cher was playing on the speakers. I smiled to myself. Who doesn’t love Cher. Although, it did make me remember that my 23 year old host from Norway has no idea who Cher is but that’s another story.
As the night started at 4:00, the music continued. I learned that the station was a Cher station on Pandora. The music continued and as it did, the songs I knew continued. One right after another. And every song that played had a story. Dolly, Journey, Billy, The Bee Gee’s, even Elvis.
My young host and servers were all hanging out waiting for the night to begin and as the songs played I kept them entertained with a story about each one. And is always the case, I thought to myself, this would be a great writing exercise. Sharing music stories with all of you.
This is the first. It might be my last and only one. But it IS my first.
New Kid in Town: Eagles. 1976/1977.
For me it’s January 1977.
It’s snowing. It’s been snowing for 12 months.
We missed the last day of school before Christmas break, which was supposed to be the day of our Christmas party. It’s now the middle of January. It’s still snowing. It’s been almost a month, and we have still not been back to school. For almost 8 days we didn’t leave our house. Our road, Carrick Road, has not been plowed in a week. Our yard, stretches out for a 100-yards, even though, 50 feet from our house, it’s supposed to drop 5 feet to the road. It is snowy.
When the plows finally clear a one lane path, my parents need to go back to work. I’m in 6th grade and my mom the worrier won’t let my brother and I stay home by ourselves.
On the first day of clear roads, we get up at 6:30, get dressed and by 7:00 are on our way to Lexington with our parents. We’ll stay at my mom’s office with her, while my dad goes to his job.
It is snowing. Hard. The snow in the headlights looks like a scene from some space movie. There is snow on both sides of the road. My father has both hands tight on the steering wheel. He is hunched over, paying attention. You can tell he knows it’s his job to drive, to get us to our destination in one piece.
A song plays on the radio station WLAP, 630 am. New Kid In Town by the Eagles. The song wraps up and a DJ tells us about the weather. The news. They continue to talk as my dad slowly maneuvers the slippery roads in his pick up truck
There is no talking.
We drive.
My mother lights another cigarette, she hates traveling in the snow. She will smoke non-stop until we arrive at her office.
After what seems like 6 hours we finally arrive in Lexington on Newtown Pike. The roads clear. There is a collective sigh of relief as the worst of our trip is behind us. Finally, we arrive at 200 Cox Street. A tile and carpet subcontracting building.
We have made it alive. My mother is happy.
We get out of the truck, and climb the icy concrete steps to the cold aluminum sided building she works in. She unlocks the door. We are the only ones there. She flips on the over head fluorescent lights and turns on the heat. There is no plumbing in her office so they keep the heat off when no one is there. It’s about 4* and won’t be warm till around the time we eat lunch.
She is a bookkeeper. She has been a bookkeeper for years. She started this job, working for my uncle three years ago. Her office is wood paneled, covered in maps. There are sample books of carpet and tile everywhere. The walls, the “art”, the maps on the all are all yellowed from years of smoking in the office. The office smells of damp cold air and cigarette smoke.
My brother and I will spend the day here. I’m 11 but my mother doesn’t trust my brother and I to spend the day alone at home. We will go to her office every day. We sit on the floor if anyone else is there, as she only has one chair and it’s hers. There are two offices behind hers is occupied by the man who runs the business. The back office, the owner of the company, I haven’t seen in weeks. We get settled and we countdown the 8 hours wait until we can go home again. This pattern repeats itself, every day till the second week of February.
I wander around the office. Looking at calendars. A map of Lexington. The blueprints of a school they have been hired to carpet and tile. I go through drawers. I open boxes. It’s 8:45 and I’m bored out of my mind. My one consolation is that I can read. Once I figure out where to plant myself, I’ll pull out a book and get settled.
Today I am reading a book called Today I Am a Ham. I love reading. It’s saved me from my life more times than I can count.
My mom turns on her radio, pours a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and starts to work. I can hear the sound of the adding machine and typewriter. The phone rings, Good Morning, L. Standafer Company. My mother has a phone voice. She is a different person when she answers the phone. Calm. Kind. Relaxed. Not at all how she talks to us.
She answers the questions. Takes notes. Say’s goodbye and hangs up. She goes back to work.
I wander around the building. Into the warehouse, which is not heated. I can see my breath as I walk around looking at rolls of carpet and boxes of tiles. I eventually find myself in her boss’s office. It is filled with blueprints. Even to this day, I’ve been fascinated by floor plans. I look through them, thinking one day I might like to be an architect.
I seat myself in her boss’s empty chair. I pretend to be the boss, picking up the phone. Opening and shutting drawers. Finally, I pull out my book to read. The time goes by faster when I am reading. I open the book to the first page. I’m a little old for it, but I had it at home and it’s been a favorite for years. I read, and read, and read, and read, and read. I start to get drowsy. I close my eyes for a second, and I’m asleep.
When I open my eyes, it’s time for lunch. We eat boloney sandwiches, with potato chips and dessert is a Little Debbie oatmeal pie. After lunch the day repeats itself, with my mom answering the phone, me reading and my brother doing who knows what.
At 4:30 my father arrives, to start the drive back home. It’s as treacherous as the morning drive.
Everyday for 6 weeks I hear the song New Kid In Town. And to this day, when it plays, I can see myself squeezed in to the middle of the pick up truck, listening to the lyrics, followed by the news on WLAP.
I have a love hate relationship with this song. It’s a lovely song, but the music, the lyrics, take me back to the winter of 1977 and my long trek to the 200 Cox Street.
I had no plans, no goals, no idea what I was doing with my life.
I spent the summer in Kansas City, but that’s not this post.
In October, a friend from college’s brother mentioned that he was going to Atlanta to look for a job. I jokingly said, I wish I could go with you. He called two days later and asked if I wanted to go.
24 hours later I was in a car driving to Atlanta with the brother and his best friend.
We didn’t come home for three weeks.
I did find a job that I hated in Atlanta.
One that a lot of people right out of college find.
Telemarketing.
I was hired to sell advertising for the little footballs that used to be thrown out at sporting events.
I’d call a high school and convince a coach or athletic director to want them. Then I’d call businesses in the area to sell them advertising to pay for the footballs.
In the three weeks I worked there, I didn’t complete a single sale.
I quit without notice, which was good, because I was about to be spoken to about my inability to complete a sale.
We’d all gotten jobs at the telemarketing company.
I quit first.
Then the brother.
Then the friend.
I needed to pay my rent on the apartment that we all rented after we all got jobs at the telemarketing company.
So I took the first job that came along.
I was hired at JC Penney.
As a stock boy.
My first day was the following Monday.
On my first day, I reported for work. Filled out all the requisite paperwork, then was introduced to someone we’ll call John. (I don’t remember his name at all).
John shook my hand.
He told me he was going to take me on a tour. We started downstairs.
He showed me the lighting department. The kitchen items. The towels.
The stockroom was next.
Then he led me to the escalator.
He then said to me, we are going upstairs. We were downstairs. But as we get on the escalator, it will take us upstairs. Understand?
He’d been talking down to me all the while, but now it was clear he thought I was stupid.
My favorite part of the story and the reason for the post.
We madenthe smallest of small talk as he showed me around.
I was dressed very casually, in jeans and a fraternity sweatshirt.
At one point, he says to me, Oh, You are wearing a fraternity shirt, do you know someone in a fraternity?
I said yes, I do, I know a lot of people in a fraternity.
How do you know people in a fraternity? Was your brother in a fraternity?
I realize what is happening and I say, “uh. I was in a fraternity”.
He has a shocked reaction on his face and says, “You went to college?”
It has occurred to me at this point that because I’m a stockboy, that he thinks I’m less than smart.
I assure him that not only did I go to college, but that I graduated also. And I was in a fraternity.
He has no idea what to say. He’s clearly made the wrong assumption about me.
He stutters and stammers and stops talking.
He changes the subject and ends the tour five minutes later.
I worked from September to October. I’ll tell you why I left tomorrow.
I'd Like to Speak to the Manager!!! 