Housewares, but I can sure use a man." They all cracked up, the locks were unlocked and I was home free. I was the absolute master of the soft-core innuendo. I knew how to come on saucy but not smutty, naughty but not filthy. I could read a person's tolerance level for the risque as fast as it took an expert to pick your watch while shaking your hand. I didn't waste any time with these four. I whipped out my foaming hand lotion and demonstrated it by rubbing it first into my hands,, then into their hands. I said, "It's also good for a couple of other things, but I won't go into that," and gave an X-rated wink. I had no idea what the hell that was supposed to mean, but they had a group apoplexy. I walked out of there a half-hour later with a forty-dollar order and my gut sloshing with coffee.
So it was almost noon and I had written close to eighty dollars. That was a decent day right there. Usually I would try to write up seventy-five to a hundred dollars a day," pull a five-day week, take home two-fifty to three hundred, and I was happy. I was no freak for money. I wasn't going to Red China for a vacation or buying a brownstone. I didn't have kids, my place was within my means, La Donna chipped in some, I had nice clothes, -so with an eighty-dollar morning I was very happy. If I scored for fifteen, twenty dollars more early in the afternoon I would knock off and go to a movie instead of busting my
mates for the extra few bucks I might make over that. And that's the way I was. I didn't have it so bad. The job was okay. Better than most. And if I took a year out of my life and finished college? Then what? What was I supposed to become, a social Worker? Would I go to graduate school? Would I become a $60,000-a-year ad exec giving blowjobs to the Cheerios account representative so I could keep writing jingles? Bullshit. And teaching was a nice little pipe dream, but unless I was willing to do the South Bronx, who was hiring? So big deal I read books. So did a housewife. Besides, I had the diction of a neighborhood bookie, and my degree was geared for business administration. So, later for that. I made more money than most college graduates, did more good for people, too. And I didn't feel inferior because I didn't have my degree. I was smart. I was one of the smartest people I knew. I didn't need a piece of paper to tell me that.
So I was feeling good. Feeling more like a person, a talker, I went back to the diner for lunch. I ordered good food. I didn't eat garbage. A nice strip steak, some cottage cheese and Tab. Kept myself good and tight, lots of protein. Fucking Al might have been King Shit when it came to sales, but I'd still be doing a hundred and fifty sit-ups a day when he'd be pushing up daisies.
After lunch I sat, I relaxed, I had coffee and read the paper. Maurice came in. He sat down across from me, flipped his order pad on the table and twisted in the booth to flag down Charlene.
"Relax, Maurice." Charlene was wiping the counter and spoke to him with controlled distaste.
Grabbing his pad, I did a quick tally of his day's sales: sixty dollars. I won. One order caught my eye. It was for eight shower caps, paid in full.
"Hey, what's this?" I turned the pad to him. "Eight shower caps," he chuckled. "Yeah, I see that Who the hell buys eight shower caps? Whata you doing, you workin' seniles again?"
"Nah, it was a girl. I showed her all the different colors she could get and she liked them all so she got 'em all." He laughed. "Char-le-ene," he singsonged, tickled with himself.
Anytime I felt low all I had to do was compare myself to Maurice. But sometimes I wondered what he had been like twenty years earlier when he was my age. Or better still, what was
I
going to be in twenty years? Well, shit, at least I wouldn't be like Maurice. But what did that leave, Fat Al? Maybe not that way either. But one thing I would be, if things didn't change, was a fifty-year-old Bluecastle Housewares man. No good. No good at
So it was almost noon and I had written close to eighty dollars. That was a decent day right there. Usually I would try to write up seventy-five to a hundred dollars a day," pull a five-day week, take home two-fifty to three hundred, and I was happy. I was no freak for money. I wasn't going to Red China for a vacation or buying a brownstone. I didn't have kids, my place was within my means, La Donna chipped in some, I had nice clothes, -so with an eighty-dollar morning I was very happy. If I scored for fifteen, twenty dollars more early in the afternoon I would knock off and go to a movie instead of busting my
mates for the extra few bucks I might make over that. And that's the way I was. I didn't have it so bad. The job was okay. Better than most. And if I took a year out of my life and finished college? Then what? What was I supposed to become, a social Worker? Would I go to graduate school? Would I become a $60,000-a-year ad exec giving blowjobs to the Cheerios account representative so I could keep writing jingles? Bullshit. And teaching was a nice little pipe dream, but unless I was willing to do the South Bronx, who was hiring? So big deal I read books. So did a housewife. Besides, I had the diction of a neighborhood bookie, and my degree was geared for business administration. So, later for that. I made more money than most college graduates, did more good for people, too. And I didn't feel inferior because I didn't have my degree. I was smart. I was one of the smartest people I knew. I didn't need a piece of paper to tell me that.
So I was feeling good. Feeling more like a person, a talker, I went back to the diner for lunch. I ordered good food. I didn't eat garbage. A nice strip steak, some cottage cheese and Tab. Kept myself good and tight, lots of protein. Fucking Al might have been King Shit when it came to sales, but I'd still be doing a hundred and fifty sit-ups a day when he'd be pushing up daisies.
After lunch I sat, I relaxed, I had coffee and read the paper. Maurice came in. He sat down across from me, flipped his order pad on the table and twisted in the booth to flag down Charlene.
"Relax, Maurice." Charlene was wiping the counter and spoke to him with controlled distaste.
Grabbing his pad, I did a quick tally of his day's sales: sixty dollars. I won. One order caught my eye. It was for eight shower caps, paid in full.
"Hey, what's this?" I turned the pad to him. "Eight shower caps," he chuckled. "Yeah, I see that Who the hell buys eight shower caps? Whata you doing, you workin' seniles again?"
"Nah, it was a girl. I showed her all the different colors she could get and she liked them all so she got 'em all." He laughed. "Char-le-ene," he singsonged, tickled with himself.
Anytime I felt low all I had to do was compare myself to Maurice. But sometimes I wondered what he had been like twenty years earlier when he was my age. Or better still, what was
I
going to be in twenty years? Well, shit, at least I wouldn't be like Maurice. But what did that leave, Fat Al? Maybe not that way either. But one thing I would be, if things didn't change, was a fifty-year-old Bluecastle Housewares man. No good. No good at
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