girlfriend, in debt, living with my parents, no band and no car? Yeah, that’s about as low as you can go. My only choice was to set aside my dream of being a rock star and do what I had to do to get back on my feet. I swallowed what was left of my pride and got a job on the loading dock of a new department store, Korvettes, about to open.
Now, I’ve never had a problem with manual labor; I’d been working since I was twelve. My family didn’t have a lot of money, so if you wanted something, you had to earn the money to buy it, and what kid doesn’t want things? Especially when you get to junior high and high school and start wanting clothes and records and money to go out. As a result, starting with a paper route when I was twelve (and various odd jobs such as housepainting, mowing lawns, and snow shoveling), I always worked. I was a busboy, bathroom attendant, landscaper, grillman, taxi driver, garbage collector, babysitter, and more. You do what you have to do.
The job on the loading dock seemed like a fair enough way to get out of the hole I was in, but at the orientation I discovered not everyone saw the work the way I did. At the end of the job orientation, the managers opened the floor to questions. I had none. I’d work, get paid, and when I was back on my feet, I’d be gone. Not my coworkers. They wanted to know about benefits, retirement plans, workmen’s comp, maternity leave, and more. All these nineteen- and twentysomethings were talking as if they were going to be there forever.
Later, on the loading dock, I asked the guys about their long-term goals. They unanimously responded, “It’s a good company. There’s a future here. Why? You’re not looking to stay?” Without giving a thought to the consequences, I blurted, “Hell no! I’m gonna be a rock star!” Big mistake.
“Rock star.” That was my new nickname, and it wasn’t meant as a compliment. I was mercilessly goofed on for my ambition and it was used against me.
“Hey, Rock star, pick up that garbage.” “Rock star, scrape that gum off the floor.” “Hey, Rock star, one of the toilets overflowed.” If there was a humiliating job to be done, it was given tome, always announced loudly for all to hear and prefaced with “Hey, Rock star . . .” Sometimes they would even say it over the store intercom system for everyone’s amusement. It sucked, but it didn’t discourage me. Working in that department store was just an unfortunate necessity on my journey. I knew that in time I would leave it and all those insulting assholes behind and be back on my way to stardom. Oh, and by the way . . . that department store chain eventually went bankrupt. Fuck ya! Though an interesting thing did happen one day on the loading dock. . . .
My coworkers and I had just unloaded a semitruck full of mattresses and were sitting or lying comfortably on top of a stack of them, waiting for the freight elevator to arrive. Suddenly, a junker of a car tears into the empty parking lot across the street and starts spinning out doing squealing 360s. “Hey, Rock star,” one of the losers on the dock exclaimed, “that guy looks like you!” Focusing on the driver of the car, I saw he did have a massive Afro as I did. We made eye contact and waved to each other, brothers in hair.
At that time, my frizzy brown hair was growing to monsterish dimensions. It had always been just parted in the middle, up until my joining Peacock, when drummer Seth Posner had taken me to his hairstylist to do something with my “mop.” In the late sixties, a Long Island, also-ran band called The Illusion had been known for their neatly groomed Caucasian Afros. Seth thought this was a great way to tame my mane, and it was for a while. Not being big on haircuts, my ’fro had got huge! When I was finally promoted from the loading dock to the selling floor of the housewares department, I became the top salesman of hair dryers . Even though I didn’t use one (other than, from time
Now, I’ve never had a problem with manual labor; I’d been working since I was twelve. My family didn’t have a lot of money, so if you wanted something, you had to earn the money to buy it, and what kid doesn’t want things? Especially when you get to junior high and high school and start wanting clothes and records and money to go out. As a result, starting with a paper route when I was twelve (and various odd jobs such as housepainting, mowing lawns, and snow shoveling), I always worked. I was a busboy, bathroom attendant, landscaper, grillman, taxi driver, garbage collector, babysitter, and more. You do what you have to do.
The job on the loading dock seemed like a fair enough way to get out of the hole I was in, but at the orientation I discovered not everyone saw the work the way I did. At the end of the job orientation, the managers opened the floor to questions. I had none. I’d work, get paid, and when I was back on my feet, I’d be gone. Not my coworkers. They wanted to know about benefits, retirement plans, workmen’s comp, maternity leave, and more. All these nineteen- and twentysomethings were talking as if they were going to be there forever.
Later, on the loading dock, I asked the guys about their long-term goals. They unanimously responded, “It’s a good company. There’s a future here. Why? You’re not looking to stay?” Without giving a thought to the consequences, I blurted, “Hell no! I’m gonna be a rock star!” Big mistake.
“Rock star.” That was my new nickname, and it wasn’t meant as a compliment. I was mercilessly goofed on for my ambition and it was used against me.
“Hey, Rock star, pick up that garbage.” “Rock star, scrape that gum off the floor.” “Hey, Rock star, one of the toilets overflowed.” If there was a humiliating job to be done, it was given tome, always announced loudly for all to hear and prefaced with “Hey, Rock star . . .” Sometimes they would even say it over the store intercom system for everyone’s amusement. It sucked, but it didn’t discourage me. Working in that department store was just an unfortunate necessity on my journey. I knew that in time I would leave it and all those insulting assholes behind and be back on my way to stardom. Oh, and by the way . . . that department store chain eventually went bankrupt. Fuck ya! Though an interesting thing did happen one day on the loading dock. . . .
My coworkers and I had just unloaded a semitruck full of mattresses and were sitting or lying comfortably on top of a stack of them, waiting for the freight elevator to arrive. Suddenly, a junker of a car tears into the empty parking lot across the street and starts spinning out doing squealing 360s. “Hey, Rock star,” one of the losers on the dock exclaimed, “that guy looks like you!” Focusing on the driver of the car, I saw he did have a massive Afro as I did. We made eye contact and waved to each other, brothers in hair.
At that time, my frizzy brown hair was growing to monsterish dimensions. It had always been just parted in the middle, up until my joining Peacock, when drummer Seth Posner had taken me to his hairstylist to do something with my “mop.” In the late sixties, a Long Island, also-ran band called The Illusion had been known for their neatly groomed Caucasian Afros. Seth thought this was a great way to tame my mane, and it was for a while. Not being big on haircuts, my ’fro had got huge! When I was finally promoted from the loading dock to the selling floor of the housewares department, I became the top salesman of hair dryers . Even though I didn’t use one (other than, from time
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