Conclusion to Al, Miami and Me "Adele!"

The story so far: After the Old Saleswoman stumbled into a  Marquee Lovely Automatic Bed sales meeting in progress and freaked out, she rushed back to the condo complex to warn her 86 year old friend Al not to buy a bed from these people.  When she got to Al's condo she realized a Marquee Lovely salesman was already there going through his pitch.


I flew the few remaining steps to Al’s condo and lay on the buzzer.


“Hey, where’s the fire?” Al turned and shuffled back to the living room.

“Have a seat. Lynn Anne’s just finishing up. She's in sales like we are, for Marquee Lovely Beds.”

Lynn Anne, who looked a rough forty-five, was all smiles. “Your friend’s a tough customer.” She took a drag on her cigarette. Al was old school and very tolerant of smokers. “I went out on a limb for him on the price, but he still won't budge.” She tipped a few ashes into the cellophane wrapper around her Virginia Slims. “Just let me call my boss, Mr. Daniels, before I leave and tell him how it went here.”

This was a twist. I was ready to bust up any high-pressure tactics laid on Al by a salesman, but a saleswoman sort of threw me. Still, she had to be stopped. Next, she’d be stealing wheelchairs from retirement homes and selling them in the parking lot of the local Winn–Dixie.

I waited till Lynn-Anne got someone on the line, and grabbed the phone from her hand. “Hello, Mr. Daniels? It’s Lynn Anne.” I said as sweetly as I could.

“Hey Lynn Anne, it’s Joe, I’m taking the Daniels calls today. What did ya drop to?”

“What did I drop to? Hmmmmm, Let’s see. How about I dropped to a hundred bucks!! Or how about we give this one away?”

“What the hell?”

“What’s the matter Joe, did the sales manager shake you up this morning? Are you afraid you’ll be selling paintings on velvet out of a truck on the side of the road if we don’t close this deal?”

Click. The phone went dead. Joe beat me to the punch.

I turned to Lynne Anne and Al. Al was stunned.

 “Well, I guess my boss wasn’t in.” Lynn Anne said as she hit her knee on the coffee table on her way out the door.

Al didn’t wait for the door to shut behind her before he asked me if I'd lost my mind.

“No Al! I’m telling you! These are bad guys! They’re not salespeople like us. They’re thieves. They play with the prices, put on a lot of pressure, and sometimes after they have your money you don’t even get a bed! Or you get some other bed that doesn’t go up and down!”

“How do you know all this?”

I told him about the meeting I fell into that morning. After I got done talking, all Al said was “Adele.”

“What about her?”

“She told me she bought a bed from them that same morning we went out. She wrote them a check for $3200. I bet she’s waiting for delivery now.”

I felt terrible. “She might be waiting a long time.”

Of course, Al was not going to let this stand. He started rummaging through the pile of TV Guides and Modern Maturity on his coffee table. Then he handed me both the white and yellow pages for Miami.

“Look up some numbers for me, will ya?”

We spent the afternoon on the phone. Or at least Al did. I did a lot of looking up of numbers and calling directory assistance.

I watched Al work the phones. Nothing gets a salesmen’s blood up more than the thought of someone trying to run a scam on them. It’s the ultimate insult.

Al threatened, cajoled, pleaded, or played on peoples’ sympathies. If I’d ever had any doubt that Al really had been the number one paper cup salesman in NYC for four years straight, I was convinced now. The man could talk.

By four o’clock Al was hoarse and I was frazzled. We both agreed we’d done all we could do that day, so I ran out for some wine coolers.

Over the next few days, Al and I touched base every morning at the pool, checking in with each other for any developments. Al heard through the condo grapevine that Adele hadn’t gotten her bed and she was making calls to Marquee Lovely.

Several weeks after we made all those phone calls Al knocked at my door at 7:00 in the morning waving a Miami Herald. “Look!” He handed me the front page as soon as he got in the door. “We did it!”

There it was, just below the fold, “Attorney General Announces Investigation into Marquee Lovely Beds”

“You did it Al. I only provided an assist. You’re the one who knew who to call and what to say.”

“Now I’ve got to get them to send me Adele’s money!” Al left as abruptly as he entered.

I don’t know exactly what Al said to the good folks at Marquee Lovely, but Al got them to refund Adele’s money, and he got them to send her check to him.

The day Al got Adele’s check he asked her out for a date. I got the impression she may have been hesitant to go out with him at first, but once he told her he’d planned a big surprise for her she was too curious to resist. Al always was a good salesman. This time he swore things would be different.

The night of their date, I sat up past 10 pm watching TV, occasionally stepping out into the warm moist night air to see if I could catch a glimpse of Al and Adele walking back from the bus stop.

On my second stroll out to the sidewalk, at about 10:30 pm., a big white stretch limo pulled up next to me. A uniformed driver got out, opened a rear door, and reached in to help someone out. Adele popped out dressed in a beautiful blue silk skirt and blouse, looking extremely happy. Right behind her was Al. He looked happy too. “Good Evening!” he shouted.

“Well, look who's here,” I said. “Nice ride.”

“Adele I’d like you to meet my good friend.”

After I introduced myself, I asked them in for coffee.

That evening I got to know Adele a little. She really was a fine woman, good looking too, and definitely a bit taller than Al. Adele told me she’d been completely surprised by the limo, but the real topic of conversation that evening was the check Al was able to get for her from Marquee Lovely.

“If I were you I’d cash that check, ASAP Adele,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Al said. I made them send a cashier check.” He tapped the side of his forehead with one finger.

“You’re something else, Al. Isn’t he Adele?”

Adele agreed and insisted Al tell us exactly how he was able to get the attorney general to investigate them and get her money back.

“Yeah Al,” I said. “How’d you think to go after these guys?”

Al said he’d had his eyes on those people for months, and he'd only asked a salesman to his house to get the goods on them. What drove him to drop the net when he did was Adele. He’d heard she’d gotten involved with them, so he had to act. He couldn’t let them run away with her money. Not while he was still breathing.

He told us he started by calling the district attorney’s office in Miami and Broward counties. Then he called our congressman and our senator, the Chamber of Commerce and the Better Business Bureau. Of course, he called the Miami Herald and the local senior advocate group. I was surprised he didn’t tell us he called Crockett and Tubbs on the set of Miami Vice, but maybe he did. He and I made a lot of calls together that afternoon.

After that evening Al started seeing Adele pretty regularly, and they became an item around Château Lorraine. I sometimes drove them both to appointments, and afterward, we’d all go to lunch together. Occasionally the three of us would watch Matlock. Adele liked wine coolers as much as Al and I did.

One morning when Al and I were sitting by the pool, he asked me if it bothered me that he’d never told Adele I was the one who had tipped him off about Marquee Lovely Beds. I told him it didn’t matter. I just set him in the right direction, looked up some phones numbers, and provided a cheering section. In the end, it was all his work and everything turned out fine. Adele got her money back and Miami had one less scammer to contend with. And more important than that, it made a much better story the way he told it.

And as I’m sure you know by now gentle reader, I’m always all for that.

To everyone who has read my stories:  Thank you, thank you, so your kind indulgence.  Writing these stories was a lot of fun, and I've learned a lot about what it takes to be a writer.   But not enough.  I'm putting the blog and these stories aside for a while. In January I'm taking a graduate-level course in fiction writing at Wesleyan University in Middletown, CT.  I wonder what the gang at Wesleyan will think of my folks from Wheeling, Pittsburgh, and Miami! Could be interesting.   Best, best to all and thank you again for reading!!
Christine

Al, Miami and Me Chapter III Revolting Developments

The story so far:  The Old Saleswoman has finally gotten feedback from her 86 year old friend Al, a retired paper cup salesman, about his date with Adele, and the feedback hasn't been good.  The Old Saleswoman had planned to ask Al about an upcoming interview with Marquee Lovely Beds, the automatic bed company Al had been thinking of buying a bed from, but Al had been too depressed to talk about it.

I realized after I left Al’s place that I hadn’t asked him about the Marquee Lovely gig. But the timing hadn’t been right and he hadn’t been thinking straight. So I took a shot and scheduled a 10 am meeting with them at the Best Western in Palmetto for later in the week. 

I got to the meeting early like I usually do, and walked around the lobby and down halls peeking into conference rooms, hoping to snag a cup of coffee or doughnut from one of the trays left near the door. As I was wandering the halls, I heard a loud male voice coming from one of the rooms so I had to take a look. I saw a bunch of scared-looking guys sitting in folding chairs listening to a big hulk with shaggy hair read them the riot act. Interesting maybe, but there were no coffee or doughnuts set out, so I started to move on. Then I noticed the sign “Marquee Lovely Beds” by the door. I slipped in and took a seat in the back row in the name of research and listened.


Sunrise Banquet Room, Best Western Motel, Palmetto, Florida, 8:45 am, August 9, 1986


“Listen to me you guys… I’m here, all the way from God damn Long Island on a pain in the ass flight from JFK to tell you, in person, if you guys don’t start movin’ these beds I know some people who are dyin’ to. You know who I mean. The guys in Fort Lauderdale. That’s right. The start-ups in Fort Lauderdale. They don’t mind the drive down to Miami. They don’t whine about a Saturday night appointment!!


You think I don’t mean it? Ask the guys in Atlanta if you can track any of 'em down. I went down there and fired the whole God damn bunch. I think they’re selling pictures out of a TRUCK ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD somewhere.


You Charlie, you were around then. You remember. Stand up and tell  'em…….


 …… That’s why I don’t understand, why I just don’t understand -Charlie you can sit down now- WHY IN THIS MARKET- Miami- where the oldest, sickest people in the world go to die, the beds aren’t flying out of here! You’re getting good solid leads! SICK LEADS! I know you are, and I know how many, and I know you aren’t closin' 'em. How do I know? I’m Santa Claus. I got eyes in the back of my head like him!

 
I always said we pay weekly! W -E -E –K- L -Y! Not W -E -A –K-L-Y! But I have half a mind to hold back and pay you guys every two weeks, cause it’s not worth makin’ out checks for $100 dollars or $125. Christ- how do you live on that?


Oh, suddenly I get a reaction.


THE NEXT STOP FOR YOU GUYS IS NOWHERE. This is the end of the road. You’ve done floors, cars, siding, sun-rooms, some of you old guys even did encyclopedias. Some of you even tried timeshares. But I know not one of you had the balls to keep the pressure on and do what it takes to sell a timeshare and make some real money or you wouldn’t be here! You can’t even sell a $3,000. adjustable bed in a market full of sick old rich people! You think a timeshare salesman gets porched?!


I know. I hear the stories. You didn’t make your Mr. Daniels call. Why? Cause you never got in the house to begin with! You got porched by some 85-year-old grandpa with a bad back. I tell you- you get that foot inside the door and keep it there and you don’t move till the guy lets you in, calls the cops, or shoots you!


When Sue sets your appointments she writes right on the lead card. It tells you, right in the upper right corner what’s going on. S means sick. H means husband, W…don’t tell me I have to tell you what W means or I’ll fire the whole bunch of you and call in Fort Lauderdale this minute!

 
Either the husband is sick or the wife is sick and they think the bed is gonna help. One of them has pain- your acid reflux, your pinched nerve. You don’t need to know what it means! It means they’re sick and they’re ready to pop for a bed! You do the full -and I mean the full presentation, and take your drops! Slowly! It’s like a striptease, one at a time…slow….. make 'em work for 'em. Just take your time. $250 bucks at a time till you’re ready to close with your Mr. Daniels call.


And then it’s like candy from a baby. Cause they think they’re off the hook! You’re all packed up ready to go and you pull a Columbo.


‘Oh one last thing, I’m brand new and my boss My Daniels wants me to call in.’


You call into whoever is taking our Mr. Daniels calls that day, and then you ask Grandpa to give your new boss a recommendation. You put Grandpa on the phone with Mr. Daniels and you’re done! Mr. Daniels is out T.O. guy! Our Turn Over guy! Get it? When our T.O. tells Grandpa he’s gonna get a special deal to help you close your first sale, I tell you IT’S ALL OVER!


Then write the sale! Get that check! Bring it in that minute. If it’s night, we’ll do a night deposit. We want that check cashed! Then when they don’t get a bed or the bed they get's not the one they ordered they got nowhere to go! We got the money!!!!!! It’s too late! Fight me, Grandpa! You’ll be dead before it gets to court!


Now I’m givin' you guys one month to get these numbers up, and start closin’ these leads or you’re all on the street and I don’t care what your story is! All right. Talkin’ to you losers makes me thirsty. Who’s gonna buy me a drink first?”
**********************************************************************************************

The guy with the shaggy hair headed for the back of the room and out the door, and I watched as all the salesmen in the room followed him around the corner and down the hall to the bar.

The thought of taking a job with these people made me want to vomit. I might be a strong salesperson, and I wasn’t afraid to close, but that stuff was in another world entirely and it depressed the hell out of me to think I had planned to interview with them. Were things that bad? Maybe a Spanish course was in order. I had to talk this over with Al.
I drove directly to his condo. The $50,000 Pyramid was on that time of day so I knew I had a good shot of catching him in.

Next to Al’s black Lincoln, which was now permanently parked unless I was taking him out, sat a maroon Monte Carlo about eight years old, in desperate need of a wash. I glanced in it and saw a  pile of Marquee Lovely brochures on the passenger seat. An unfolded map of Miami lay on the dashboard, with Al’s address scribbled in the margin. There were some fast food wrappers in the back seat.
This was definitely a salesman’s car. And I knew who the salesman worked for.

Continued in Chapter IV- "Adele!!"

Al, Miami and Me Chapter II- And She'll Have a Great Time

The story so far:  The Old Saleswoman is still living in Miami and regularly chauffeuring her 86 year old friend Al to appointments in exchange for lunch. Al's just confided that he's lost his driver's license and he's afraid his crush, Adele, won't go out with him. 

That afternoon it was my turn to pick a place for lunch, but because Al was so down I let him pick. We went to the deli for his Reuben. I had my egg salad, and this time I broke out the ketchup. I brought up the idea of a date with Adele again.

“How about I drive you on your date?” No. Too much like a prom.

“A taxi?” No, same thing and Al thought they were unreliable.

“What about a bus?” We decided that was a possibility. Château Lorraine was right on a bus line that ran regularly till 11 pm.

“What if she won’t go out with me?”

“She’ll go out with you, I know she will. And she’ll have a great time.”

“I guess you’re right about that.” He smiled. “I had quite a few lady friends in NYC when I was selling paper cups.”

Then he told me a few stories to prove it. They didn’t leave me speechless, but if the phrase “too much information” had been in popular at the time it might have come in handy.

“Where will you take her?”

“I got that figured out. The Steak and Ale is right on the bus line. They have a great surf and turf. Big salad bar too.”

“You going early bird?”

“No way. I got too much class for that.”

After lunch, Al asked if we could stop at Sears on the way home so he could get brown pants to go with his tan blazer. Sears always had his size, 40” x 30” in stock. He got a nice pair on sale and we ended the trip on a high note.

At the pool the next day Al told me he and Adele had a date to go to the Steak and Ale that Saturday night. I couldn’t wait to get the feedback on it. The whole next week I looked for him at his regular spot, in a chair near the deep end of the pool, but he wasn’t around. And since it was August most of his doctors, even his chiropractor, was on vacation so we didn’t have an appointment lined up till September, almost three weeks away.

So I went back to looking for a job full time. I saw an ad for a salesperson for Marquee Lovely Automatic Beds; the kind of bed that goes up and down, like Al was going to buy. I gave them a call and asked if I needed to speak Spanish to get a job with them. They said I could speak Spanish or English, it didn’t matter, as long as I spoke something, and to come in and talk to them. It struck me their hiring criterion was a little lax.

I’d never sold to people before, only to businesses, so I really wanted to run the whole idea past Al before I met with them. I kept my eyes open, but it was another week before I spotted him wheeling his garbage can out to the curb.

“Hey, Al! How’d it go?” I shouted across the parking lot. “How was the date? Tell me about it!”

He acted like he didn’t hear me. I never liked that old guy trick. “Al!! Come on! How did it go?”

Finally, he acknowledged me. “Oh yeah, the date.”

“Oh yeah, the date!”

“All right.” Al gave me another big sigh. He was getting to be an expert on those. “Come on in. I got some wine coolers.”

Al poured me a wine cooler, and bit by bit I pieced together what kind of evening it had been. First off, the bus driver thought they were cute. He’d picked up on the fact they were on a date, and made a big deal out of it, telling them to be good, and not to do anything he wouldn’t do.

Once in the restaurant, even before they were seated, the hostess made a point of telling them the early bird special was over. The thought of this agitated Al so much he got up from his lounge chair and reenacted the scene. “Who wants the early bird special?” He waved his arms around the room. “I can buy everything on that menu twice right now!”

Apparently, this statement embarrassed Adele, and for the rest of the evening, Al was scrambling to get things back on an even keel.

He said the waitress was just as bad.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What did she say?”

“She was insulting. She even said I’ll leave you two love birds alone. It was humiliating.” Al had downed two coolers by now and was doing a decent imitation of the waitress’s high pitched voice. “Then she asked me if I needed her to go over the check with me.”

Al began pacing the living room. “By then I’d had enough. I told her I was the number one paper cup salesman in New York City for four years straight and I’ve figured more numbers in my head than she’s ever dreamed of.”

“How’d that go over with Adele?”

“Not good. She got all quiet and suddenly had to get right home to her cat.”

We finished our wine coolers and Al turned on the TV to catch the second half of Matlock. By the time it was over he’d fallen asleep in his chair, so I let myself out.

Continued in Chapter III- Revolting Developments

Al, Miami and Me-Chapter I- A Proposition

Al had to know I was unemployed again. When a person who’s previously walked past your window dressed for work starts walking past it dressed for a swim, you got to know something’s up.


So when he lowered himself into a chair next to me by the pool, and asked, “Find anything else yet?” I wasn’t surprised.

I pointed to the Miami Herald classifieds laying at my feet. “There’s nothing in there for me.”

“I knew the language thing would be a problem.”

I liked that about Al. He cut to the chase and spoke the truth. At 86 years old I’m sure he figured life was too short to do otherwise.

The last time I spoke to Al I’d been living in Miami only a month and had just gotten word that I’d been hired as a rep for the new yellow page company that had moved into the city. I’d seen him across the parking lot and shouted, “Hey Al, I got my own trench mouth epidemic!” He knew right away what I meant.

“You got a job?” He’d shouted back and hurried over to me. I knew he wanted details.

“I found a company from out of town that will hire me as a sales rep even though I don’t speak Spanish! Not as good as the government passing a law so people have to buy what you’re selling, but it’s still a break.” Al made his fortune in NYC in the 1930s as a paper cup salesman during a trench mouth epidemic.

“That’s a break alright,” he said.

Then he’d wished me luck in the same tone of voice people must have used when they were sending people off to the crusades. Now I understood why. I may have been able to get a sales job in Miami in 1986 without speaking Spanish, but making it work in a bi-lingual city had been another thing.

Since it was now clearly established that I was unemployed and with no immediate prospects, Al cleared this throat and adjusted his sunglasses, preparing to say something important. “I have a proposition for you.”

I raised the visor of my ball cap and looked at him sideways.

“Nothing like that!” he said.

Nothing like that had crossed my mind.

He continued. “You have a driver’s license?”

I assured him I did; I was a salesperson after all.

“So, how about some chauffeur work?”

Al told me he was getting a little glaucoma, just a touch. But enough so he was getting afraid of “bumping” into something like a telephone pole or a person while driving. He was certain if he bumped into something he’d have to take a vision test, and he knew the test was rigged against old people. “How can it not be rigged when it’s always the old people who fail it?”

I agreed that was one conclusion that could be drawn, and let it go at that.

Al had a lot of doctor appointments, including a chiropractor who he saw twice a month for a bad back. If I would be his driver, I could use his car, a big 1980 Lincoln Continental, and he’d pay for the gas. In exchange, he would buy me lunch; up to a limit of $7.00 per trip. I could choose the location for lunch after every other appointment, but no Mexican because it gave him heartburn.

I’d rather have had the cash, and I hated giving up Mexican food, but $7.00 a meal was generous in 1986, and I wasn’t doing anything else, so I said it was a deal.

We went to our first appointment the next day. Al had to see his dentist in West Miami. I told him I didn’t know how to get there. West Miami was well off my trap line, US 1.

But like most good salesman, Al had a trunk full of maps. So as I kept my eyes on the highway, Al read me the names of cross streets along the route as much as his glaucoma would allow. Between us, we made it to his dentist.

After his appointment, it was time for lunch. We went to the deli near the dentist’s office. Our waitress brought Al’s order over right away, a Reuben with an extra pickle- Al was a regular. I ordered egg salad on rye toast with lettuce and tomato. I was tempted to put ketchup on it like I usually do, but since I didn’t know Al all that well I restrained myself for the time being.

After it was established that the $7.00 limit included tax and tip, Al told me I did a good job getting him to his appointment, and if I got him back to Château Lorraine Condominiums without a mishap I could keep my job.

On the way home Al and I told war stories about our days in sales like a couple of old World War II vets discussing the D-Day invasion. We talked about bad bosses, bad territories, crooked commission plans, and sales reps who stole accounts; all the good stuff salesmen like to talk about when they get together. That became part of our pattern over the next few doctor appointments. After lunch, (Al hated chains, but I liked them. I told him it was good for him to experience new things; he’d live longer. He said he’d already lived longer than most of the people he knew, so I could put a lid on that one.) we’d chat on the way home about sales. Once in the condo parking lot, Al would refer to his pocket day timer for our next date.

It went along that way for a few weeks until one day when we were scheduled to go to his chiropractor. As soon as I met Al in the parking lot I suspected something was bothering him. He wasn’t his normal upbeat self and he wasn’t wearing his straw hat with the maroon band. When I told him I didn’t know how to get to Palmetto Bay, not only didn’t he rip apart his trunk looking for the appropriate map, he snapped at me. “How can you be in sales and not keep your map inventory up?”

“Al, what’s wrong? I told you how I am about maps; they’re a pain in the neck to fold back up so I wing it and ask questions till I get where I’m going.”

“That’s ridiculous, especially for a salesman.” He leaned against the trunk of his car, folded his arms, and looked at the ground “Just forget it.” He sighed. “My back’s bothering me.”

I didn’t believe that. Al was never in such a bad mood because of his back before. Once we were on the road and Al was calling out cross streets, I insisted he tell me what was going on. Was it really just his back?

“Yeah, it hurts. I even got a guy coming to sell me a special bed, one that goes up and down. They’re supposed to help.”

“And that’s all.”

“Well, no. But you’ll think I’m nuts.” Al let the map crumple between his knees.

“I already do. You’re sold all your life, haven’t you? Go on, what else?”

“It’s Adele.”

I’d heard Al talk about Adele. She was one of our neighbors at Château Lorraine, and about Al’s age. He’d talked about her a lot recently. He thought she was a fine woman, good looking too, even if she was taller than him.

“What about Adele?”

“I’ve been thinking about asking her on a date. But I heard her telling one of her girlfriends she’s going out with Marty.”

I knew Marty. He looked a few years younger than Al, and he was taller. He still had all his hair.

“Oh Al, you ask her out too! Marty has nothing on you. He’s a retired plumber. You’ve got a lot of great stories to tell, what’s he gonna tell her? How he unclogged a drain in 1950? You can tell her about how you used to sell lightning rods in upstate New York, and how you got struck while you were demonstrating one. That’s a great story!”

“But Marty drives.”

“You drive too! You still have your license! Just be careful and stay close to home. You’ll be fine.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll never be fine again.” He let the map slide to the floor of the car. “I lost my license a couple of days before I asked you to start driving me around. I just didn’t want to tell you.”

We were both silent for a moment while we mourned the loss of his license.

“What’s the difference? You still have me as a chauffeur.”

“You don’t understand. A man without his license is like a cowboy without his horse. He’s not a cowboy anymore. ”

“I don’t believe that.” Right then I decided Al would go on a date with Adele.

Continued in Chapter II And She'll Have a Great Time

Miami 1986 Chapter III Conclusion

Story so far: The Old Saleswoman has been living in Miami and spending the time she should be selling advertising for the yellow pages shopping, eating in restaurants, and tagging along on visits with her new work friend Piper. The last visit to Piper’s old family friend Constantino has unsettled her and she’s beginning to question the relationship.


During all the time Piper and I spent together she never asked to see my condo. She never said or did anything to lead me to believe she wanted to know anything more about my life. I wondered about that at the time, but it didn’t really bother me. I had very little life to know.

If relationships have different flavors and levels of nourishment like food, I had no bread and butter in my life, and I hadn’t for quite a while. In those years I existed in a nether world between work and no work. I was married, but I saw myself going it alone. I was carrying no one, nothing, along inside me every day. The fact that Piper didn't want to know anything more about my life was a relief.

On the last day Piper and I went shopping at Bal Harbour she wore a white linen blouse with an almost invisible pattern in the weave. Her slacks were made of black raw silk and had a side zipper. She wore a thick gold bangle, and small gold hoop earrings, both in 24k, and the same watch she always wore, a Phillip Patek with a leather band.

She wanted to return a scarf to one of the regular stores on our designer trap-line. The designer was French, and had become very popular in the 80s for his scarves in a horse-y pattern. I tagged along to observe Piper handle the exchange. I knew she’d worn the scarf and spilled wine on it one day while we were sitting by the pool, but I was certain she knew what was appropriate in regard to returns in these circumstances.

After the salesclerk was somehow made to feel it was her privilege to accept Piper’s return, she turned to the rear counter to put the scarf back in its place. At that moment Piper slid two scarves that had been carelessly left out on the counter into her shoulder bag.

I tried to catch her eye. I wanted to ask her what was wrong. Was she confused? Were the scarves samples?  Piper simply kept up the low key patter with the salesclerk, serene and oblivious to everything around her.

When the transaction was over she continued to browse the shelves, scanning the belts and handbags; beginning a lecture on the relative merits of various leathers. She was minutes into the lecture when she shoved her shoulder bag at me, telling me to take it. Of course, I did. Seconds later, the in-store security guard, dressed in a business suit, cuffed me. He grabbed Piper by the elbow and walked us both to the back of the store.


Up to this point in my life, I’d lived in several places, and worked at many more. I’d known insecurity and anxiety, loneliness, and rejection. But I’d never known a shock of fear as cold as the one I felt that afternoon. I’m sure if that same cold had been outside my body instead of inside it I wouldn’t have survived more than a few seconds.

Piper walked calmly, almost as if she were being escorted rather than being forced to walk to the back of the store. I stumbled behind, already crying and protesting.

The guard grabbed my purse and Piper’s shoulder bag from me. After looking at the identification in both, there were no photos on licenses then; he asked which one of us owned the shoulder bag with the scarves.

I waited for Piper to speak up. She looked at the ceiling, and at the wall behind the guard’s head. She looked everywhere except at me, and she said nothing.

I said everything.  I told the guard I’d never been in trouble. I insisted my purse was the vinyl one, not the one with the scarves. I went on and on; a river of desperate apologies for something I didn’t do that went much further than necessary.

Piper asked to make a phone call. The guard took her to another room. I was left alone in a panic wondering what to do. Call Roy? He wouldn’t know what to do. Contact my parents? They were thousands of miles away. I thought about calling a lawyer, but I didn’t know any lawyers. I’d never used a lawyer before. I never had a need for a lawyer.

I spent the next hour and a half alone in a small room waiting for either the police to come and get me or a chance to once again beg forgiveness for something I didn’t do. But nothing like that happened. Instead, I watched as Piper and a tall man dressed in an expensive suit--the word “bespoke”, a word she’d taught me, ran through my head--walk toward the front of the store. The security guard walked with them, and then turned, as if now ready to deal with me.

I jumped up and shouted. “Piper! What’s going on! Are you leaving? What about me?"
Piper turned, cocked her head, and looked in my general direction, but not at my face.

I stared at hers for fifteen seconds. I knew that look. She was considering something.

She tapped the man in the bespoke suit on the shoulder, pulled his head down to her height, and whispered something in his ear.

He turned, walked back to the security guard, and spoke with him quietly for a minute or two at the most. Then Piper and the man left the store.

The security guard came back to me and told me the situation was resolved to his satisfaction. I should go, get out of his store, and never come back.

I walked to the sidewalk cried out.

I didn’t have a way to get home. Piper drove that day. It never crossed my mind to call Roy.

I had to get back to the condo, someplace that at least gave me the illusion of safety. The adrenaline had given me a terrible headache, and the image of Piper cocking her head and considering me so clinically had scared me.

I had just enough money for a cab. I knew Roy wouldn’t be at the condo when I got home and I was glad. If I was going to be in the presence of anybody at that moment, it had to be someone I was sure loved me.
Piper didn’t show up for work the next day. I tried to call her a week later. But her number was unlisted. I never thought to get it when we worked together because we saw each other every day. I never saw or heard from her again.

I got a few more months out of the yellow page gig before they brought in some bi-lingual salespeople. During that time I worked diligently, but futilely. At some point, I must have discovered that hard work done without thinking can provide relief from almost anything.

It didn’t take me too long to understand why Piper never wanted to know more about my life. She knew all there was to know about it the first time we went to lunch. She also knew no matter how much I learned about her life, I would never understand it. She knew I would never understand a person taking a job just to keep busy, or to please parents who support you and want you to stay productive and out of trouble.

It wasn’t till years later, after meeting other people like Piper that I understood the complete nature of what I came to think of as our exchange. As far as my end of the exchange went, I amused her. It was a good thing I did, or I don’t know where I would have ended up that day at Bal Harbour.

As far as her end of the exchange, that was much easier for me to eventually understand than accept. If it had been free brunches, lessons in fine living, and wine by the pool, that would have been easy. I’d have ‘fessed up to myself and been done with it.

I had to take the relationship out of my back pocket and turn it over many times over several years to understand that what Piper gave me was a little part of someone to carry around inside me every day. Her steady attention and positive feedback, sincere or not, gave me a type of nourishment. It wasn’t the bread and butter you build a life on, but it helped to sustain me for a while.

But I couldn’t allow myself to realize that at the time. If I had, I might have felt compelled to leave Roy right then. My instinct to survive, and someday flourish had been too acute for that. I sensed Miami was not the place to plant a flag of my own.

So I did what I had to, to make sure the ball stayed under the water. I waited, and looked for another gig to balance out the nether world of work and not work I still lived in.

Next "Al, Miami and Me"

Note:  I'm currently rewriting and expanding "Miami 1986" into a novella. In the new version, I do hear from Piper again, or rather she hears from me.  Stay tuned.

Miami 1986 Part II

The story so far:  The Old Saleswoman has moved to Miami.   She's taken a job with an emerging yellow page company where she's made friends with Piper-- a beautiful, rich, smart young woman about her age.  Since South Florida is now bi-lingual, their new jobs aren't going well and they're starting to  "dog it".

With that solid excuse under our belts to tell ourselves or our sales manager if it came to that, we did what a lot of sales reps would do in similar situations, we started to dog it. The process started slowly, and probably subconsciously like it does for most salespeople in a discouraging spot. We left the office in Hialeah a little later every morning and started to meet at Piper's pool a little earlier every afternoon. In a short while, we established several pleasant routines to fill up the time in between.

One afternoon before settling down by the pool, we wandered through the kitchen in the main house looking for a snack. I noticed an empty bottle shaped like a fish standing on its tail sitting on the counter. It was made out of beautiful cobalt blue glass. The fish had eyes, scales, and fins. There was a cork in its mouth. It looked like a sculpture to me. I would have liked to have some jewelry made out of that glass, and I told Piper so. When I told her that, she smiled so broadly she almost laughed and gave it to me. She said it used to hold olive oil.

I carried the bottle around with me the rest of the afternoon because I didn’t want to forget it. When I left, I placed it carefully in the dry cleaning basket in the back seat of my car, and when I got to the condo I set it on the center of my kitchen table.

Sometimes we’d go window shopping. Piper’s favorite place to shop and look at people was the Bal Harbour Shops on Collins Avenue. All the high-end designers like Gucci, Versace, and Chanel had stores there. It was a popular destination for the new rich Miami crowd. She occasionally bought something in one of these stores. I never saw her look at a price tag before she brought an item to the counter. Once I asked her how she could do that, how she would be sure she had enough money. I never got a good answer to that one.

We both noticed a new type of spike-heeled, pointed-toe shoe had become very popular among that same crowd. These shoes had an arc of peacock feathers shooting out the back of the heels like fire, or like the wings on the heels of a goddess. Piper hated these shoes. She had a lot of negative things to say about the clothes she saw on these new money people. Fashion was one area in which I encouraged Piper’s own running commentaries, and I listened hard because by now I had begun to try to imitate Piper’s dress in my own down-market manner.

Piper wore beautiful fabrics. I learned from her a white blouse is not just a white blouse. A white blouse can be chic, can be stunning, can be understated, can make a statement. “Feel this fabric.” she’d say. “Look at this embellishment. See the weave. Look at this seam.” She’d tell me to always choose better over more, and to tailor my clothes. She gave me French fashion magazines to look at by the pool.

We also talked about makeup and she told me I had good bones, that in my case less was more, and that I had a great smile. She even told me I didn’t have to be so friendly to strangers and sales clerks and tried to tell me to hold myself back. She taught me the difference between 14k, 18k, and 24k gold; how shiny doesn’t always mean better, and that certain styles of leather bags are classic and always will be. She told me if I must show a status symbol there are ways to do so subtly, so only a few people, the right people, will recognize it, but those are the ones who count.

I didn’t know anyone who counted. I didn’t even know what she meant. But I knew she looked beautiful and the saleswomen treated her with deference, and that must mean something very significant so I listened.

Once in awhile, I’d get anxious about the way we were hiding out. I felt guilty about it and even guiltier for not worrying about the consequences. It wasn’t like me to let go, open my fists, and relax. A couple of times I tried to talk to Piper about it. But she seemed sure the company would extend our salary for another six months, or even a year because all the reps were having the same problems with the language. The thought that we could be replaced by bi-lingual sales reps must have occurred to her because it occurred to me. But that’s not the kind of topic you discuss while lying by a quiet, serene, well-tended pool with a stack of sweet-smelling towels within arm’s reach, holding a delicate crystal glass filled with what was to become my favorite wine, chardonnay.

So we kept on playing. I especially liked the mornings we spent comparing the amenities of expensive hotels. We rated lobbies, work-out facilities and we tested, or rather Piper tested the knowledge of the concierges. Then we rated their brunches. My favorite brunch was the caviar brunch at the Mayfair House Hotel in the Mayfair Shopping Plaza in Coconut Grove. We started going there at least twice a week. Piper soon began asking me to rate the various caviars served there after she noticed it was the first thing I attacked at the serving tables. She said she appreciated my reviews. I knew that for me, a person living paycheck to paycheck, to claim to like caviar so much, to talk about it like a connoisseur, made me look foolish. But I couldn’t help it. I really liked it. It came in rich, distinct colors. It popped in my mouth and it was expensive. And no one in the restaurant seemed to care how much I ate. What if someone stole a bowl of it?

Occasionally, especially on rainy afternoons when sitting by the pool was not an option, we’d drop-in on an old friend of her family. Piper said she liked bringing me around to meet old friends because she sensed they found me amusing.  I've always liked being able to amuse others at will, but at that point in my life, I don't think I understood the difference between amusing others at will and others finding me amusing.
One day after the caviar brunch in Coconut Grove, Piper decided she wanted me to meet an old friend of her mother’s, who she’d known since she was a little girl. The friend lived in a smallish bungalow in an overgrown section of the Grove where the houses were jammed together and the vegetation ran wild. The geckos lived there with more confidence and air of belonging than the people.

Constantino, a handsome Greek man in his sixties, opened the door after the tenth or twelfth knock. He looked like he’d been sleeping. I found out later he lived with Thomas, a cook, who was out that afternoon working the lunch shift. Constantino was a designer or an artist of some sort. There were pictures and sculptures everywhere.

After we declined his offer of ice-tea, Constantino showed me around his home at Piper’s prompting. That house was in full embrace of the Miami damp. The furniture had no sharp edges because everything was covered in faded cotton. A canvas hammock hung in one corner of the living room. Next to it on a small table, I saw a picture of a good looking young man with a dark tan, who had to be Thomas. All the wicker shades were lowered, and the ceiling fans lolled along. There were books and magazines with names I never heard of everywhere, even in the one bedroom. Out on the patio, there was a clay stove I later learned is called a chimenea.

After a little small talk that consisted mostly of Piper and Constantino catching up about her mother, it was time to leave. Piper excused herself to use the bathroom.

Constantino immediately turned and spoke to me in an urgent style very different from the languid manner he’d used while the three of us were talking.

He asked me: Were we spending a lot of time together?

How much did I know about her past?


Had I heard about Rick, her first husband, or her second if you count the first one that her father got annulled?

Did she tell me she was trying to break her trust?


Did I know her current husband asked her to move out?

At first, the questions struck me as simply polite.  But as the questioning went on I could feel myself sitting taller and taller in my seat. By the time Piper returned and Constantino went silent, I was almost standing up.
As soon as we got in the car Piper wanted to know what I thought of Constantino, but I couldn't talk right then. I needed time to sit quietly and think and find my balance.  I needed time to make sense of the questions I'd just been asked and time to blend the images they'd invoked with my own image of Piper. So I told her I had a headache and that it might be time for us to sit by her pool.

Continued in Chapter III

Miami 1986 Part I

Job transfers, expiring leases, looming changes in living arrangements of any kind, always place a question mark front and center in relationships with unacknowledged problems. But it takes guts, readiness, and to be realistic, a certain amount of financial freedom to take on that question mark. So when my husband's company moved him over 1200 miles away from our home in Pittsburgh to Miami, Florida to be the new swing manager of the student union at the giant University of Miami near Coral Gables I moved with him.


For the drive south, I bought a Time Magazine because the cover story was about the Mariel boatlift. One hundred and forty thousand Cubans arrived in Florida in 1980 alone, and most had settled in Miami. The story said Miami in the 1980s was in a state of upheaval. I remember thinking that’s fine. I am too.

When we got as far as Dade county we took a room in a motel right off U.S 1 that looked like it had been built in the fifties or sixties.  We had 48 hours to find an apartment because Roy's company would pay for our motel for only two nights. We had no idea where to look, and knew no one in the city, so we bought a newspaper and headed about 15 miles outside of Miami to Kendall where most of the apartments were advertised.

Kendall wasn’t so much a suburb in 1986, as a sprawl outside the city. The highway running through it was saturated on both sides with enormous flags and screaming signs advertising deals on new one and two-bedroom apartments that were essentially alike. All of them wanted us to fill out complicated applications asking for lots of references of different sorts, so we rented a condo from an individual who had placed a sign on her lawn.

The woman we rented from was a tall Latina in her 40s who wore a ring with a diamond so big she had it mounted on a tiny axle, so it would swirl in circles when she moved her hand. She owned one of the first portable phones I’d ever seen.

I was thrilled about the condo complex because there was a community pool and our place had a washer and dryer in a small laundry room off the kitchen. The laundry room was the only room in the condo that wasn’t filled with the smell of salt air mixed with wet wool. A “bug man” the landlady paid for visited once a month. I could always tell when he’d been there because whatever he sprayed mingled with the heavy salt air and left a distinct tangy gasoline smell for hours. When I first found out about the bug man I was insulted. I thought it was a sign we were living in something close to a tenement. But I found out that in Miami it was the opposite; not to have a bug man visit on a regular basis was a sign of that very thing. When I figured this out I started to look forward to his visits and tried to be home when he came because welcoming him in to spray made me feel like the real lady of the house instead of a renter.

Roy was spending long hours working at the university, so I spent my days going over the classified ads, looking for a job, or lying by the pool watching families playing in the water.

I was never so lonely in my life.

One of the few people I met during my first weeks at the condo complex was an older gentleman, about eighty-three. Al told me he made his fortune thanks to a health crisis in New York City in the 1930s. He’d been selling paper cups there at the time, but they hadn’t caught on yet. Then he got his lucky break. There was an outbreak of trench mouth in the city, and the government strongly encouraged everyone to use paper cups. (“Government agencies are a great ally to have if they’re on your side, but watch out when it’s the other way around!”) His sales sky-rocketed and the cups caught on for good. His future was secure.

I told him I was in sales too. Right away he asked me if I spoke Spanish. When I told him I didn’t, he just walked away and took a chair by the pool.

I didn’t understand his lack of interest in my job prospects, until a week or two later. Miami had become bi-lingual. He knew my chances of getting a sales gig in Miami in the 80s without speaking Spanish were as slim as a paper cup salesman making a killing in a bacteria-free world.

But then I got lucky; I got a trench mouth epidemic of my own. The federal government (“Good if they’re on your side!”) broke up Ma Bell and along with it the idea of one yellow page phone book per city.

As a result, a well known yellow page company out of the Midwest came to Miami to open new territory. A fleet of people came in from the home office to do the hiring, but because there were no feet on the ground permanently, their sales hiring criterion did not include the ability to speak Spanish. I saw their help-wanted ad in the paper, and I finally got a gig.

In my sales training class, I met one of the most beautiful women, in an old fashioned all American Beauty rose way, that I had ever seen. Piper Black was sandy-haired, blue-eyed, and just a picture. If Walt Disney wanted to send someone to sweep about and enchant the copier in the yellow page training room in Hialeah, and Cinderella was on assignment, he would have sent Piper.

I walked up to Piper right away and tried to make her my friend. I considered being friends with a woman so beautiful a test of my character. We clicked right away. Maybe she was grateful I approached her, or maybe women didn’t do that often. We were about the same age.

Piper was smart too. If she had been just a beautiful idiot I wouldn’t have had the character or the desire to get past “Hi!” But I could see right away, by the way she took simple concise notes in class, and just by the look on her face, she was sharp. She was doing this whole thing with one eye shut. It got so she and I would exchange glances, then laugh during the breaks at some of the comments made by the old-time salesmen; like making comparisons between selling yellow page ads to selling siding.

We started going to lunch together on the first day of training. She told me she’d just separated from her husband, a man who owned a chain of bakeries across the south, and was now living with her parents in Coral Gables. I believed this made her something of a kindred spirit. She needed this gig as badly as I did.

Right away she insisted on paying for lunch for both of us. She would say “you get it the next time”, but she was always too quick. I didn’t like that. I wanted to go Dutch like women do. I wouldn’t understand why she always wanted to pay for both of us until much later.

When she told me she’d never been in sales before, I tried to give her an education on the profession. She loved to hear my running commentaries on salesmen. She’d laugh till she pounded her palm in the steering wheel, or had to blow her nose. I was so pleased that I could make my new friend laugh, I started to set aside time in the shower in the morning to think of funny salesmen trivia to tell her later that day.

After we were given our assignments Piper invited me to her house to meet her parents. Her parent’s home in Coral Gables was big and old and beautiful. It was dark and cool inside like a castle. It was the first house I’d seen that had a guest room with a private bathroom or two ovens in the kitchen. The dual ovens so impressed me I was too dumbfounded to ask why this might be necessary.

On my first visit, her dad was sitting in a lounge chair under an orange tree near a beautiful swimming pool in the back yard, reading a book. Her mother was just leaving for a meeting. Both of them stopped what they were doing to say hello and ask a few questions about where I lived and where I was from. I liked that. It made me feel safe and secure. I was the new playmate, and the responsible parents were checking me out. They were older than my own parents, maybe in their 60s.

After her father met me, he went back into their yard and brought me an orange. Before her mother left she told us to help ourselves to whatever we wanted in their kitchen. Piper had her own apartment over a big three-car garage. It was larger than the first two apartments I’d lived in after I got married.

I realized Piper’s parents were rich, but I didn’t feel that changed anything between us. It was her parents who were rich. She was working in the same job I was. I imagined her parents were charging her a lot for rent. I also assumed she had a car payment, and of course other incidental expenses.

We had a salary for the first month after training to give us time to fill our sales pipeline. Then a straight commission plan kicked in. The salary was pretty good, and I tried to save as much of it as I could. Not because of any lack of belief in my sales ability, but I’d had salary/draw combinations before and I knew they could be tricky. You never knew when you might be presented with a complicated spreadsheet with a figure printed in red at the bottom.

Piper was different. She wasn’t afraid to spend her salary on manicures and pedicures, or hardcover books as soon as they were released, or on hand crèmes with foreign names. I thought that was a neat way to live; and I saw her as brave and confident.

We weren’t in the field a week before we began to complain to each other about the futility of trying to close business in our new gig. After the initial sales pitch, we were supposed to paste up the ads for the businesses’ approval ourselves in both Spanish and English. But neither of us knew enough Spanish to paste-up anything. We were dead in the water.

Continued in Part II

Old Saleswoman-Back for a Rematch-Chapter 3, Conclusion "Away We Go"

The story so far: The hot air balloon/celebrity/silver coin on-air promotion planned by the Old Saleswoman's new employer WEWO -FM has fallen apart.  A balloon shaped like a dinosaur has been delivered to the station and there's no one there who can fly it. 

It was interesting to see how Pat reacted to the no-show by her friend Jennifer Beal compared to how Kurt reacted to the arrival of a truly bazaar hot air balloon. Pat announced that her celebrity friend was not coming, murmured something about a mix-up, ignored the grumbling, and prepared to get on with the promotion. Kurt on the other hand groveled for forgiveness and went into a psychological fetal position.


“Kurt, hey, come on!” Pat said. “It’s not that bad! You and I can go up in the balloon!”

When Pat said that I thought I was hearing things.

She continued. “I know you can fly it! You’re a smart guy. You went to Yale right?” She stopped to take a breath. “So it looks like a dinosaur. So what?! I can dress like Carol Burnett when she does her Tarzan yell, and do my imitation. You know I’m good at it! Its part of my act at Laugh Till it Hurts!”

Kurt and I reluctantly followed Pat out into the parking lot and watched as she ran ahead and scrambled into the big basket hanging from the belly of the dinosaur.

“I’m sorry Pat!” Kurt said as he ran after her. “I don’t think that will work. What am I supposed to do up there? Interview you!?”

“No! I have an idea!” I shouted getting into the spirit of the moment. “Kurt, you can get into a costume too!” This was easy for me to suggest from the relative safety of the station back door.

It was decided that Kurt would dress up as Mr. T because the A-Team was hot now, and Mr. T. had a good tag line: “I pity the fool!”

Kurt  Vaselined his curly hair flat-- except for a hunk in the middle of his head that served to represent Mr. T’s Mohawk. He also took off his shirt and put on a bunch of beads that had been laying around the station since February when Greg went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.

“Well!” Pat gushed and gave a great Tarzan yell. “Let’s give away some coins!”

It was a beautiful clear day and the dinosaur went up without a hitch. Leo, the WEWO announcer on the ground started the on-air play-by-play explaining that Jane and Mr. T were riding in the WEMO hot air balloon today instead of Jennifer Beal and Kurt Strong for reasons that were left unstated.

At first I, just like Pat, had a lot of faith in Kurt’s ability to fly the balloon. I believed Kurt would be able to host the remote and toss out coins while steering the hot air dinosaur without breaking a sweat, but by Leo’s first cut-in it was clear that Kurt, Yale grad or not, was sweating bullets.

Not only were Kurt and Pat not getting into their new roles, playing off one another, and being cute like I’d hoped, it sounded like they were having a hard time keeping in an upright position and anywhere near the microphone.

Not that any of this was our fault. None of us knew that no one really steers a hot air balloon.  We didn’t know that the most anyone can do to control the direction of a balloon is heat or cool the air inside it and hope to catch a breeze going in the right direction. If we’d known that we might have thought to build a few contingencies into the flight plan.
After a very shook up sounding Kurt told the listening audience during one of the cut-ins that he was over one of the three rivers that ran through Pittsburgh, but he didn’t know which one Leo demanded someone get in a car and try to follow them so we’d at least have a general idea where the balloon was heading.

The crew at the station insisted I should be the one to follow because I was a buddy of Pat’s and therefore guilty by association. Even my fear of getting lost or stuck on the wrong side of a bridge or tunnel didn’t get me off the hook.

To make sure I had a clear field of vision, I stuffed my hair under a ball cap and gave the car’s windshield a once over, but all that wasn’t really necessary because by now our dinosaur was hard to miss--hovering not more than 100 feet above Pittsburgh. I could see it skirting the golden triangle, moving in the opposite direction of the produce district where it was supposed to land. It was not so much sailing through the air as meandering around up there.

After a frustrating forty-five minutes of near collisions and dead ends, I ditched my car and went after the balloon on foot. I spent the next thirty minutes running across parking lots, in and out of department stores, and through a series of small courtyards behind apartment buildings.

At the intersection of Kaufmanns Department Store and Three Gate Way Center, I watched as the dinosaur caught a good gust of wind, and swooped over at least one block of buildings. It drifted out of sight and took its time sinking on the horizon. I held my breath and prayed it would come down on clear solid ground.

I caught up with it on a lawn behind a building that might have been a museum. On its descent it knocked over a dozen or so round banquet tables covered in thick white linen. One of the table cloths now draped the dinosaur’s deflating snout and I couldn’t help but notice the remains of what looked like a tasty brunch scattered in the grass.

As I got closer, I could see a bunch of older distinguished looking men and women dressed for cocktails at the Hamptons coming out from behind a row of hedges to reclaim their lawn after it was obvious the balloon was harmless and rapidly deflating.

Kurt and Pat were just creeping out from under the basket. Kurt was apologizing to everyone within the sound of his voice, and Pat was laughing and calling for help in getting clear of the tangled lines that ran from the basket to the dinosaur, so I guessed they were okay. Then it was a race to see who’d get to Pat and Kurt first, one of the people in attendance at what must have been a lawn party, or me. A very trim, exercised, sixtyish female with pale skin, and salt and pepper hair beat me to them by a good fifteen seconds, and she was bearing gifts.

“Here! Take these!!” she handed champagne flutes to Kurt and Pat, or Mr. T and Jane depending on how you looked at it. They gulped down the champagne and held their glasses out for refills.

”Are you part of the festivities? What fun! Who hired you?”

Pat and Kurt were too busy checking their arms and legs to see if they were still intact to answer. So she refilled their glasses and continued. Pointing to Pat, she said “You’re…you’re…” she paused to think. “You’re Jane. Right?” Pat let out a Tarzan yell and explained she was channeling Carol Burnett’s Jane doing a Tarzan yell. To my surprise, that seemed to make sense to the woman.

She then turned to Kurt, “And you’re…Tarzan?”

“No!” a gentleman, also sixtyish, in seersucker pants and a bowtie ran up to join us. “He’s not Tarzan! He’s Mr. T! I Pity the fool! Right? Am I right?”

“Right,” Kurt admitted and sat down on the grass with his head down, but with his glass held out for a third refill.

By then I’d caught my breath enough to ask the woman if she might have enough champagne for me too. When she returned,  both she and her husband wanted to know who we were and again asked who hired us.

Since I was the most formally dressed of the three of us in a ball cap, and acid-washed jeans, I made the introductions, adding we were from WEWO and that our dinosaur/flash dance/ silver coin promotion had hit a snag, and we weren’t part of their entertainment. I was prepared to offer a much lengthier explanation as to why we had crashed landed in the middle of their party but it wasn’t necessary because as is often the case, they were more interested in telling us about themselves and what was going on there that day than hearing any more about us.

The woman introduced herself. “I’m Lillian.” She extended her hand to each of us. When none of the three of us lit up with recognition, she added, “Lillian Morris, and this is my husband Robert.”


We all murmured nice to meet you.

“I hope you know you’ve landed at the Pittsburgh Public Radio spring fundraiser.” Lillian whispered, “We have a very large goal this year, but Robert and I have been fortunate enough to line up some very generous matching funds.”

“Great, wonderful, good for you.” Pat and Kurt muttered while I asked myself what matching funds were. “Perhaps you’d like to contribute?” Lillian asked. After five awkward seconds of silence, she asked, “Are you at least listeners?”

Kurt told her he was, and that he was even a dollar-a-day member. Pat lied and said she was too, but I knew she wasn’t, she listened to old comedy tapes in the car and didn’t have a dollar-a-day for anybody. I admitted I wasn’t a listener, but I promised I’d start. It took another ten years, but it was eventually the truth.

“Robert! Guess What? Two of them are listeners,” she pointed to Kurt and Pat, “and dollar-a-day contributors!”

That pleased Robert no end. “Let’s all sit down and talk about this dinosaur promotion. Tell us how it is you attract listeners to your station. We use pledge drives. Have you heard?”

“You go on.” I said to Kurt and Pat, “I’ll head back to the station.” I made excuses to Lillian and Robert about having to deal with the deflated dinosaur that very minute and hurried out to the sidewalk. I stopped and looked back. I would have liked to have stayed a while longer, I would have liked to get to know Lillian and Robert and the entire group of people there that day, but I felt too far out of my element, so I left.

A few people mentioned how lucky we were that there weren’t any serious repercussions from what Pat and I came to consider “our promotion”. There were a few complaints about the lack of silver coins on the ground and no celebrity interview, but that all got quieted down with free albums, and concert tickets and no one mentioned the balloon promotion again.

Except for Pat and Kurt. After their chat with Robert and Lillian at the balloon's crash site, both of them started to move in the crowd they were introduced to that day.

Kurt made enough contacts to get a gig in public radio. Eventually, he moved on to the Washington, D.C. bureau. His ratings were good, and his family was very happy.

Pat began providing entertainment for charity events attended by local TV personalities and various Pittsburgh movers and shakers. A year or so later she left Pittsburgh for L.A. to make a sit-com pilot. She played the funny friend. The show was picked up by one of the new emerging networks and lasted for two seasons.

I've read that Woody Allen has said half of life is showing up. After I saw how life changed for those two after they crashed landed at a party and decided to stay awhile, I've come to believe the other half, the more important half is hanging around.

Maybe if I'd stayed later that day and connected with Lillian and Robert, I’d have met someone who could have introduced me to be the world of NPR and professional fundraising. Maybe I’d have volunteered at a gala and met other people who could have influenced my life. But I couldn’t stay in a place so far out of my comfort zone, even for an afternoon.

There was a format change at WEWO only a few months after the dinosaur promotion. Album oriented rock stations were dying, and WEWO went “Lite”.  But I wasn’t around long enough to see who made it through the format change. My husband decided to move again; this time to Miami. I like to tell myself if Miami hadn’t sounded like such a glamorous place to live, I would have stayed behind. You’ll notice my husband doesn’t play a very prominent role in my stories. But the security I found in comfort zones not only kept me from experiencing new things and meeting new people, but it also kept me experiencing the same things over and over again with the same person. So in this case, it was more comfortable to hang around a while longer.


Next Week "Miami"

Old Saleswoman-Back for a Rematch-Chapter 2 "Preparations?"

The story so far:  The Old Saleswoman has wrangled a  sales job at WEWO-FM, an album-oriented rock station in Pittsburgh, and finds herself in the middle of preparations for a station promotion that involves a hot air balloon, the actress Jennifer Beal, and silver coins.

“Pat, you’re sure you can count on Jennifer Beal?” Greg asked.


“Of course darling!” Pat said in what had to be an imitation of Bette Davis. People were still doing Bette Davis in the 80s.

“And you’re going to find us a sponsor for the coins?”

Pat bowed deeply from the waist. “Your wish is my command.” I didn’t know exactly who she was doing this time, but she definitely made her point.

“And what about the hot air balloon? Kurt?”

Kurt jumped to attention at the mention of his name. “No problem! I have it covered. I have a buddy who works at a company that rents those things, and I got us a great deal.”  Everyone nodded in approval.

“And you’ll get someone to operate the thing?”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

When Pat told me Kurt's back story a few days later I understood why he struck me as particularly eager to please; and why he felt he had to tell me as soon as he met me he’d been the morning man at a big radio station in Boston.

Kurt's brief stint as a morning man at the Boston station had ended on less than a stellar note.  In fact, he was let go because his ratings were so bad even his father pulled the advertising for his Mercedes dealership. Kurt took this especially hard because as a Yale Drama School graduate, he knew his family already thought sitting behind a microphone was a waste of his expensive education. His eagerness to please seemed almost like an apology for doing radio instead of doing Shakespeare in the Park.

“Great. Good to hear Kurt. Okay, everyone, I’m counting on you all to work together and make this a super event. We’re heading into a rating period, and I’m blowing the budget on this thing, so let’s make a difference!”

I was assigned to train with Pat, who besides being a part-time comedian at Laugh Till It Hurts, was the senior sales rep on staff.

“It’s easy to pitch WEWO,” Pat told me. “Number one-every other stations’ listeners are old and don’t spend money. Number two-AM stations still bothering to play music are ridiculous. They should stick to doing what they do best-running a full hour of commercials. Number three-don’t worry, you’ll sell something. We’re cheap! Now let’s find a gold and silver buyer to sponsor this thing.”

We grabbed a Pittsburgh Press someone had left in the break room, and looked for big splashy ads with lots of dollar signs. There were a few gold buyers in town that week, but Norman’s Gold and Silver at the Ramada Inn in McKeesport had the biggest advertisement.

On the way there we stopped at Pat’s apartment off Forbes Avenue near the University of Pittsburgh to check her answering machine for any news about her latest comedy gig. Pat's place was small and cluttered. I waited for the usual excuses about the mess, but none were forthcoming. Obviously Pat was a busy person, and her priorities didn’t include putting clothes back in the closet, or refolding newspapers once they were read.

There were a number of messages on her answering machine, besides the one from Laugh Till It Hurts. There was one about parking tickets and one about late rent, but Pat only had ears for the message from the comedy club.

On our way back to the car, we ran into some of her neighbors on the sidewalk. Pat made sure she spoke to everyone and reminded all of them about her upcoming show on Thursday night. She gave at least three especially enthusiastic Tarzan yells and didn’t wait for a reaction after any of them. She just kept walking and looking for an opportunity to give another.

When we got to McKeesport and met Norman the gold and silver buyer in his hotel room he was upbeat and full of conversation. Then we told him we were from a radio station.

To soften him up and get him talking again, Pat did a few of her impersonations and I talked about WEWO’s young male listeners who probably had old class rings laying around to sell to him. Then we poked around for his hot button and found out he wanted to add a sense of legitimacy, stability, and trust to his gold buying business. From there we proceeded to convince him that being part of a radio station promotion featuring a hot air balloon and a celebrity would do just that, and we had our sponsor. It was obvious Pat and I were going to be a great team.

When the event was two weeks away the station started hyping it on air. The promos generated a lot of buzz. Listeners called the station with questions: how many coins would be dropped, what was the route, and would Jennifer Beal be available for autographs.

But no one had any answers because no one person or department was in charge of answers. The truth be told, this is the way a lot of radio stations put together promotions in the 80s. Someone would have half an idea for a promotion. Someone else would have another half an idea. Sometimes they even talked to each other about their ideas, but more often they didn’t, or only very briefly. Yet somehow out of these two halves a promotion would be born and put on the station’s calendar. But Pat and I didn’t worry about these sorts of things. We were too busy talking up the event and working each up other up into a frenzied state over what a great promotion it was going to be.

The morning of the promo Pat and I were so psyched we got to the station at 6 a.m. We were the unofficial cheerleaders for the event. When we got there, there wasn’t much to do but wait for the balloon and Jennifer Beal to arrive, so we just wandered department to department drinking coffee, giggling, and kibitzing.

When Kurt got to the station around 8 a.m., he noticed right away that Jennifer Beal wasn’t there, and he started to worry. Pat assured him she’d be there. By 8:30 a.m., when she still wasn’t there, I started to worry. Finally, at 9:00 a.m., Pat started to worry and began calling everyone she could think of who might know where Jennifer Beal was, including her mother, who didn’t know anything but was glad to hear from Pat anyway. Still no Jennifer Beal.

Meanwhile, Kurt was making calls of his own-to his buddy’s rental company. The balloon his buddy’s company had sent was not at all what Kurt or the rest of the station expected. When Pat and I first saw it we both screamed, and ran around looking for him. The balloon was in the shape of a giant green dinosaur. It had large black eyes without pupils and a huge gaping mouth with a long red floppy tongue that whipped back and forth in the breeze. By the time we found Kurt, we’d also found out no one was coming to fly the scary looking thing.

Continued in Chapter 3 "And Away We Go"