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.
“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?”
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?
“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
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