2068

Transcript taken from lecture-“American Social Psychology 2020 to the Present” given at the United Harvard, Princeton & Phoenix Universities,
January 20, 2068

“…….so when it came to the collective attention of the well to do that a scarcity and expense void had been created by the reversal of the wood preservation act of 2025 making all wood cheap and plentiful, including hardwood,  Brazilian wood,  and exotic woods of all kinds,  a silent referendum of sorts was held and a new signifier emerged as the sin qua non of the good life.

 Suddenly everyone had to cover their floors with high maintenance, dizzyingly expensive rough-hewn synthetic fibers- the more chemicals required in the process of making the fibers the better. This was made so by the passing of the cleverly named No Chem Do Act of 2030 which heavily taxed man-made chemical fibers making them not only outrageously expensive to own but difficult to obtain since the government strictly regulated its sale -especially the fibers colored avocado green, harvest gold and burnt orange that were thought to be especially toxic. These restrictions, along with the results of the government-mandated inspections verifying cleanliness that were to be posted on shag owners’ front doors (the more you owned, the more frequent the inspections) made the ownership of “shag”, to borrow the original term from the mid 20th century, a uniquely popular status symbol.

And so the great faux fiber race was on across most of the United States and Texas. (Which at about this time had finally succeeded in breaking away from the union and forming its own country but only after the US government held a national referendum on the matter and it became clear that the rest of the country thought we would all be better off if Texas did go its own way.) Everyone wanted to cover their floors with expensive hard to obtain, highly regulated, heavily inspected shag carpet. It was one of the first items mentioned in any sales listing right after the number of working shade panels- still a necessity pre-ozone repair technology.

But soon covering your floors with shag wasn’t enough. Because even if shag owners covered their front lawns with it, and many did, there was only so much space underfoot; so the length of the fibers became the real point of pride since the longer the shag, the higher the maintenance, (shag stained easily and had to be carefully cleaned, much like the old marble and granite countertops around the turn of the millennium) and the greater the status it conferred. It even came into vogue to complain about how long it took you or your mini-drone, the successor to the Roomba carpet cleaner, to get your shag ready for inspections, or to report to others how many times you tripped and stumbled due to the extraordinary length of your carpet fibers.

The very wealthy even held treasure hunts. In preparation for these hunts, the hostess hid gifts and prizes in the shag for guests to finds. There is even one well-documented incident that occurred in 2041 concerning a three-year-old and a small dog lost in the shag for several days during one of these parties. It took three men over 24 hours to find them. After that incident, it became standard to hire “searchers” to stand by at these parties just in case.

One might think all this conspicuous consumption of shag would create a backlash, especially among those who could afford only very short fibers, and for a while there was. For a while it was considered clever to call houses covered inside and out with long shag- Shag-atosis Huts, based on the stewy chemical scent they gave off due to so many man-made fibers in one spot, but that was before shag manufacturers and the banking and lending associations that backed them fought back. ‘Hell!’ Their argument went. ‘The stuff is already restricted; soon they won’t be making anymore!! It’s the greatest investment ever! How can you lose? Stretch and buy as much as you can!’

In addition to appealing to people’s innate greed and fear of being left behind financially, the promoters of shag funded studies that eventually made their way into peer-reviewed journals claiming babies who crawled through long shag tended to get higher pre-nursery school admission test scores. This caused such a clamor for long fiber carpet the national association of pre-nursery schools put forth a statement assuring parents that babies coming from homes with shag over 18” long would have their admission exams handicapped accordingly.


But what finally tipped the public perception in favor of a substance that was once considered to bear at least partial blame for earth’s pollution was the notion that the inhabitants of the earth would one day have a re-do. The United States was making attempts to colonize Mars. Someday, maybe someday soon, the conventional wisdom had it, everyone would have a brand new planet at their disposal, (if you’ll pardon the turn of phrase) and get a complete do-over. Mars would soon be ready to colonize, and of course, long fiber shag would be welcome and in short supply on what looked to be a very rough and rocky planet.

Of course, no one really thought that someday would come any day soon.

But it did. Just as the price of long hair shag and the pride and glory attached to owning it, especially in avocado, harvest gold, and burnt orange, reached a peak no one had ever anticipated, the colonial magistrate of the first self-sustaining colony on Mars declared his colony open for business. The colonial magistrate stated at the time that he knew it was time to enact a Homestead Act when he realized he’d gotten requests for business permits from a Subway franchisee, Verizon Wireless, and a mixed-use urban developer all in the same week.

It took just a few years for the best parts of Mars to be colonized. And as we know, life on Mars turned out to be far different from life on Earth in ways initially not fully appreciated by the early settlers. Things that took years to grow on earth took decades to grow on Mars. Chemically produced products that were considered polluters on Earth and were therefore restricted in their production, were found to somehow oxygenate the atmosphere here on Mars and were allowed to be produced 24/7/365 or as we say on Mars 24/7/686.9. This did not bode well for the settlers who had invested their savings in long fiber shag.

Of course, we all know what happened next. Once settlers were encouraged to buy anything and everything made from a chemical process and these things were cheap and available to everyone, no one wanted anything to do with any of them - including shag. The shag carpet bubble burst.

But this time the governments of the old world and our new world responded differently. Instead of simply waiting for the world economies to right themselves and chalking the whole experience up to yet another economic bubble in a long history of bubbles, they decided to do something. Governments passed the international (now intergalactic) No Burst Laws of 2053. From that point forward the price and purchase of any item that might inspire hoarding or excessive purchasing behavior because of its scarcity, cachet, or the fear of future higher prices, would be strictly regulated. No more bubbles. These laws also had the added benefit of making it very difficult for consumers to signal to others their superior economic standing based on the possessions they owned.

On to homework: As we know calorie intake was of great concern to a certain class of people living on earth before we were able to neutralize the effects of calories. Food was cheap and plentiful in many places, and because it tasted good and was readily available it was very easy to get fat; a state of being that came to be associated with sloth, poverty, and ignorance especially among inhabitants of well-to-do metropolitan cites in highly industrialized nations. Whereas being slim, even skinny, came to signify something all together the opposite. There was even a phrase that summed up this mindset: “You can never be too thin or too rich.”

Now we live on Mars where the calories neutralization process is no longer available and where food is not only scarce and hard to find but very expensive, especially highly caloric foods such as ice cream, chips, and chocolate. Your assignment in at least 300 words: What effect, if any, will this societal change have on the inhabitants of Mars?

One last thing, you students in the Sudan chairs- tell your carriers to be careful going through the doors. Although I’m very impressed that some of you have to be carried around in Sudan chairs because of your size, busting the framework around my classroom doors will NOT impress me. Class dismissed.”

\

 

Four Women- Conclusion

The story so far:  After making her way to Pittsburgh from coal country in West Virginia, Selene has lost her job due to too many questionable expense reports; but is intent on keeping the news to herself until she gets back on her feet. While lunching with three former co-workers, one of the three women, Carrie, begins to describe an incident at a consignment shop with which Selene is all too familiar.

“No, that’s all right,” Carrie said. She sat with her arms and her eyes focused on her water glass. “I want to at least mention this thing, clear it up.” A respectful silence settled over the table. “I went to a resale place to put a few things on consignment. I know it sounds creepy, but it was a nice consignment store, the one on the corner of LaSalle and North Main."
Selene felt her back stiffen.

“I don’t know what part of this is more embarrassing, being picked up, or putting something on consignment.” Carrie took a small sip of the Pinot Noir the waiter had put in front of her. “Right before I left I asked to look at a bracelet that was in the case near the front door.” She took another small sip while Selene held her breath. “Anyway, it was still on the counter when I was leaving and somehow it got caught in this.” Carrie grabbed the red scarf off the back of her coat and waggled the fringe. “So it ended up walking out with me.” She put her hands over her eyes and ran her fingers through her short hair, “It just got worse from there. You don’t want me to go on.”

“You can if you want to,” Alicia said.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Margaret said. “Right, Selene?”

Selene pulled herself together enough to nod. Margaret continued, “We all know you wouldn’t take anything, so let’s talk about something else and enjoy lunch.”

But there really wasn’t any lunch left to enjoy. The real reason for lunch had fallen off the agenda and no one had a big interest in eating. After a listless meal where a few hollow topics were introduced and allowed to politely collapse, Selene made serious noises about the check, and Alicia kindly provided back-up.

The bill was split four ways even though Carrie had had only one glass of Pinot Noir and a cup of soup. Everyone but Carrie outdid each over tipping, with Selene setting the bar. After awkward good-byes, Margaret and Carrie stopped at the top of the stairs, signaling a joint visit to the restroom, while Selene jostled out of the crowded restaurant with Alicia trailing behind. As soon as the two of them were on the sidewalk Selene made excuses to walk in any direction but the one Alicia was heading.


When she reached the corner she broke into a run. Four and a half blocks later, at the corner of LaSalle and North Main, she stopped, caught her breath, smoothed her hair, and opened the door to the consignment shop. Her bracelet, the one the hoopie had given her the last night they had spent together in the Motel 6 before he told his wife he was leaving her, the one she thought would help tide her over until she found her next job, was in the case near the front of the store just as Carrie had described it.


Selene brushed by a bored-looking sales clerk to hunt down the owner, an overweight woman in her early sixties with blond streaks in her hair. She asked the woman as calmly and reasonably as she could if there was any way someone could tell by looking who put something on consignment. The overweight woman assured her in fluttery conspiratorial tones that only she was privy to that information. Since Selene wanted and needed to believe her she left the bracelet on consignment and left her store. After taking only a few steps, she slipped on an icy patch of sidewalk and instead of easily righting herself stumbled and felt tears come to the back of her eyes.

After walking half a dozen blocks and feeling more and more ill at ease she stopped in an accessory store. The bracelets, scarves, and familiar fancy junk soothed her, and after a minute or two of wandering, picking up pieces and putting them down, she stopped in front of the big gold mirror in the center of the store. I’ll find another job, something much better, and make a grand announcement- at another lunch.

By the time Selene was back at the corner of LaSalle and North Main she was once again stepping along nicely and thinking of what she’d say to Margaret once she got her new job, something like- Yes, all those room service meals get old. It must be so much more gratifying staying home with three little kids under six- when she saw Alicia and Jack the Jobber just ahead of her on the sidewalk in front of the consignment store. She stopped so abruptly she nearly fell forward.

They were clearly together, their shoulders touching, their bodies in sync. They were waiting patiently, oblivious to the cold, for the owner of the consignment store- the overweight woman with blond streaks- to lock up and join them on the sidewalk.  As soon the three of them were standing together it was obvious to Selene that this was a newly formed trio- still charmed with the new chemistry they had made.

When Alicia caught sight of Selene she shouted, “Selene! Selene!” and ran to her. “Look what I got!” Selene’s bracelet dangled on her wrist. “Jack bought it for me!” Alicia looked back at Jack while he waved politely at Selene. “He finally got a divorce!” She blushed. “He bought it for me from my aunt’s store!” Alicia pointed at the consignment shop as Jack and her aunt joined them on the sidewalk. “I tried to tell you my aunt owned this place at lunch when Carrie first mentioned it!”

For the second time today, Selene felt faint. Her cheeks burned. “Great, beautiful. It looks good on you.” She wanted desperately to get away from the three of them and into her car.

But Alicia wasn’t done talking yet. “You know, I’m taking over the business in a few years.” She put her arm around her aunt and made rapid and perfunctory introductions that somehow Selene got through. “She’s teaching me everything, everything.” Alicia waited for Selene to respond. When she didn’t, Alicia went on. “She’s teaching me everything and she tells me everything, really everything.”

When Selene was finally able to move on and was almost out of earshot she heard Alicia shout over her shoulder one more time, “Selene, she tells me everything!”

As soon as summer is over I'll start writing and posting again.   I hope you enjoyed Four Women.

Four Women -Part One

  As Selene walked the few snowy blocks from the parking lot to Lavender’s, a new restaurant in a never-ending cycle of new restaurant openings along Forbes Avenue in Pittsburgh, she allowed her shoulders to come down from her ears for the first time in three weeks.


She’d been a wreck ever since HR had sent the fat and fussy little man she referred to as  The Stick - because he acted like he had one stuck permanently somewhere unpleasant-had asked her into his office to resign due to too many questions about her expense account again. It had all seemed very petty to Selene at the time, but the fussy Stick was serious, so she’d packed her things as quietly as possible and slipped out the employee entrance.

Today Selene was feeling almost like her old self. She’d faced up to her finances that morning on a yellow legal pad and the numbers hadn’t been as scary as she’d feared. She had two more weeks of vacation pay coming, and she had a decent chance of qualifying for unemployment insurance, depending on what “dismissal for cause” meant. She’d also put her one good piece of jewelry, a bracelet, for sale in a consignment shop. According to her calculations if the bracelet sold, and unemployment insurance kicked in she’d be all right for a few months, enough time to find something else or come up with another plan. With that thought in mind, she looked forward to the lunch date that was on her docket for the day.

She was meeting two of her former co-workers, Margaret and Alicia, for lunch and to catch up, but more likely to gossip about a third. Alicia, someone Selene knew had always looked up to her, had tipped her off when she’d called to make arrangements. It seemed Carrie, a woman Selene had considered just another interchangeable person when they’d all worked together, had been picked up for shoplifting.

Selene stopped to check her reflection in a store window, fluff her hair, adjust the collar of her coat, and mentally prepare for lunch. I’ll just find something better, and then I’ll make the grand announcement.


Selene had been born in Rocklick, in the heart of West Virginia coal country, but was born knowing she wasn’t going to stay there. By the time she was twelve, the women in her neighborhood had begun commenting on her style, saying, Selene could go into the ragbag and come up with an outfit, or that girl Selene- she looks like the city- but Selene already knew that. She’d begun cultivating an image, a word she’d picked up and adopted the first time she heard it; setting herself apart, and looking for a way out.

Her way out had come when she turned nineteen, right after graduating with a degree in retail merchandising from West Virginia Northern Community College. She’d started “cultivating” the man married to her mother’s best friend; a man most people considered a hoopie, what West Virginians call someone who didn’t deserve the label hillbilly, and whose only redeeming quality was a late model BMW. After a few distasteful weeks of groping behind the VFW Hall, and after a few even more distasteful nights at the Motel 6 the hoopie asked his wife for a divorce and asked Selene to marry him and move to Pittsburgh.

As soon as they bought a house in the working-class suburb of McKeesport, Selene got a job, and soon after that a lawyer. After that she a got divorce and half the value of the house, which wasn’t bad because the hoopie had sold his BMW to make the down payment.

The only work Selene had been able to get when she and the hoopie had moved to Pittsburgh was as a size sorter for Jack the Jobber, a man who sold odd lots, over-runs, and seconds mail order to small apparel stores in backwater towns, and she’d hated it. The people there reminded her too much of the ones she’d left behind. Within a year she’d moved on to work for a small accessories wholesaler who sold cheap beads and bracelets and what he called fancy junk. From there she had become misses’ sportswear buyer for Hornes’s, a regional department store. She’d been planning her next move, to a bigger group of stores out of Boston, when The Stick had darkened her door.

By the time Selene reached Lavender’s her game face was firmly in place. She spotted Margaret and Alicia seated at a banquette near the rear.

Margaret, a sensible woman with three kids under six, who’d left Jack the Jobber to marry the town supervisor of Moon Township, a wide spot in the road near the airport, was holding court as usual, if only for an audience of one.

Alicia, who looked as cheery and plumb as always and was still working for Jack for reasons Selene could not fathom, waved from across the restaurant. “Selene! Selene! Over here!” She patted the banquette beside her.

By the time Selene slid into the seat, it was obvious they were well onto the topic at hand.

“But is it out of character?” Alicia asked. “I don’t know.” Selene watched as Alicia dug the innards out of a piece of French bread, roll them in olive oil, and slip the whole mess in her mouth. “Didn’t Carrie leave Jack to be some sort of artist?” She glanced over at Selene for approval. “But I’ve never known anyone who wanted to be an artist who seemed so down to earth. Nothing ever got to her.”

“Something got to her this time,” Selene said laughing while making a point of examining the menu. “Didn’t you say a piece of jewelry got to her, one that didn’t belong to her?”

“You’re so funny,” Alicia said pushing the breadbasket toward her and signaling the waiter with the short ponytail for another glass of wine.

“Wait a minute Selene,” Margaret said raising her voice. “Do we know she actually stole something? All we know is that she was picked up. I mean this is America.”

“You’re right Margaret,” Selene said folding her menu. “I’m being bad.” She was enjoying the conversation and attention from Alicia too much to start a fight. “I guess I was never that close to Carrie- she was never really my type of person. But I like her. And we all know she was a hard worker.”

Margaret began to dig around in her shoulder bag. “I’d asked Carrie to join us today, but now I don’t think it was a good idea.” She found her phone and started to make the call.

“No, don’t call! Let her come!” Alicia said. “I like her, I do! I’m just not smart like her. She wears me out.”

“That’s right Margaret, don’t call. Don’t.” Selene reached out and grabbed Margaret’s arm. “I’ll be nice. My God, of course, I will.” She looked around for the waiter. Suddenly she was hungry.

Slowly Margaret put her phone on the table next to her water and all three reached for their wine glasses in silence.

After everyone had a second sip, Selene turned to Alicia. “If she’s so smart why doesn’t she make more money? After she left Jack the Jobber she went to work in the layout department of that exhibit house. She’s a glorified assistant. They make squat.”

“That’s it. I’m calling Carrie.” Margaret picked up her phone then abruptly put it back down. “Carrie!” she shouted and slid out of the banquette to greet her. “You made it!”

Margaret and Carrie hugged and murmured a few feet from the table while Selene checked Carrie out for signs of additional wear, but she looked the same: short brown hair, indistinct features. She was wearing the same camel color coat and red scarf she’d worn last winter.

“I might as well put it out there,” Carrie said as soon as she was seated, “because you’ve probably heard, I’ve had a rough week.”

“Yes, we’ve heard, terrible,” Selene said sounding concerned.

“Do you want to tell us about it?” Alicia asked hopefully.

Margaret put her hand up and answered the question. “No, she doesn’t. I asked Carrie to join us today for lunch. She doesn’t have to tell us anything.”

“No, that’s all right,” Carrie said. She sat with her arms folded across her chest and her eyes focused on her water glass. “I want to at least mention this thing, clear it up.” A respectful silence settled over the table. “I went to a resale place to put a few things on consignment. I know it sounds creepy, but it was a nice consignment store, the one on the corner of LaSalle and North Main…"

Selene felt her back stiffen.

Conclusion Next Week

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?”
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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