Summer

"Want to work for me this summer?" Dad asked.

"Sure," I replied.

Still in high school in 1962, I had grown tired of counseling at summer camps. I wanted to earn some real money. Best of all, working for my dad meant that I would be driving each day with him from suburban New Jersey to Manhattan. My dad had been a successful owner/operator of beauty salons located in northern New Jersey, each of which he called Andre's - Salon de Coiffure. Mr. Andre was my father whose name was Walter. Because varicose veins made standing all day styling hair increasingly difficult, he sold his salons and undertook small businesses that sold natural hair products. Under the name "Wig Centre," he opened small stores in Elizabeth, Newark, and Paramus. Now it was the big time...New York City. His latest store was a second floor walk-up situated directly across the street from Macy's on 34th Street. To add prestige to this enterprise, he called this newest store "Wig City."

Here's the deal: human hair products, such as wigs, ponytails, braids, and wiglets, must be fashioned from natural hair, neither dyed nor subjected to permanents because these chemicals make hair too brittle. Dad traveled to Hong Kong to purchase Chinese hair because China had a large rural population willing to sell their hair cheaply. Unfortunately, the United States had imposed a boycott on products from "Red China" as part of its cold war strategy. Chinese hair importation was illegal. Dad arranged to send the Chinese hair to Italy where workers stripped its color, applied dyes, and attached an Italian certificate of origin. Factories located in New York City fabricated the hair into products that were labeled - "One-Hundred Percent Natural European Hair."

I thought I had ruined my chances to work for my father after turning down a job proposal during the previous school year when he asked if I would do some driving for him. He explained that I would drive customers from his Elizabeth wig store to a finance company located in Plainfield. The idea was for me to chauffeur any customer who needed to borrow money to buy a wig because New Jersey required that borrowers consummate installment loans in person at a finance company. Dad drove me to the finance company to meet his new colleague. The guy was a square. Five feet high and five feet wide. Dressed in a black suit with wavy black hair, he would have been a caricature of a muscle guy for the mob, except I was too scared even to think that he looked like a joke. On the way back home, I told my father I wanted nothing to do with this arrangement because it took advantage of poor women. I also suggested that he and his business would end up controlled by the mob. Fortunately, my mother got wind of dad's deal and she threatened to leave him. Shortly after receiving her ultimatum, he sold his New Jersey stores and arranged to open his grand Manhattan enterprise. When Dad again asked me to work for him, he seemed to have totally forgotten about our previous conversation.

At first, work was a blast. I would wake up about five-thirty, take a quick shower, and dress in time to leave home by six o'clock. Dad would drive us into Manhattan. He drove kind of zombie-like because he never went to sleep before midnight. I soon realized that he would be all right as long as I did not say anything that could distract him. From our home in South Orange, we drove through Newark before entering onto old highway roads that passed New Jersey's refinery infernos and endless acres of swamp broken only by the occasional billboard that advertised glamorous Broadway shows. An overwhelming stench made one stretch of particularly desolate terrain even more miserable. My father did not seem to notice the putrid smell. He was in his driving zone. Depending on road conditions broadcast by early-morning traffic reporters, we switched between roads leading to either the Lincoln or Holland tunnel. After parking, we grabbed a quick bite to eat at a nearby Chuck full o' Nuts Coffee and donut shop. Our workday formally started around seven. I would return wigs left lying around to their appropriate bins, sweep a little, arrange our sales slips and pens, and generally neaten up the place. Then I would restock the shipping room. In addition to an active walk-in trade, Dad had developed a solid business shipping wigs to both wholesale and retail clients by placing advertisements in a variety of magazines. I would also check on the adjacent space that Dad had turned into a walk-in beauty salon. By six o'clock in the evening when we closed shop, I felt exhausted. Dad would again drive wide-eyed back home where we would plod into our house almost too exhausted to eat. Miraculously, he would revive after dinner and discuss business with Mom, read his photography magazines, and watch the evening news while waiting for the Jack Parr show. Both parents fell asleep shortly after Parr, and then, Johnny Carson. My evenings were spent lazily shooting basketball hoops in our lighted driveway, reading about radicals like Eugene V. Debs, and watching serial westerns like Have Gun Will Travel, Gunsmoke, and Maverick.

At work, I recall memorizing sample rings of hair. Number 1 is black, number 1b is off black, and then the numbers moved upward into the browns, the reds, and the mixed browns with various combinations of gray until the ring showed a surprising amount of blond shades before ending in seemingly endless varieties of gray. Once I had memorized the ring colors so I could quickly match a women's hair to a number, I began to sell wigs. After all, I knew more than the purchasers did. With a little flattery, the sale went easily. It also helped to have cheap prices compared with the more upscale wig shops against whom we competed. In an act of inspired merchandising, Dad had fashioned the shop to look like a bargain discount operation. He stationed a long, white counter in the front where customers could handle the merchandise. They could also see cardboard bins overflowing with hair products that filled rows of metal cabinets.

"This is your color. It brings out your lovely skin tones. Once it is cut and styled, you will feel like a million dollars. This wig has a natural look. Unlike shiny fake hair. Our netting is light and soft so you won't sweat. Of course, you can take it now and have your beautician prepare it. Or you can bring it next door where our stylists will cut and shape it to suit your face."

My only complaint was that neither of the ditsy sales girls would date me. It was only later that I learned they did not want me to find out they were stealing merchandise.

After a few weeks, Dad explained that he would be leaving for a week-long trip to Hong Kong. He wanted me to run the store. He explained that while he was gone, I should fire the shipping clerk. He also explained that some men would be arriving mid-week to pick up an order of ponytails. I was not to accept their check. They needed to pay ten thousand dollars in cash. Then he left.

My meeting with the shipping clerk did not go well. The clerk was an old fellow who complained that his feet hurt. When I told me that we no longer required his services, he told me that someday I would be old and some kid would fire me. I felt cursed. Shortly after this incident, I decided that I would never again fire anyone.

Our sales continued steadily that week. Then late one day, the ponytail buyers arrived. I was alone in the store with the elderly bookkeeper. When I demanded cash, they balked. They wanted to give me a check. I refused. They said that business people conduct business through checks. I refused. They got angry. I held my ground. They finally said that they would be back in one-half hour with the cash. They asked me to stay open until then and I agreed. When they returned, they presented me with a cashier's check. I asked the bookkeeper whether I should accept the cashier's check. She told me that a check is a check. I refused. They finally left...very, very angry. When my father returned, he too was very, very angry. He told me that any idiot knows that a cashier's check is the same as cash. Apparently, both his son and his bookkeeper were idiots. He said that the ponytail men had threatened to beat the hell out of him because they had a buyer for the ponytails. Only be explaining that he had to put up with an idiot son had he escaped unharmed. He told me that he threw in some extra merchandise and completed the sale.

"Did you learn anything?" he asked.

"Yes, I did."

I never worked for my father again.

Trash Talkin Athletes

Yet another Gilbert Arena's article in the Washington Post. He is the star basketball player who carried guns into the Verizon Center, which is a criminal act and contrary to NBA League rules against gun-totting players. My interest is not in condemning bad behavior by an overpaid, over-pampered sports star. My interest is in hypocrisy. We idolize these aggressive celebrities until they go too far. After a dose of media 'tut, tuts,' we are told that the individual is remorseful and reformed. Translation: He promises not to shoot or beat up anyone or get caught running fighting dogs or indulging a drug habit. What do I want? Just as voters rejected former Senator George Allen for displaying his racial prejudice by calling a person of color a Macaca, I want athletes to know that bad behavior will have an immediate dire consequence from the get go. I want coaches and administrations at the college and professional level to provide ongoing seminars in acceptable behavior. Patterns of abusive and overly aggressive behavior are easy to spot but difficult to deal with unless the adults take control.

I'm off to see the Wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz

On one level, Dorothy's story is about a child who runs away when things get tough. When she learns to stand up for herself after experiencing life along the yellow brick road, she becomes capable of choosing to rejoin her family. On another level, the Wizard of Oz is a cautionary tale about choices that pubescent girls make. "Girls, your wild fantasies about males - tin, lion, straw, or wizard - will lead you astray. Resist. Satisfaction lies in staying at home and adhering to society's mores." Consider that the Wizard of Oz is a turn of the 19th century work written during a time of social upheaval when new religious and philosophical views were challenging Americans even while they were transitioning from an agricultural to an industrial way of life. Certainly, the story failed as a bulwark against the new; however, it remains wildly popular because we like to believe in the simple goodness of a bygone era. Finally, imagine the Dorothy story as a computer game. The game's object is to kill a witch and capture her broom. Accompanied by a group of fun loving guys, the heroine must use her wiles to enlist their assistance in overcoming fantastic obstacles before a final encounter with her arch nemesis - the WWE. The Wicked Witch of the East is so powerful that she can stick a broom between her legs and ride above the Emerald city - skywriting "Surrender Dorothy." Should Dorothy decide to follow this advice, the GWN (Good Witch of the North) could mention something about practicing safe sex.

At seventeen, my sister convinced our mom that her social life depended on attending a party that Saturday evening. Mom agreed to drive despite misgivings about being able to see at night. After dropping Mary at the party, bright lights from oncoming traffic were so disorienting that she mistakenly entered northern New Jersey's infamous Route 22. In the late 1950s, autos and trucks sped with Kamikaze disregard along this old state highway whizzing past towns named Union, Scotch Plains, Springfield, and Mountainside. Upon accessing the highway, mom steered onto a wide concrete divider that separated two narrow eastbound lanes from westbound traffic. The divider on which she drove rose and narrowed ever so slowly. Mom crept forward while traffic whooshed below. Finally, her car's front wheels slipped off the pavement and the car clunked to a stop. Its undercarriage rested firmly on the divider. Neither the car nor mom would become disengaged from their predicament for several hours while emergency workers figured out how to undertake a rescue. When she finally arrived home with her car dangling from the end of a tow truck, she told me her story alternating between laughter and tears.

Horsing Around

I read this story today at our Northern Virginia Ethical Society winter festival.

Our family moved from suburban South Orange to rural Scotch Plains, New Jersey. Shortly after the move, Mom called Dad at his workplace with an urgent message.

"There is a horse in our back yard," she excitedly told him. "What should I do?"

"What color is it?" he asked.

"What color!" she yelled before slamming down the phone.

Dad quickly called back.

He listened while she berated him for making fun of her by asking such a ridiculous question.

"Can I explain? he asked.

"Okay, but this better be good," she said emphatically.

"We moved to a small, counry town where everybody is acquainted with each other," he began. "I intended to call the mayor. He knows the people and their animals. By describing the horse, the mayor will know who to call."

There was a long silence before Mom quietly said, "It is dark brown with white marks on its front two legs."

"I'll make that call now," Dad said.

I often think of my father's generous spirit that nurtured a marriage with great affection for over fifty years.

Most people visit bagel shops at their busiest when servers are pushing out the cream cheese and micro-waved eggs. Retired folks visit well after the morning rush. Bagel servers have moved from a rapid-fire, mindless pace to a slow, intentional speed. Believe me, we senior customers contribute to what would be a frustratingly, torpid service but for the fact that we have nothing else happening. The other day, I was behind an elderly lady who ordered an every other thing bagel (the server understoood she wanted an everything bagel). She insisted that the bagel server carefully remove every litle poppy seed without disturbing the garlic pieces because poppy bits get stuck in her dentures. So, here is an economist from Nigeria, in his former life, wearing disposable see through plastic gloves picking at a bagel for a slightly ditzy septuagenarian. The world is just a little slower and slightly off kilter for retirees.

A while ago, I faulted the annual letter that some folks send to update their friends and relatives about the year they experienced. Several people explained that they like receiving an annual letter from relatives and friends because it helps them stay in touch. My argument was not with the idea of an annual letter. I am all for sharing our lives. I disparaged the annual missive for two reasons. First, the annual letters/emails I receive are generic. Second, they do not include either negative happenings or the mundane. Certainly, people suffer from diseases, economic set backs, and painful emotional situations. Our daily circumstances constitute the bulk of our lives. However, annual letters that I receive are perpetually joyful...like receiving Christmas tree news. I am tempted to respond with my own year in review that would read something like:

Dear [insert recipient's name], I am writing especially to let you know what occur ed this year with our family. Our oldest entered [insert name of prestigious, Ivy League college]. He also won the [insert name of prestigious award], achieved outstanding grades, played several instruments, and avoided acne. Our other children, unfortunately, are TV-watching, game- playing slackers. In all modesty, our family contributed toward solving world hunger this year by again overeating. We also watched TV, microwaved frozen dinners, and tried to finish cross word puzzles. [Insert recipient's name], I am sure you and your family are also doing well. If not, please do not ruin our holiday season by sharing negative news. We will write again next year with another cheery, annual letter. Toodles.

I don't actually respond. Mostly because the brief pleasure I would experience would not justify the meanness. I much prefer receiving a holiday card that contains a brief message that wishes us good tidings. "Hi, I am thinking of you this holiday. Bye."