Salesmanship 101 from Untitled

Changes (1989)

Chapter 1. Salesmanship 101

(Selling Yourself)

   It was the beginning of the end of an era for me the day my cab license was yanked by the City. I had been at a stand-still for several years anyway and hardly cared but for the principle of it. Cab driving always gave me the independence and pocket cash I needed to keep my bar tab paid and enough for a room at The Virginia Hotel. Driving at night, I could also stay invisible to a daylight world I wanted nothing to do with. But now that was gone.

   I dumped my coin jar on the dresser and, with a shaking hand, separated the pennies from the dimes and quarters. There was enough silver for a pack of generic smokes and a pint of Popov’s at Jerry’s. I didn’t necessarily want a drink but I definitely needed one to calm my nerves.

   I tried to slip out through the lobby while Lucas sat on his ass behind the check-in counter reading a skin mag. He was like a spider waiting for its prey all day without moving, the lobby was his web. When anyone touched the carpet at the bottom of the stairs he must have sensed the vibration at the counter. He let me get all the way to the door before he put down his magazine and called out, “Crash!”

   I froze, “Yeh, I know.”

   “I’ve let you go a week already. The boss…”

   “C’mon Lucas, I’ve always been good. I’m waiting for a shift to open up,” I lied. It wasn’t a big lie because there was always a chance the Professor would change his mind.

   “You ever hear from the VA on that appeal?” he asked, rubbing the stub of what was left of his arm under his shirt.

   “Not yet, but any time now. It’s been three years,” I felt embarrassed. He’d lost an arm and a leg in Nam and I’d only lost my mind. I went back to the counter, “How come you never wear your prosthetic, Lucas?”

   “Not unless I have too. I like to air it. Irritates the skin, you know.”

   “I’ll take you to Vegas when my ship comes in,” I promised. I meant it too but three years back-pay on my VA claim was but a dream. I had a better chance of winning the lottery.

   “Don’t try to grease my butt Craszhinski.”

   “Think of it, Lucas. The Chicken Ranch and...”

   “Okay, okay, enough Crash. But I want good news from you by tomorrow or you’re out.”

   Spiderman was actually a good guy. He was just doing his job. We were like brothers over the years. He’d covered me several times in the past but he had to answer to the boss. I apologized, “Lucas, you know how humiliating it is to beg another week’s reprieve.”

   “Humiliating? Look at me. I sit here at a dead-end job putting the squeeze on losers like you. And you whine about humiliation? I probably have only a year or two left on this pile of shit.”

   “Never looked at it that way, Spiderman. I’ll pay up soon enough, okay?”

   “It’s Lucas, not Spiderman. Friday… no later than five, Crash,” he shook his head, “and that’s final.”

   I was out the door before he finished. I got my smokes and pint. It occurred to me I ought to save it ‘til later... After being put on hold every time I’d called the past week, I knew what to expect. Okay, just one toke before I face the music. I needed a bit of liquid courage... enough to make the Professor squirm, mano y mano.

   The company’s offices were down on East Yananoli, near South Salsipuedes, and not too far a walk if I took the tracks. It’s an uneasy feeling to be in a place where I was no longer a part of the business. For several years it was like we were family but overnight I had become persona non grata. Bob sat in the dispatch office situated behind a crosshatched wire glass window where anyone entering the lobby could be seen. He swiveled around in his chair checking who’d come in. Next to the dispatch office, the door to the inner sanctum was open. It was an oversight. Dispatch would normally have to buzz me in and, as I passed through it, Bob looked at me as though I had breached the barricades. The speaker above the door crackled, “Hey, Crash, you can’t go...”

   Once inside I took a seat across from Ginny’s reception desk guarding Professor’s office. While she was on the phone I could see why all the drivers used to stop by the receptionist desk to chat with Ginny just to be in the presence of her Dolly Parton’s. She was a freak of nature for sure. When Ginny became Professor’s plaything he installed the buzzer lock at the door and moved the drop-safe into dispatch office instead of behind her desk.

   The owner, Dr. Lawrence Spawn, was in. I could see his door ajar. The professor was one of us; an old cabby that hooked into a widow ten years before. He was once called driver #75, or Larry, but now he insists we use his formal name; title and all. He was a PHD after all and we all knew that in his case it stood for Piled Higher and Deeper.

   There are those in every cab company who thrive on pushing ahead in those kinds of shark infested waters. There were students too for whom cabbing was just another job to pay the rent. There were others holding down a shift to make ends meet until they got that big break... a screenplay that gets accepted or, a real acting job. Then there were realists ...fishermen that can haul groceries and church ladies all day without losing sight that they are casting to reel in the big tuna... a widow with enough inheritance to put ‘em on easy street. Rachelle was in her late fifties when the Professor sank a hook in her. He was in his thirties and movie star handsome when she took his bait... empty promises of eternal love. He gave her a free ride to Vegas where they got hitched by an Elvis impersonator, and that was the last time he did anything for her that came from his own pocket.

   Ginny pretended to be on the phone ignoring me. I got out of the chair and stood for several lifelong minutes before she acknowledged my presence.

“Hi, Crash, what can I do for you?” She was warmer towards me the last time I saw her.

   It was everything I could do to keep my eyes focused on that silver cross hanging from her neck, “I need to talk to the Professor.”

   “I’m sorry, Crash, Dr. Spawn’s not in…” Ginny held the phone receiver covering that silver cross between her ample breasts. She kept her dual assets locked up under a heavy duty bra and a puritan white, long-sleeved blouse. I wasn’t distracted enough to miss the door gently shutting.

   “Don’t tell me he’s not in. Did a ghost just close his door?”

   “You can come back when Dr. Spawn isn’t busy, Crash,” her tone sealed the conversation. “Or, I can tell Rachelle you were here when she comes in.”

I knew the Professor wasn’t busy. He didn’t run the company. Rachelle and Bob did that. Doc only owned it. He owned it along with Rachelle’s house in Montecito, a nice boat named A Doctor’s Dream, and a blood red Jaguar, with the money we dropped in the safe guarded behind the locked door of the dispatch office.

Doc was in charge of PR, the hiring and firing, and that was about all. You just knew he loved hamming it up for spots on late night TV. He wore stripes behind bars for his pitch... “Leavin’ the bar? Don’t drive your car. Take a cab.” He followed these with Dr. Spawn’s Bail Bondsman ads, “Drop a dime and I’ll save you time.” 
   Ginny would bounce in on cue, “You’ll be out before you can shout, Dr. Spawn Bail Bonds!”

   Professor’s wife knew about Ginny but looked the other way. Divorce was not an option for other than religious reasons. Professor had a grip on the bank account she’d signed away when the romance was hot.

   I’m really not a breast man but my eyes couldn’t help themselves. I alternatively gave Ginny the once-over before nailing her eye to eye. I planted both hands on her desk and demanded, “Ginny, don’t give me any shit.”

   Bob came out of dispatch with one of those 18 inch cop flashlights in his hands.

   “Get back in there Bob.” I turned to face him, “The phone’s ringing.”

Bob stood a minute and considered whether there was anything he could do. We went back a few years. There was a time when he could have mopped the floor with me but he’d grown soft in the office and wasn’t about to take me on now.

   I passed Ginny’s desk and opened Professor’s door. Doc was standing a few feet back. He reached out to shake hands. His gesture wasn’t reciprocated.

   “Crash, good to see you. I was just going to tell Ginny to let you in,” Professor backed behind his desk and sat down, “Have a seat, Craszhinski.”

   “Cut the shit, Professor,” I was brief with him. Behind Doc, on the wall above his head, hung a certificate nicely framed. It was his Doctorate of Philosophy diploma. A few of us knew about how the Professor got his degree. It was a con like everything else in his life. He had somehow incorporated, formed his own college, and turned in a thesis. It was filed where doctorates are filed and amounted to little more than a list of stats about cab drivers: their gender; education; marital status; military service; race;... and so on. He had a no more than a dozen drivers to fill out a survey form from which he expanded the numbers to hundreds for the sake of a thorough sampling.

   “Doc, I need a break. I know you always need a graveyard dispatch.”

   “Crash, you know I can’t rehire you so soon after.”

   “And you know damned well I wasn’t busted on the job...” I protested, “It wasn’t for drugs.”

   “It just doesn’t look right, Crash,” Doc pulled out a green sheet of a carbon copied police report.

   “Yeh, like I’m a big drug king-pin living in the flea-bag hotel.”

   “The city still pulled your license and sent me this report: Drunk in public; creating a nuisance; assaulting a police officer...” Doc read from the list, checking off each item. When he finished he flipped a pencil in the air, missed the catch, it bounced off the desk and rolled to the floor.

   “They dropped all the charges ‘cept drunk in public,” I picked up the pencil and handed it to him, “Besides, I wasn’t in my cab!”

   The professor started chewing on the pencil. I couldn’t take my eyes off it hoping he would choke on the eraser. The pencil caused him to talk through his teeth, “I can’t do anything right away. The town’s changing. You’re becoming a relic... things of the past. You can’t be cowboys out there now.”

   “That’s an excuse Doc and you know it.” I approached his desk, “Dispatch has always been where drivers go that get their licenses yanked. Who else would want the job?”

   Dispatchers only get paid minimum wage. They supplement their income by milking tips from drivers. No tip... no good fares.... all’s fair on the streets where money is concerned. Some make out real well that way. It isn’t a job for anyone with some humanity, principles, or dignity left, after driving for years.

   “Look Crash, all the cab businesses have to clean up now. Times are changing and Sergeant Lopez is getting on all our asses. After last week the City’s leaning on him too. Go to Schick/Shadel; to a rehab or AA. Let ‘em know you got sober... get it on paper when you graduate... get your license reinstated and maybe we can get you back on...”

   “Bullshit, Professor. Clean up all you want... but you and I know damned well you ain’t so clean yourself.”

   “That was my past, David. But since I found the Lord...”

   “Don’t give me that Lord BS, Doc,” pointing to the wall I threw his crap back at him, “You found the Lord up Rachelle’s vagina. You can get widows and schoolgirls to wipe your ass with that paper but it won’t work with me!”

   I was on a roll and knew I got his goat but had no idea the implications went beyond the obvious. Doc’s face turned from pasty white to beacon red. He screeched, “Craszhinski, if you don’t leave now I’m calling nine-one-one!”

   I’d never heard the smooth talkin’ con-man yell like that. Professor stood from his chair holding the receiver away from his ear with his fingers on the keys of the phone.

   Bob must have had his ear to the door with the flashlight in hand. He opened the door, “You need help Professor?” He lifted the flashlight as though he was ready to use it.

   I slammed my body against Bob and shoved him out the door so hard he landed on Ginny’s lap with one of her bullet breasts inches from his mouth. I was out of the building and never did see him rise from Ginny’s lap. I suppose I did him a favor landing him there.

Chapter 2. Some Tea & Sympathy

   Did anyone hear that? The door to another chapter of my life had just slammed shut. I didn’t want it to. But the time had come to pack up everything and sneak out past Lucas. I had to put my stuff somewhere until I found another hole to crawl into. As always, Lucas let me cross the lobby before he caught me at the door.

  “Don’t be a stranger, Crash.” He called out and waved, “We’ll have a room for you when you pay up.”

  “Thanks, Lucas,” I was grateful for the old spider’s concern.

My feet took me up State Street towards Pal’s. It was a sad walk... a funeral dirge... Louis Armstrong’s horn was mourning in the background between my ears. The sidewalk was littered with the Fiesta refuse from the night before... plastic beer cups, confetti mixed the visual with splatterings of vomit that Jackson Pollack might have been proud of. I stopped for every signal though it was six AM and there was no traffic to be concerned about. I got as far as the Snake Pit bar where my friend Anna stood out front smoking a joint. “You want company, Crash? You look like you’re goin’ somewhere.”

   “Company, sure,” I inhaled the pungent smoke she blew in my face, “but I can’t pay.”

   “Well, sailor, your credit’s good with me.” she teased, passing the roach on a clip.

   “With you and no one else,” I set my pack on the sidewalk.

   “Awe, poor baby, you looked like you needed a little tea and sympathy. What’s goin’ on?” she hefted my pack onto her shoulder. She knew exactly where I was headed.

   We were approaching De La Guerra arm-in-arm and I liked the way that, when Anna was with me, she acted as though we were a couple. I think it was her way of telegraphing to all concerned that she was off-duty. On the way up the street, a tatted-up character with a shaved head approached her as though I wasn’t there and asked, “Is this guy your father?”

   She snuggled closer to me, “No, he’s my pimp.”

   He checked me out. A general rule of mine says that, when in the jungle, never make eye contact with a predator unless you’re ready to take him on. We made eye contact.

   However, Anna was capable of handling him easily enough. “You couldn’t afford two minutes with me,” she blew smoke between us. In that Nano-second his eye lids flickered. She passed the roach to him and said, “Teeny weenie; take this and scoot.”

   Still eye to eye I swear I saw him blush. The guy backed off and walked away. I wasn’t sure if it was rage or embarrassment.

   “You know him?”

   “Not that well. He tried for a date once at The Toasting Company. I thought he was a cop, ya’ know. So, what’s goin’ on with you?”

   I knew the guy was probably a John as much as I was sure she was lying but it didn’t matter. After all, an essential part of her profession required discretion. Searching her face for sympathy, I confessed, “Doc’s not going to hire me back. I’m out of a job and homeless. I’ll have to move into the van.”

The old VW was parked in the lot at the company. Its brakes were completely shot and the registration was a year past due. Still, in an emergency, it was a hole I could crawl into.

   “Oh, boo-hoo. You need money? I can put up your rent.” Anna offered as we turned on De La Guerra Street towards Pal’s.

   “Isn’t it bad enough that you’re buying my drinks today?” I didn’t like owing anyone a piece of me but a drink was another thing.

   “Oh, am I now? Okay. I’ll buy ‘em.” She hooked an arm in mine, tugging,       “C’mon, Crash. Cheer up. It ain’t that bad. You’re the one that told me,” (air quotes), “pride ain’t an asset.” She was young… so young she missed high school and all that normal kid stuff. I forgave her the air quotes and we entered the bar.

   Once my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see the place was empty except for Keith, who was on his usual stool by the door doing the crossword. You couldn’t beat Keith to the bar. He was there every morning before the doors opened. Claire saw us and was pouring a beer from the tap already when we took our stools. “A soda with lime for Anna and beer for Mr. Glum. Right?”

   “Give him a Bloody Mary, Claire. Can’t I have a drink?” She flipped a passport to Claire, “I’m old enough to dance at the Rhino.”

   “You look 18 but if you’re 21, I’m Methuselah’s mamma,” Claire laughed.

Methu… who?” Anna puzzled and then schmoozed, “You hold your age well. I mean it, Claire.”

   Claire was in her early fifties and could still sport a short skirt when she wanted to. In the old days she worked at George’s Pour House on Milpas where the barmaids all wore stilettos and bikinis.

Clair laughed. “Where’d you steal this I.D.? Hmmm... So, you’re Laura Rogers... okay, when were you born?

   Anna smiled. It was a joke. She would never try to pass it on Claire but she took a guess, "1968... May? ah, let’s see... 19th? Hmm... let me see it again...”

   “March 19th 1968. Better get to know this one better, Laura,” she handed it back to Anna and busied herself mixing my drink.

Anna grinned impishly and showed it to me, “I just got it. Haven’t even looked at it yet.”

   “She kind of looks like you if you dyed your hair and injected Botox in your face,” I said.

   “I wear a wig when I use it,” she boasted.

Claire turned to ring up my Bloody Mary and I snuck the pint to Anna’s glass dumping a taste into her soda.

   “I saw that, Crash.” Claire returned to the bar, poured herself a shot of schnapps, and downed it. “But time, sweetheart, will have us joining the ranks of old broads soon enough. Lay off the crack and booze or you’ll have to retire your bones early or go Postal like Crash here.”

   “I haven’t done coke or meth for three months now, Claire.”

Claire turned motherly, “Booze and cigarettes will wrinkle you too.”

   “Postal?” I knew I had gotten in trouble… blacked out most of it… there had been a fight and I ended up in jail. I had no idea about the why’s and what’s of it and tucked in my sphincter awaiting the news. It was like the television news to me because it was as though I was hearing about someone else.

   “I didn’t tell you yet,” Anna nearly whispered, “You flipped the other day... completely flipped.”

   “Naw, I knew what I was doin’...” I couldn’t remember a thing but I tried to act like I did.

   Clair stepped in, “You were here all day. Not kidding. I stopped serving you. Your daughter... you know... the courts and all. I let you get by with it all day but sent you home. I heard you stopped by De La Guerra Plaza and got in a fight with one of the dope dealers. Anna’s right. You flipped... yelling all kinds of stuff at the statue and you threw away your wad from the night before.”

   “Threw away? What do you mean, threw away?” I wondered what happened to my cash.

   “You went over and threw all your money at the bums and dopers hanging there. They ate it up. How much did you have?”

   “About three hundred when I got off my shift.” I had no idea where that money went. I thought it got dirt-grabbed sometime that night.

   “Another Vet gone bug-shit fuckin’ crazy,” Claire said mournfully.

Anna cozied up, “Look, Crash, I have a new place with lots of room. My door’s always open. Get the point. You helped me when I was a kid.”

   “You’re still a kid.” And she was still a kid as far as I was concerned, but I can admit to be feeling a little high just thinking of the possibilities. “Say, are you bidding for my affection?”

   She leered back, “Your affection but not your intentions,” Anna was used to leering older men but got serious with Claire... almost in tears the words slurred just a little, “Crash... if it weren’t for himm... Did I ever tell you about when I rode in hiz cab with everything I owned in a Hello Kitty backpack?”

   “Oh, c’mon, a thousand times, Anna. Where did you find her today, Crash?”

   “The Snake Pit, why?”

   “This ain’t my first day on the job,” Claire scowled. “She’s blitzed and she’s repeating old stories.”

Claire was right. Like a child, Anna reverts to a stripper’s voice when she’s loaded. I found it annoying but cute enough to tolerate.

   “Hey, I’m here. I’m here!” Anna waved. “I know… I know... I’m buzzed. Sorry, but don’t talk ‘bout me like I’m not here.” She returned to the subject, “You’ve been my best friend. You kin stay with me, Crash.”

Claire’s warned, “Girl, careful what you say when you’re high. Crash might take you for more than a couch.”

    “See, Anna, don’t let him fool you. That’s what he wanted all along. Ain’t I right, Crash? You wanna thank me?”

   Claire had me pinned, I am a man after all, and I have to admit my mind swam with romantic fantasies... of sharing an apartment with Anna. My sub-Craszhinski was already introducing her to my family, marrying her, and slipping between the sheets. It’s an ego thing. Lonely men like me dream of entering a room James Bond full of movers and shakers with a sexy young women in arm...  imagining the envy of others thinking... he must be rich to have a girl like that! The best I usually went home with was another bar-fly past her prime.

   Anna patted my back sympathetically cooing, “Now-now, grand-pa, you’re my friend. You’ve got the couch as long as you need it. Okay?”

   “All I’ve got to do is to get back with the company. I kind of blew it today.”

Claire scowled, “Now, what did you do, knucklehead.”

   I laughed. It always made me laugh when Claire or Anna called me a knucklehead. From anyone else it’s not so funny but there’s an arcane cuteness about that word coming from either one of them. “I don’t feel much like explaining it, Claire, but I went off on Doc. I have no idea what’s going on with him and Bob. I expected them to back me up... dispatching, you know.”

   “Now what are we going to do?” Claire merely posed a rhetorical question as if it was her problem too. She knew about the bust but she didn’t know about how or why I was shut out that morning.

   “C’mon,” Anna coaxed me off the stool, “We’ve got things to do and they ain’t gonna get done sittin’ here all day.”

Claire called out as we left, “Don’t sell yourself short, Craszhinski. You’re a better man than you think you are.”