My Job...One at a Time

My Job…One at a Time

Sometimes it’s too early to read a new room…the people have to hit you back. For this reason, I live in diners. You get what you smell. I mean, some are dark, others light…musty, gray or bright and fresh but always…I mean always, there’s the coffee and sweet pastry perfume. And even those trying to be restaurants instead of diners, everybody still gets the same sausage and eggs. It’s impossible to eat at a Jersey Diner and keep your elite on.

A couple of years ago I started carrying a business diary. I’m not at all sure why it worked for me. I hate to write things out…no patience…but it became storage for my assorted thoughts, ideas from meetings, idle meandering and a junk drawer for contract numbers, accident claim numbers, customer service agent’s names and promises…and gave others the illusion I was organized. With this in mind, I took to carrying it with me, at least when my ever-shrinking memory allowed. So, on this particular Saturday… early morning, it was no surprise that I had my business diary and a book I was reading on my hip when I decided to try an old diner I’d gotten too used to passing since I’d moved to town.

Fewer than a dozen people sprinkled the shadows of the weathered Formica furniture as I inhaled the familiar smell. I dropped my diary and “Every Man Dies Alone” at a single booth as I scouted the Rest Room sign. I hated their choice of automatic hand dryer over brown paper towels. I was brushing the wet residue on my jeans as I zeroed in on my booth deciding between eggs or pancakes when I spotted the big, bad-assed street kid picking up my books and walking toward the door. “Hey, put my books down” I barked. Long, greasy hair, bandana…tattoos…leather vest…and of course, the standard issue size 14 motorcycle boots…He fired back a smirk and kept strutting. “Hey kid, give me my books back.” He wasn’t trying to get away. He was showing off. Center stage. Moments like this are like trying to take a jump shot when you’re 50. Your brain is telling you to wait until you hit the peak of your jump… until you realize you’re already back on the ground. Despite years of bar room and schoolyard fights…my brain was flashing yellow lights all over the place. Too angry to back down, I caught up with him. “Give my books back now, “ I threatened. Puffing himself up and fully enjoying the spotlight, predictably…out comes the knife and it’s partner…a nasty yellow, stinking smile. “These are my books now old man.” Ok, I’ll tell you what kid”….as I snatched my diary out of his hand…”you keep the book on one condition”…You’re back here in 30 days…with my book. But you’ve got to actually read it…and I’ll give you another one to replace it…not exactly “Belly of the Beast” …he didn’t kill anybody…didn’t go to jail…and no celebrities giving self-serving speeches about him. So began the journey of changing some of what I’ve been bitching about…one person…one event…at a time. Guess who just bought his first pair of Ferragamo kicks and is digging Edna St. Vincent Millay?