Another day, another dime. One might say that I've become complacent. Another might say the opposite. Either way, I'm not doing what I want to do. I'm slowly sinking in a sea of sameness, in a corporate world that doesn't like people like me- people who say what they think, and put themselves out there, people who take risks. I am a scheduler for an asset management firm. It's my job to keep mutual fund wholesalers as they are called, a fancy term for salesman, in front of financial advisors so they can sell our mutual funds. These salesmen are not like your door to door AT&T salesmen who get paid a nominal commission after back breaking walks through neighborhoods, door knocking, your foot travelers, dog avoiders, and latch key kids scarers. They get paid big bucks. They don't deal with scared fourth graders or lonely housewives, but sometimes, I bet they wished they did, which reminds me of a story.
Once, when I was a child, probably in 4th grade, as most of my memories of being at home alone seem to be around that age for some reason, a salesman once incessantly knocked on our front door. I was too scared to answer the door. I have no idea where my younger brother Wilson was at the time, probably getting into trouble elsewhere, as he was famous for.
Finally, I yelled through both doors, the glass and the heavy wooden front door that you had to jam with your hip as hard as you could to get open, and shut for that matter, "what do you want?" It probably was more of a whimper come to think of it. I was less likely to make anyone uncomfortable back then. I was even shy on occasion. The man said he needed to see my parents. To which I replied, like a fool, "They aren't here." I guess he didn't believe me because he then made his way to our side door, which thankfully was locked, and knocked further, until I finally decided that going outside was the right thing to do. I stepped outside to make sure he was walking away, with heart pounding, and telephone in hand, the kind with the long curly cord. We are talking eighties here. Our phone cord could wrap around your kitchen table, through the hall closet, into the bathroom, and out around your mailbox. No one had cordless phones back then, at least the Fairleys didn't. We didn't have anything until it had been out long enough to be 50% cheaper than its initial cost. That's just how we rolled. Well, that's just how my Dad rolled. I'm not sure if it was because he was cheap or he just didn't see the need to have materialistic things the way most of our neighborhood friends did. I'm thinking cheap because looking back, he had everything shiny and new that pertained to outdoors- the best of the best for camping gear, for kayaking, rock climbing, and anything boy scout related would probably safely fall into that category.
I was scared at this point. I had my fingers ready for that rotary dial. I walked outside to see what this crazy man looked like. He was already walking away at this point, with his hands in the air, as if he was throwing in the white towel. He had had enough. People weren't answering the door, and when they would, it would be nothing more than a scared 4th grader.
I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I thought I was protecting the house? It was pretty ballsy looking back. He looked just like the painter on the TV show who painted happy little trees. He was no taller that him, but with a rougher edge, and with little to no sense. I mean really? What idiot knocks on a door repeatedly, when a child says there is no one home just to sell a lawn service, which as I recall, was his lame intention. Oh OK, maybe I was the idiot for confronting this possible child molester. His next remarks were shocking to me as I recall, "Wow, what happened to your driveway?" O......K. As if suddenly his mind switched from Chester Child Molester to Producer of HGTV Curb Appeal.
My parents always had a leaky car for some reason. There were huge grease stains on the driveway where both cars would be stationed, some cars for longer than others, as was my brother's case with the two-door Buick. It was grey and pimped out. Not really. We just joked around that it was. It sat in the driveway for a number of months once, broken down, sad, musty and rusty. It saw a lot more action than some driving cars did though.
My brother, Wilson, who was a notorious pot head, practically lived in that car. His buddies would come over and they would sit in that mildewed antique smoking their cigarettes and pot. They would sub out that car until you couldn't see a thing from the outside. It would look like the car was on fire, and all you could hear was the baseline of the rap or techno music they would be thumping to in the driveway. I'm sure the Middlebrooks hated us. In fact, I don't recall them every being very neighborly, although they had their own issues to deal with. Seeing my brother and his friends smoking pot in his broken down car through their kitchen bay window on a daily basis was probably not what they had imagined life would be like in Governor's Square in 1994.
Mom would be inside cooking dinner, probably shriveling up a perfectly good pork chop into a miniature hockey puck that our Keeshond, Hershey, was quite fond of, I would be dancing around the house in my blue leotard, and Dad would still be at work, or on the way home. Wilson and his cronies would be out in the car smoking up. They would sit in that car smoking pot with the windows up, maybe with a slight crack if there was a female who bitched enough about not wanting her hair to smell like smoke. I never understood how he could sit out there and smoke pot and I couldn't do one single thing without getting busted.Wilson could walk around with a joint rolled up hanging behind his ear, and no one would even say anything to him. I wonder if my parents just chose their battles, and figured if pot was the worst of his problems, then he wasn't that bad off. No, I doubt it. I think they were just clueless sometimes, ether that or their noses had no sense of smell. That car incidentally had a marijuana plant growing in the floor board from all of the seeds they threw down. We talked about taking a picture of it and sending it to High Times magazine, but we never did.
He had the most beautiful natural white blond hair, and it was so thick. It always drove my Mom and I crazy that he shaved it bald sometimes. But he did what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. That trait has always run in my family. Although Wilson and I were both adopted, and therefore not blood related, we both had very similar ideas on life, and how we wanted to live it. It was very unfortunate that he had to die at such a young age. He was a character. He spoke volumes without even saying anything. Just his size alone would do all the talking. He was 6'8 1/2, but would say to everyone that he was 6'9. Round up, right? Right. He did a lot of things that might not have been appropriate or legal. Selling drugs was one of them. It's no secret. Most anyone who knew him, knew that. I never condoned it. Nor did my parents. I think they turned a blind eye. I never asked. I didn't want to know their take on it. I wasn't in the best of positions at that age either, but I never sold drugs. I might have sold other things, but never drugs. I just did them.
That salesman finally left for some reason. Maybe it was the fact that I went inside and slammed the door and told him he needed to get out of my driveway. It's amazing the things that a brain can remember, and forget. I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can remember that incident from 25 years ago. Man I am getting old.
Once, when I was a child, probably in 4th grade, as most of my memories of being at home alone seem to be around that age for some reason, a salesman once incessantly knocked on our front door. I was too scared to answer the door. I have no idea where my younger brother Wilson was at the time, probably getting into trouble elsewhere, as he was famous for.
Finally, I yelled through both doors, the glass and the heavy wooden front door that you had to jam with your hip as hard as you could to get open, and shut for that matter, "what do you want?" It probably was more of a whimper come to think of it. I was less likely to make anyone uncomfortable back then. I was even shy on occasion. The man said he needed to see my parents. To which I replied, like a fool, "They aren't here." I guess he didn't believe me because he then made his way to our side door, which thankfully was locked, and knocked further, until I finally decided that going outside was the right thing to do. I stepped outside to make sure he was walking away, with heart pounding, and telephone in hand, the kind with the long curly cord. We are talking eighties here. Our phone cord could wrap around your kitchen table, through the hall closet, into the bathroom, and out around your mailbox. No one had cordless phones back then, at least the Fairleys didn't. We didn't have anything until it had been out long enough to be 50% cheaper than its initial cost. That's just how we rolled. Well, that's just how my Dad rolled. I'm not sure if it was because he was cheap or he just didn't see the need to have materialistic things the way most of our neighborhood friends did. I'm thinking cheap because looking back, he had everything shiny and new that pertained to outdoors- the best of the best for camping gear, for kayaking, rock climbing, and anything boy scout related would probably safely fall into that category.
I was scared at this point. I had my fingers ready for that rotary dial. I walked outside to see what this crazy man looked like. He was already walking away at this point, with his hands in the air, as if he was throwing in the white towel. He had had enough. People weren't answering the door, and when they would, it would be nothing more than a scared 4th grader.
I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I thought I was protecting the house? It was pretty ballsy looking back. He looked just like the painter on the TV show who painted happy little trees. He was no taller that him, but with a rougher edge, and with little to no sense. I mean really? What idiot knocks on a door repeatedly, when a child says there is no one home just to sell a lawn service, which as I recall, was his lame intention. Oh OK, maybe I was the idiot for confronting this possible child molester. His next remarks were shocking to me as I recall, "Wow, what happened to your driveway?" O......K. As if suddenly his mind switched from Chester Child Molester to Producer of HGTV Curb Appeal.
My parents always had a leaky car for some reason. There were huge grease stains on the driveway where both cars would be stationed, some cars for longer than others, as was my brother's case with the two-door Buick. It was grey and pimped out. Not really. We just joked around that it was. It sat in the driveway for a number of months once, broken down, sad, musty and rusty. It saw a lot more action than some driving cars did though.
My brother, Wilson, who was a notorious pot head, practically lived in that car. His buddies would come over and they would sit in that mildewed antique smoking their cigarettes and pot. They would sub out that car until you couldn't see a thing from the outside. It would look like the car was on fire, and all you could hear was the baseline of the rap or techno music they would be thumping to in the driveway. I'm sure the Middlebrooks hated us. In fact, I don't recall them every being very neighborly, although they had their own issues to deal with. Seeing my brother and his friends smoking pot in his broken down car through their kitchen bay window on a daily basis was probably not what they had imagined life would be like in Governor's Square in 1994.
Mom would be inside cooking dinner, probably shriveling up a perfectly good pork chop into a miniature hockey puck that our Keeshond, Hershey, was quite fond of, I would be dancing around the house in my blue leotard, and Dad would still be at work, or on the way home. Wilson and his cronies would be out in the car smoking up. They would sit in that car smoking pot with the windows up, maybe with a slight crack if there was a female who bitched enough about not wanting her hair to smell like smoke. I never understood how he could sit out there and smoke pot and I couldn't do one single thing without getting busted.Wilson could walk around with a joint rolled up hanging behind his ear, and no one would even say anything to him. I wonder if my parents just chose their battles, and figured if pot was the worst of his problems, then he wasn't that bad off. No, I doubt it. I think they were just clueless sometimes, ether that or their noses had no sense of smell. That car incidentally had a marijuana plant growing in the floor board from all of the seeds they threw down. We talked about taking a picture of it and sending it to High Times magazine, but we never did.
He had the most beautiful natural white blond hair, and it was so thick. It always drove my Mom and I crazy that he shaved it bald sometimes. But he did what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. That trait has always run in my family. Although Wilson and I were both adopted, and therefore not blood related, we both had very similar ideas on life, and how we wanted to live it. It was very unfortunate that he had to die at such a young age. He was a character. He spoke volumes without even saying anything. Just his size alone would do all the talking. He was 6'8 1/2, but would say to everyone that he was 6'9. Round up, right? Right. He did a lot of things that might not have been appropriate or legal. Selling drugs was one of them. It's no secret. Most anyone who knew him, knew that. I never condoned it. Nor did my parents. I think they turned a blind eye. I never asked. I didn't want to know their take on it. I wasn't in the best of positions at that age either, but I never sold drugs. I might have sold other things, but never drugs. I just did them.
That salesman finally left for some reason. Maybe it was the fact that I went inside and slammed the door and told him he needed to get out of my driveway. It's amazing the things that a brain can remember, and forget. I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can remember that incident from 25 years ago. Man I am getting old.
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