Learning English From Bogie and Bugs

Posted on June 10, 2013 by xaviertrevino

ImageImageI spoke no English for the first five years of my life. I was born in Mexico, and even though we had moved to NY when I was 2, my mother spoke no English and my father did not speak it at home, and when he did speak it, he did so poorly.

I went to kindergarten, and started to learn there. Back then there were no ESL classes, so it was sink or swim. Luckily, I was young and had a good ear, so it wasn’t too hard to learn the basics, to catch up with my fellow five-year-olds.

But getting the nuances, that was another story. That was going to take work.

When I was in second grade, at P.S. 262 in Bed Sty, two classmates accosted me in the stairwell one day. There were no teachers around, and the boys, both black, stood in front of me and blocked my passage down the stairs.

“Hey, kid; do you have a pussy?” The bigger one asked. I had no idea what a pussy was, but it seemed by their attitude that it was something I was supposed to have.

“Jess. Jess, I have a pussy!” I said defiantly, in my still accented English. The boys simultaneously broke into huge grins and started laughing hysterically. They pointed at me and shouted “He say he got a pussy! He got a pussy!” With that they ran off to tell the rest of our classmates, who spent the afternoon sneaking glances at me and giggling. I was humiliated because I did not know what a pussy was.

I vowed never to be humiliated by my ignorance of the English language again. That I remember this incident so vividly so many years later is an indication of how powerful words and childhood humiliation can be.

One of the best tools I had for learning English was the big Philco TV my dad bought on credit when we moved into the projects in 1962. I would lie on the floor in front of it for hours watching my favorite shows with my face inches from the screen. I watched a lot of cartoons and a lot of movies. My favorite movies were war movies and gangster movies. I wasn’t a big western fan like my classmates, I was never very fond of horses, I guess.

And that’s how I learned to speak English. I never tired of watching Humphrey Bogart slap Elisha Cook Jr. across the face in The Maltese Falcon and say: “You’re gonna take it and like it.” Or Bugs Bunny shouting, “Well it ain’t Wendell Wilke!” To the little gremlin in one of my favorite cartoons. I had no idea who Wendell Wilke was, but he sure sounded like somebody I did not want to be.

There’s a little bit of Groucho and Zeppo Marx, as well as the Howard brothers, good teachers of how to be a wise guy all.

There is a kid at the building where I work as a doorman, and his parents are from Europe. His father is Italian, I believe, and his mother is French. Or at least I know I’ve heard them both speaking either language to each other at times. The nanny is Latina, and probably says stuff to the kid in Spanish. He’s gotta be close to two years old, yet the only two words I’ve heard him say clearly are “Mamma” and “Papa.” I knew another kid that age a few years ago that could name every dinosaur there was and spell it out.

The kid looks up at me when I call the elevator for them, with his big bug eyes. Sometimes he points at me and grunts. I always look down at him and say:

“What’s up, kid?” He says:

“Buh. Buh.”

“Keep trying, kid.” I reply. I considered telling him the pussy story, help him out a little since it must be tough keeping up with not two but four different languages, but I think he’s too young. Besides, he wouldn’t understand anyway.

 

 

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Tattoo Me

Posted on June 5, 2013 by xaviertrevino

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I was on the way home from the city yesterday, riding the M train over the Williamsburg bridge and I was looking at all of the people in the seats opposite. A lot of us read books, or newspapers or look at our phones on the subway, I know my wife always asks me if I have something to read when we travel together, but I like to look at people. People are the best entertainment.

There were six sitting across from me; the whole row of seats was full. Two men and four women. And as I looked at them, I noticed the first woman from my right; a young Puerto Rican woman had a tattoo on the top of her foot. The person sitting next to her, a young bearded hipster guy in shorts also had a tattoo on the top of his foot, the one right next to her right foot. He had little stars on his instep. I decided to inspect each person, see how many had tattoos.

There was an older woman sitting next to hipster guy, a Polish woman about 60 with an ample bosom, which peeked out of her low-cut top. And there, on her right breast, I could see the top part of a very faded tattoo she’d gotten when young, I couldn’t even make out what it was, but it was a tattoo.

Next to her was another older woman, also around 60, with glasses and carefully coiffed blond hair wearing office type clothes. I looked at her and said: “Nahh.”

But I was wrong! On closer examination, she had a small Ankh tattooed on her right ring finger, and by it’s sharpness I would have to say it was pretty new.

Next to her was another young Williamsburg white hipster kid, this guy had on shorts, a tee shirt, and no tattoos at all. At least none that I could see; but he was one you would expect to see tattoos on, unlike the older white ladies sitting to his left.

And lastly, next to him, was another young Latina woman, in jeans and flip-flops, reading a book; one of those ghetto girl porn books that are very popular on the J and M trains. She had a very large tattoo on her left forearm, Anthony written in a very fancy cursive script.

Wow, five out of six people of different races and cultural backgrounds, and they all had tattoos.

I have a few myself, I guess that’s why I look at them on others. I got my first one in the Army when I was 25, a small sword on my chest from a guy they called poison John in Fayetteville, N.C. Over the years I added a few more, some I like, some I wish I hadn’t thought of. There’s one on my left forearm, though, that I did think about a little when I got it. I got it when I was divorcing my first wife, and when the girl who was tattooing me showed me her book for suggestions, I came across a design that looked very much like a painting my ex-wife had done.

It was a wonderful painting of a swimmer suspended in bright blue water. It was her, my ex-wife. Of course it wasn’t like super-realism where it looked like a photograph; rather more expressionistic, where just the gesture of the swimming body told me it was her swimming toward something I hope she finds someday.

My tattoo could be such a swimmer; it does look rather frog-like. It also looks like a woman on fire, and when people asked me what it was I would jokingly reply that it was my ex-wife burning in hell. I stopped saying that a few years ago, and now I prefer to say it’s someone swimming to freedom.

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Iron While Damp

Posted on June 3, 2013 by xaviertrevino

ImageI was going to call this post laundry day, but once I started doing the ironing I decided to change it. I’ve been doing the laundry since the week I got suspended. Even though I am back at work, I had to take a pay cut, and being out of work for six weeks pretty much wiped out my checking account, so I continue to do the laundry. I have also had to start ironing, as my new job requires I wear a pressed white shirt.

I remember when I’d first done this job, about 11 years ago, I ironed the only white shirt I had at the time and my first day at the desk the handyman Rupert reported me to the super for having an un-ironed shirt. He was just being a prick, asserting himself in the pecking order. Shit rolls downhill, I like to tell my younger co-workers.

I myself don’t engage in that sort of thing, in the three years I was a handyman I never busted anybody’s chops unless they were really out of line. Perhaps that’s what they didn’t like about me, not enough of a prick.

Getting back to the laundry, it’s not something I love to do, like cooking; but it’s something that must be done, a chore, and if I can’t afford to pay someone to do it, I do it myself. When I was married to my first wife we would do laundry only when there was nothing clean left for us to wear, and that often took a month to achieve. Then we would stuff all of our clothes in the big laundry bag and roll our cart up Avenue A to the laundry on 7th Street.

When we moved to Greenpoint and had a kid, that all changed. I got used to doing laundry once a week, and we would always do it together. It was a laundry on Nassau Avenue, and the Cuban woman that owned it showed us how to properly fold and stack out clothing, because she noticed we were clueless.

After we divorced, it was back to doing it myself, but I had at least learned to do it every week and not wait till I ran out of clean clothing. When I met my new wife Danusia, she lived right above a laundry on Avenue B and it was easy to do it. Sometimes she did it, sometimes I did it, and sometimes we did it together.

But when I did it I was still throwing everything in together and washing it all in hot water, which led to some interesting color changes in some of our clothing. She wasn’t happy about that. My white shirts I sent to the cleaners at work, so I didn’t have to worry about running colors. A guy down the block ran a “Doorman special” that started out at a dollar a shirt and went up to $2.50 by the time I became a handyman and didn’t have to wear the white shirts anymore.

So I have come full circle, and though I still don’t love doing it, a derive a certain satisfaction from an accomplishment, I pack the clothes, take them down the block to the laundry, but instead of dropping them off to be done, as I’ve done for the past 6 or 7 years, I do it myself. I separate the whites from the colors, wash the colors in cold water, and when that’s done, I always remove the jeans and the things I want to iron before throwing the rest in the dryer. The jeans I hang to dry, the white shirts I starch and press while they are still damp, as they come out looking crisper than if you let them dry first. I don’t dry the jeans because they will not fade as fast and last longer if I don’t put them in the dryer. I had a friend that said you should never wash a pair of jeans, but I also remember the way he smelled. I think I’ll keep doing it they way I’m doing it, at least until things change again.

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Give Generously

Posted on May 28, 2013 by xaviertrevino

ImageYesterday I was on the A train somewhere on the Upper West Side returning from a memorial day picnic with my lovely wife Danusia when a guy got on the train and started asking for money. He was a thin black man, looked to be in his 40’s, not badly dressed but he did have very bad teeth, what was left of them.

He started his pitch; I didn’t really listen to him as I’ve heard it a thousand times before. I decided to give him a dollar when he reached where we were sitting, and I took one out of my wallet and held it folded up in my hand. I didn’t want him breaking his neck trying to get at that dollar in a hurry.

Then I started to listen to what he was saying.

“Of course I’m hungry,

Of course I’m out of work,

Of course I’m a victim of capitalism…”

When I heard that, I decided against giving him the dollar and slipped it into my pocket surreptitiously. He hadn’t seen it, so he wouldn’t have to wonder what changed my mind.

I could say I am a victim of capitalism too, but I get up every morning and get dressed and go to work for a person who couldn’t care less about who or what I am as long as I do my job, and I don’t cry about it.

I learned a long time ago, back when I thought I was a victim of a cruel and unjust society that there are few real victims. I learned that I was a victim only if I thought of myself as one. When I stopped thinking of myself as one, my life got better and more manageable.

Today I was on the M train headed home to Brooklyn, when I got on there was a guy in a wheelchair counting his money. He was a white guy in his forties, and by the look and shape of his mouth I could tell he had tooth problems too. I watched as he pulled bills out of his pocket, smoothed them out on his thigh, turn them all facing the same way and fold them into the wad he already had working. And they weren’t all singles, either. I saw a couple of fives and at least one twenty. This guy had more money in his pocket than I did.

When he was finished, we were just getting on the Williamsburg Bridge. He put the money into his pocket and nodded off in his wheelchair. By the time we reached the Brooklyn side there was a thin line of drool hanging from his slack lower lip. I probably would have given him money if I hadn’t seen any of this; but if I ever see him again I know I won’t.

Years ago, in the 90’s, there was a guy who would get on the train and sing for money. He was a trim, neat black man in his thirties and in the winter he wore a long wool coat with a scarf and on his head he wore one of those worker’s caps that resembles a newsboy cap. He was very dapper indeed and he would introduce himself as “Shelly Rudolph, subway singer.” Then he would sing, mostly madrigals in Italian, sometimes spirituals, sometimes arias. He had a great voice and was very entertaining. When he finished, he would remove his cap and hold it out for donations.

“Give generously!” He would say.

“Remember the name, Shelley Rudolph, subway singer.” I always gave him a dollar if I had it, and it was always a pleasure to hear him sing. I’ve asked folks if they remembered him, or the infamous Lazaro form the L train, a filthy junkie that would roll up his pants leg to show off his blackened, gangrenous leg in an effort to elicit more sympathy. People would recoil from the smell and he would aggressively thrust his hand in people’s face and say: “Come on, man, don’t be cheap!”

I’m pretty sure about what happened to Lazaro, but I often wonder if I’ll ever encounter Shelly Rudolph, subway singer again. It would be a pleasure.

 

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Branded

Posted on May 27, 2013 by xaviertrevino

ImageDuring my short stint in the 82nd Airborne I was once assigned to a detail where me and a couple of other guys in my platoon were driven out to a yard full of lumber (as opposed to a lumberyard) that had been salvaged from who knows where. We were thrown in with a few other soldiers from other units; there were 6 or 7 of us in total. The NCO in charge handed us each a claw hammer, and instructed us to pull the nails out of every board and plank we could find.

“I know ya’ll aint gonna get’em all, but do the best you can. I’ll pick ya’ll up at lunchtime.” With that, he jumped in his Jeep and drove off, leaving us to it.

We were all privates; I think there was one specialist fourth class who assumed because he had the rank he was in charge. But the guy who stood out was a guy you could tell was nearly 40.

He was a lanky grizzled man with a real red neck and a plug of chaw in his cheek. I saw the dark patches of removed rank tabs on the collar of his shirt, and realized that he’d been at least a sergeant first class, just below the highest NCO rank you can make. And now he was a buck private, just like me. I wondered what he’d done, but he looked like he would plant his hammer in the middle of my forehead if I asked. I just imagined that he’d fucked the Captain’s wife or something.

He spent the morning cursing and sweating and throwing boards around, just barely containing the volcano brewing inside of him. He hated us for being young and talkative. He hated having to pull nails out of boards after being a boss. He hated himself for doing whatever it was he’d done.

He reminded me of the TV show “Branded”, which was a favorite of mine when I was a boy. In “Branded”, the ever-stalwart Chuck Connors is kicked out of the army for cowardice. He is stripped of his rank tabs, his buttons, his sword is broken in two, and he’s thrown out on his ass. All to the tune of a song we kids co-opted for our own use.

“Stranded! Stranded on the toilet bowl,

What do you do when you’re stranded?

And you don’t have a roll…”

And now I find myself in that unenviable position. Stripped of my screwdriver and pliers, of my shirt that said “Xavier Handyman” over the breast pocket.

I’m glad I met that busted NCO so many years ago, because that one morning I spent with him taught me to never hate myself for failure. If I don’t fail I will never learn how to get better at something. I know I did the best I could, it just wasn’t good enough for the powers that be.

People have been asking, “Is this your new job? Are you back at the door permanently?”

But most importantly, they all ask if I like it, if it’s all right with me.

I don’t mind it, it isn’t very stressful or demanding, I’m just not crazy about the hours. But at least I have a job, and I’m grateful for that. I know a lot of the tenants for years and years, I’ve seen some of their kids grow up, go to college, come home and get married. I’ve developed some close bonds with some of them, and I’ll be seeing them more now that I’m back at the door. They have all been very kind and welcoming, and I feel at home. Another thing I learned, a long time ago, was if I don’t like it, I could always get another job. One of the tenants told me that, this old guy who has since passed away.

For now it’s OK. I have an income, and I have a little more time on my hands to figure out what I want to come next.

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Back To Tuna

Posted on May 26, 2013 by xaviertrevino

For years, at least the last ten, I made a tuna on whole-wheat sourdough sandwich, with tomatoes and jalapeño jack cheese and mayo for three days a week as either lunch or breakfast. Since being out of work for the past six weeks, I think I had tuna only once.

I was going to make my usual on Wednesday, my first day back at work, but opted for chipotle turkey breast instead. Turkey breast with homemade refried bean spread and avocado on whole-wheat sourdough. I brought along some rice cakes as a snack.

I was re-assigned, as a doorman. I’ve done this before, for seven years, so I know the job. But now I have to work weekends, and my day starts at 3pm and ends at 11pm. No more weekends for me. If it wasn’t for this I would be perfectly happy, as this job is a lot less stressful than being the handyman, and listening to all of the criticism that comes with the job.

But a lot of people have to work weekends and evenings, and I only have to do it for three years and I can retire. As I told one of the tenants, I can do three years standing on my head.

It was good to be back, I got a bunch of hugs and loads more handshakes, and everyone said they were glad to see me. They all told me they’d been asking about me but the other employees and the boss were very hush-hush about the whole thing. Typical of corporate thinking, if you can’t lie outright say nothing. I did tell some people about what happened, but most I just told, “It doesn’t matter what happened, I’m glad to have a job.”

And I am. I don’t even have enough in my checking account to pay the rent this month. I have to transfer funds from my hard-earned savings account. Luckily I have a savings account, something I haven’t always had.

Things changed in my absence, one lady is in a nursing home and will probably never be back. She is the longest living tenant in the building, she moved in in 1954, the year I was born.

Another old woman I saw being brought in on a wheelchair, her once expensively coiffed hair limp and white as snow thinly falling around her blank, expressionless face. I used to have great conversations with her, she was always at war with the first super I worked for and looking for an ally, I told her I could not get involved in her personal grievances. And now she doesn’t even know me.

Some of my old people are still strong and active, Trudy from the 4th floor greeted me warmly with her 92-year old smile, told me she was glad I’m back, another woman in a walker told me she’d missed me.

The kids missed me too. There were cries of “Xavier! Xavier! Hugs, and high-fives.

It was good to be back.

Some I wasn’t so happy to see, like the former theatrical agent, a pompous man with a loud voice whom I’ve had to pick up from his own shit a couple of times, whose first words were, “You look twenty years older!” He thinks he’s a comedian but he’s not.

Last night the building was quiet, as a lot of people are gone for the long weekend. I did the crossword, Friday’s, and impressed myself by finishing it with out the help of Google. I wanted to kick myself for not bringing a notebook, as I had many Ideas for chapters for my memoir. Tonight I’ll bring one.

The chipotle turkey was all right, but next week I’m going back to tuna.ImageWork, 

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No Brazilian For You!

Posted on May 22, 2013 by xaviertrevino

I saw the coupon on one of those Amazon “deals” I get periodically, like for ice cream, massages, dinner for two, or whatever some local small business is promoting. This one said “Brazilian wax for $19.95”, and it was in some little place in Brooklyn Heights.

I’d had one once before, at a place on Steinway Street in Astoria a couple of years ago. That one was $25, and done by a very competent, no-nonsense Brazilian woman. Her national pride was on the line and she was going to be great. Her I found on line after looking for recommendations for the “least painless” Brazilian wax, and there were scads of testimonials for this woman, and after pestering my wife about “when” for weeks, she finally agreed to go and we set off on a cool spring day for our first Brazilians.

The idea didn’t happen to come to me overnight, it was gradual, coinciding with the gradual encroachment of more and more grey pubic hairs on my you-know-what’s. That in it self was dismaying, making me think about my aging process, but to me it was just plain aesthetics. Having my you-know-what’s turning grey was unacceptable.

The other influence was the influence of media, having all of these young beautiful girls in the public eye having public displays of their you-know –what’s all over the internet, proving-not only are they going commando, but they going bare as well! That and watching an episode of Oprah (my wife was watching it, of course) where a bunch of women came on to talk about how getting Brazilians had given new oomph to their sex lives. It was the one time I was thrilled to be watching Oprah with my wife.

“You hear that honey? Their husbands couldn’t keep their hands off of them! Does that sound like something you’d like to try? I would do it too, of course.”

“Maybe. But doesn’t it hurt?”

“Nonsense! How much can it hurt? Couldn’t be worse than a tattoo, and you’ve got two of those.”

“I’m pretty busy now, maybe next month. But you have to find a place and arrange it.”

That was it, I had gotten a fingernail under the edge of the tape and I wasn’t going to quit till I’d pulled off all of it.

In the meantime, just to find out how painful it was, at least for me, I’d picked up a home waxing kit at Whole Foods. Yes, they carry them in case you are interested.

I followed the directions, using an electric razor to get the offending hairs down to a quarter of and inch, the recommended length, and then applying the hot mixture “away from the direction of the hair growth”, as instructed. Next, I took a strip of the paper and burnished it down with the little provided Popsicle stick. Of course I had watched a few YouTube videos to get the hang of it, and everything was going swimmingly. I was ready for the moment of truth. I grabbed the end of the strip between two fingers, and with the other hand stretching the skin tight, I pulled IN the direction of hair growth. YEE-OWW! It did hurt. But I didn’t pull hard or fast enough.

I tried again, on a different patch of hair. I looked. There was plenty of hair on the strip, but there was still plenty of hair down there. It was patchy and there were little drops of blood here and there. I got out the razor and the shaving cream.

I tried once more a couple of weeks later, with pretty much the same results. Maybe one could do their legs, but you-know-what’s were out of the question. At least my wife liked it. I convinced her to let me shave her, and after much nervous giggling, it was done. Then she started to complain that it itched, or “bit” as they say in Polish.

“If we do the wax it won’t ‘bite” I told her.

The day came and we made our trek out to Astoria for the appointment I’d made on line. The one for me, the “Male Brazilian” was a special, $25. Hers was full price, $40. We decided she might as well have her legs done, another $35. My turn came and the no-nonsense little muscular woman waxed, stripped, and trimmed, then ordered me to turn over. “For what?” “Well, I have to do your backside, that’s part of the deal.”

“It’s OK, we can skip my backside.”

“Sir, you MUST turn over, NOW!”

I walked out of there with a very smooth bare ass.

That was three years ago, and until I found the Amazon thing I thought I was relegated to the trusty razor, that “bites.”

I bought the coupon in the fall, but an email alerted me that it was about to expire. I called to make an appointment. It was an eastern European woman, I am quite familiar with the accent.

“It’s for me and my wife.” She made back-to-back appointments for us.

We showed up that morning, all excited to the little salon on Pineapple Street. I gave my printout to the woman, who scanned them and directed us to hang our jackets. Suddenly she jumped up from her reception desk and waving the printout in my face said

“Wait! You want Brazilian too?”

“Yes, we discussed it on the phone.”

“I’m sorry, we only do Brazilian wax for women, not for men.”

“But it says Unisex salon on your coupon.”

“Unisex for everything else except Brazilian.” She was adamant.

“You can have mani-pedi. You want mani-pedi?”

“Sure, I’ll take a mani-pedi.” So I got the mani-pedi and Danusia got the wax. She told me later that this woman wasn’t as good as the Brazilian woman.

I let the big Russian woman who gave me the mani-pedi put clear lacquer on my toenails, but I drew the line at my fingernails. A guy can only go so far.

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X’s Last Stand

Posted on May 18, 2013 by xaviertrevino

Last night Danusia and I went to prospect Park to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the Great Googa Mooga concert series, I have no idea who Googa Mooga is, but there it was emblazoned across the top of the canvas stage cover, The Great Googa Mooga festival or something or other.

We got to the park around 7, no reason to get there early and sit through “The Darkness”, who I’ve never heard of, or “The Flaming Lips”, who I’ve heard of but have no idea why I have.

We walked the half-mile or so through the park to get to the concert area, a big field fenced in for the occasion with the stage at one end and all sorts of food and beverage booths and portable toilets around the perimeter. There were even stand-up picnic tables set up near the food stands. How civilized.

We looked at the food and found nothing particularly appetizing; besides, we’d eaten before leaving the house. So armed with a bottle of water and a pack of gum we waded into the crowd to see how close we could get to the stage. We walked until we reached a metal crowd control fence. There were people beyond it, much closer to the stage. A separate V.I.P. area, I learned. Pay more, get closer.

But we were pretty close, 60 or so feet from the stage; close enough to see Karen O’s antics without having to strain our necks.

We watched the stage crew set up and waited, and waited. The same guitar tech kept putting the guitar on and playing with it over and over again, for almost the entire 45 minutes we waited. The crowd started pressing in again, as the kids that went off in search of refreshments after the Flaming Lips finished started to filter back.

I’ve been to tens of dozens of shows like this; I think the first outdoor show I saw was The MC5 and The Stooges in Flushing Meadows park in 1969. When I was 15. I didn’t even know who the MC5 were; I’d gone to see the Stooges on a friend’s recommendation. I remember thinking the Iggy guy was nuts when he dove off the stage into the audience, but it was a great show. I’ve seen The Stooges and Iggy Pop a few times since then, but nothing can match that first time.

As we stood there waiting, my legs and knees beginning to hurt, my lower back joining in, and feeling the press of exuberant young people noisily downing beers and blowing cigarette smoke in our direction I wondered what possessed me to spend $75 a ticket on Stub Hub to get elbowed in the ribs by drunk children. At least the MC5 and The Stooges was only three bucks. For three bucks I would stand on my head and like it.

It was finally dark enough and Nick Zinner and the drummer came out and took their places, along with a guy on bass. Zinner launched into a guitar riff that I could feel in my loins and Karen O bounded out onto the stage in a gold lamé pants and jacket topped off by an Egyptian looking head peace of the same material. She wore red hi-top Converses and started her signature yowling. For the second and third songs, a Gospel Choir complete with matching robes came out to lend a hand. The music was loud, visceral, exciting. It felt worth the wait.

Before they came on Danusia and I agreed that standing in the crowd wasn’t so much fun for middle-aged people like us, and we decided that after we saw a few songs to see what all the hub-bub was about we could get out of the crowd and listen to the music from a more comfortable place.

The crowd roared and a giant inflatable eye came out from the stage, bouncing over the audience. This was fun. I got out my iPhone and started taking pictures. When the novelty of the giant eyeball wore off I asked Danusia if she wanted to get out of the crowd, and she said yes. I took her hand and started to lead the way out. It was slow going at first; the crowd was so tightly packed. “Excuse me, excuse me, I murmured as I pushed my way through wave after wave of drunk kids. Strobe lights from the stage flickered on their faces, some of them expressing shock that anyone would want to leave in the middle of the show. I felt like the hero running into a crowd of zombies in one of those zombie movies, except these didn’t chase you, they just didn’t move out of the way.

In one of those well-lighted moments, I looked beyond the immediate faces to see how much further we had to push to get out of the crush, and was dismayed to be faced with a virtual sea of faces. A whole ocean of faces! We were going to be walking through this crowd forever.

Suddenly there was a break, I tripped on something and it turned out to be a picnic blanket. The crowd thinned out, and we walked through the gaps. We went to the bathroom and Danusia said she’d had enough. So had I.

We made our way back to the F train along with hundreds of others. The train was almost as packed as the concert. I listened to a young couple have a spat right behind my head.

“You don’t treat me the way you should!” The girl accused the boy. “That’s because you’re so goddamned normal and I’m not normal, OK?” The girl turned away from him, pointedly ignoring him, and started to sniffle. When I got home I discovered I’d lost my expensive Ralph Lauren wayfarer-style POLARIZED sunglasses, probably in the crush of the crowd on the way out. I vowed to Danusia that unless we were sitting at a nice table in a comfortable club, I was never going to a live concert again.

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Back To Work

Posted on May 16, 2013 by xaviertrevino

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So as many of you know, I entered limbo six weeks ago, almost to the day. Six weeks where I could not collect unemployment, since I had not been terminated, six weeks where I could not plan for the future, because my professional fate was in the hands of people who see me not as a person but as a tool, an asset that has to be utilized in a way best suited to their aims, their timetable.

Every day I woke up not knowing what my corporate future would be, and at least once a day I would feel that pang of fear deep in my gut, that same pang I would feel every time I stood in the door of an airplane before jumping out and I thought I might die.

But I knew I wasn’t going to die, at the worst I would have to find another job, change the way I live a little. But the fear inside can’t differentiate between the two things. But I knew enough that what ever happened, I would be OK, life would go on. I was just going to have to wait for the results.

Two weeks ago I found out that if I wanted my old job back I would have to go to arbitration. But if I were willing to take a lower paying job, they were willing to put me back to work. If I fought, I would most likely win, but did I want to continue to work for someone who was going to obsessively catalogue all of my shortcomings until he could find a more solid reason to get rid of me? I’m too old to but up with that kind of stress.

One of the things I gave up to do this job, the handyman job was time to write. Time and energy, I found out, as I would come home so beat everyday all I could do was zone out in front of the TV. The new job is actually my old job, being a doorman, so at least I know it will not wear me down the way the other one did. Plus I will have more time to write, since it’s only 8 hours as opposed to 9.

The only drawback is that I have to work evenings, and weekends. I’ve worked all the shifts at the building, but never this one. When the union guy told me on the phone my heart sank. No more Saturday night parties, movies, dinners with friends. No more days off on holidays. I balked at the thought of saying yes. But then I thought, it won’t be forever. And besides, what about the guy who did it for 5 years before retiring last year, good old Gaspar? Gaspar did the shift without complaint and was happy to have the work. Am I so special I shouldn’t have to work evenings and weekends? I was always impressed by Gaspar’s humility and good nature, and humility is something I have precious little of.

If I look at my part in this whole drama, I have to admit that more than a little bit of my own arrogance contributed to the events that led to my bosses’ actions. Maybe I need to be humbled. So I said yes. I want to at least leave on my terms, not theirs. So, back behind the desk, in my stripped pants and tie, listening to tenant’s highs and lows. And if I don’t like it, I can always find another job. Or do something else.

I did a lot in the weeks I was home. I wrote 25 blog posts, including this one. I sent some chapters off to a publisher. I started two new chapters. I lost 11 pounds because I’ve had time in the mornings to work out, and even changed the way I eat. I got to spend a lot of time with my lovely wife, Danusia, who has been wonderful and supportive. And I’ve started a new stage in my life, freer, and not as arrogant. Thanks, Gaspar.

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Jack Of All Trades

Posted on May 15, 2013 by xaviertrevino

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I learned how to sell shoes when I was 16. The summer I was 18 I worked in a lumberyard and learned about common pine, sheetrock, joint compound and board feet. I was fired for being late one too many times.

When I was 20, I got a job as a Warf rat in Provincetown, Mass. I was taught how to tie a half hitch and catch the rope from arriving fishing vessels. I learned what yellowtail and scallops were and saw a 1500-pound tuna get filleted with a chain saw. I learned how to push a hand truck loaded with 800 pounds of fish, ice, and wood up a ramp onto a refrigerator rig. The drivers would stand around and bet on who would dump a load off of the ramp.

I hurt my back pushing a cart filled with 2 tons of ice on the Warf, quit; and got a job making sandwiches at the New World Deli on Commercial Street. Actually, we didn’t “make” sandwiches; we “built” them. I sold a coke to Rodney Dangerfield one day after he said, “hey kid, you got any orange soda?” after I said yes he said, “OK, gimme a Coke.” I also sliced the tip of my right pinkie off while slicing tomatoes for sandwich building. There was blood all over the deli slicer.

I went back to school, Pratt Institute, where I learned how to use 16mm cameras and edit 16mm film. I bought an old Leica from another kid for $25 and learned how to develop and print 35mm pictures.

I quit school and got a job there, it was a company called RBH Audio and we had a contract with Pratt to administer their Audio-Visual equipment. I signed out slide projectors, tape decks, and movie projectors to students and took their ID card pictures during registration. My bosses were some kind of electrical engineers and used to repair stereos as a sideline for extra money. I learned how to replace transistors and resistors in stereos and clean dead roaches out of tape decks. We also built sensaround speakers to order. Our contract with Pratt ended one day and we were kicked out.

I got a job working at a Chinese shrimp and fish wholesaler on Wooster Street and learned that shrimp came frozen in 50 kg. boxes and in a lot of different sizes. We would periodically defrost boxes that had been in the walk in freezer too long and bleach out the ones that had turned black and refreeze them. I did not eat shrimp for fifteen years.

They fired me too, for being late too many times.

I went back to selling shoes, first at Olaf Daughters of Sweden on 6th Ave. and then at Yorke Dynamold shoes in Queens. At Yorke I learned how to repair shoes and make orthotics. I learned how to measure people’s feet and fit them properly. At some point, the owner opened up a new store on 55th Street in Manhattan. It got too expensive to run two stores and he closed the one in Queens. I got pretty good at shoe repair and orthotic making, after all, it is a craft, and having an artistic bent, I can be quite a craftsman. I worked there for 13 years, until I got fired for talking back to the boss. At least I was on time for work for 13 years.

While working at that store on 55th Street I made friends with the building super, and he got me a job as a night porter at a different building owned by the same people, but I had to wait for a bit. In the interim, I got a job as a “community organizer” and worked for ACORN for a couple of months. I learned how to knock on poor people’s doors and convince them to join ACORN, most of whom believed was a scam. I believe they were right. I quit when I realized I was conning money out of people who could ill afford it and got a job polishing jewelry for a woman in midtown. I got that job by showing her a tiny plastic model of a WWI tank I had built. The job required familiarity with rotary tools and I told her I had a Dremel and had used it in the building of the tank.

Then the building owners called and gave me a job as a night porter on the Upper West Side. I learned how to polish brass and separate recyclables.

I moved up, after 5 years of being a night porter, I became a doorman and learned how to be polite to people, take messages, lie for the super and sort the mail. There were no mailboxes in the lobby. The super and handyman didn’t like doing side jobs, so I started doing them, installing air conditioners and assembling furniture for people and the like. I started buying tools and took courses on being a handyman. Our handyman retired and I got his job. I learned how to hang lights and chandeliers, hook up appliances and repair exposed plumbing. I snaked out toilets and drains and replaced rotted pipes. I did light plastering and removed paint from metal doorframes with chemicals. Two of my bosses left for greener pastures and I ended up with the one who suspended me for not putting down some tiles properly. I guess he doesn’t think I’m much of a craftsman, as a matter of fact, he’s said as much.

But the friends I’ve done a little work for since then are pretty happy with my work. I’m plastering a bathroom wall and ceiling for someone tomorrow. After that, who knows what I’ll learn next? I’m pretty much open to anything.

 

 

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