📁 09-22

This story required a separate post. Something I had to get out. My first grade bus driver Mr. Savage for whatever reason assigned seating. I was assigned to sit next to a Spider-Man fan. He was in kindergarten. And like most kids do, we got into a few heated discussions about Superman vs. Spider-Man. During one of those arguments I made the kid cry, and Mr. Savage re-assigned me to a new seat. This was around the time my father broke the leaf off a table with his fist, because I didn’t try on a pair of shoes before taking off the tags (Vietnam War problem). The kid–I wish I could remember his name–for some reason was absent for a few days. Obviously, I felt guilty for being so damn mean. I liked Spider-Man and Superman. I probably would have even liked Aquaman had I known of that superhero. At Shell Elementary school, even though there was an intercom system, some of the news was announced by our teachers. The teacher said that the boy dropped his books as he and his Mom were crossing the road, and his decision to retrieve his books without looking out for traffic ended his life.

I loved books (still love books). I don’t fall into another world as I read fiction like I did before, but I use to be completely immersed in the stories. I mean, in first grade I wasn’t reading novels, but I didn’t need the pictures to visualize what was happening. We had something in common, but I couldn’t get past the Superman vs. Spider-Man argument. I don’t believe that he died to make me nicer. I don’t believe that this tragic event had to happen for my benefit. In my opinion that’s completely asinine. However, I did take meaning from what happened. It took a few decades for me to realize that I was not to blame. No one was to blame. It was a tragic accident.

I feel like I may have made amends as I progressed through to high school and in to the real world. When people spoke to me I listened, and I tried to be as accommodating as possible. In my twenties, as a shift manager at CVS, part of my duty was to shift the direction of shouting customers away from other associates on towards myself. And as everyone knows, when someone has to wait an extended period of time for their medication, they have a lot of frustration to offload. Some of them would thank me for letting them vent. Even though ‘venting’ consisted of them yelling in my face. It was something I developed over time that took a lot of patience and careful attuning to the issues at hand. I try my best to make things right if possible. And if that means swallowing my pride for a little while, then so be it. I can’t let that happen again.

I was new to the feeling of driving a floating boat of a Cadillac. I believe I worked truck @ CVS that morning, which meant coming in at 3am and getting off at 3pm. Blessed vinyl extraordinaire along for the ride for some reason. We were driving south on 441 just past GHS, about to take a right on to 16th ave.. Not swerving, but no power steering made it difficult to drive super straight. Blue and red flashed in my rear view mirror. I pull into a Citgo gas station parking space and realized my lights were shining through the Citgo building window, so I turned my headlights off. The people that owned the place were always nice to my friends and I, so at least I could return the favor.

Mr. Officer decided it was DUI time, so he asked me to get out and do some of those perfectly accurate physical sobriety tests. Blessed vinyl extraordinaire asked to speak with Mr. Officer privately. I have no idea what was said between them, but after a few minutes I was given a ticket for driving without headlights, and was told my friend would have to drive home–which was only several hundred feet away. Had he not been along for the ride, I would have spent at least a few nights in jail (thank you).

So, that’s the end of the story right? I paid the $80 ticket for being a skater type and driving a purple Cadillac while mildly tired, and all was well. Nope. You see, I paid with a check. The check was sent back, and I wasn’t aware of this until there was a notice in the mail stating that my license was suspended. This was during a time when only money orders were the only acceptable payment method for tickets. Ok, this had to have been a mistake right? My first ticket, and this happens. I hired a lawyer to appear in court and save my bacon. On court day I drove to a Broward County courtroom. Within the first 30 minutes of sitting among an auditorium of people waiting for their mini trials, I watched a young and intelligent man get charged with years of jail for selling a small amount of weed. I was waiting maybe an hour before my turn. I stepped up in front of the judge–my lawyer took one look at me and said one word, “guilty”, to the judge. The car was impounded six months previously because it was towed before I could get it fixed. And I paid an additional $350 afterwards because Mr. Officer was being a Mr. Officer.

I used a cassette tape to stereo plug adapter with my RCA Lyra rd1071 MP3 player to play tunes through the Bose speakers. And wouldn’t you know it, the door of the MP3 player battery compartment was held shut with a piece of duct tape. A year earlier the player flew out of my pocket while I was riding my bike up and down 16th avenue. In fact, the road was so steep, one time my Suntour back derailleur derailed itself onto the sidewalk. Anyway, the player was loaded with songs from The White Stripes (Elephant), Boards of Canada (Music has the Right to Children), Dragonforce (Inhuman Rampage), and Ratatat (Ratatat & Classics). Probably more, but back then an SD card only held so many MP3s (1-2GB).

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the sentence, “Have you ever been arrested before?” But I’ll take that over another pat down anyday shivers. To be clear, it’s been 13 years since my last ticket, my driver’s license is in good standing, and I always have proof of insurance. When pulled over in the future, the only thing I’ll switch off is my windshield wipers.

Ok, granted, this was about twenty years ago, but I still think about it from time to time. My folks smoked cigarettes to cut through the monotony of the day to day grind. And they smoked in the house, ergo, I smelled like smoke. This was during the period in my life when I moved in with my then girlfriend and her family because Vietnam War reasons. So, at the start of my drafting class, I smelled like smoke. And my drafting teacher assumed I smoked my breakfast before class. She said this to me while confiscating my Tech Deck. I think she meant that I was too skinny, and picked up a bad habit at an early age. She also liked to call me urchin in front of the class. Which basically means street rat or hedgehog. I ate what was available to me, and I didn’t smoke cigarettes. But I did like to skate, which I guess was 75% of why she said that.

At some point I realized that I was going to get a D in the class if I don’t take advantage of the extra credit assignment. She loved to scoff at my work for the rest of the class to take notice, and when I asked what was wrong, she would ignore me and continue to the next student. The extra credit assignment was literally my favorite part of that class, which was to design a vehicle using four wheels powered by a rubber band propeller. We were limited to a sheet of foam board, scissors, and tape/glue. I won’t name who my teacher grouped me with (now an architect? idk). He probably never had to use his hands for much, which I should have taken into account before I started the design process. I had seen a few prototype car videos, so I decided to create a curved design for the least amount of wind resistance. And the propeller in a push configuration instead of a pull configuration. It sort of looked like a cross between a delta wing and a prototype sports car. Only with a big rubber band powered propeller on the back.

Once the design was finished, I tasked my partner with cutting out all the pieces–not very neighborly of me. Once completed, I assembled the car, and he complained to our drafting teacher because his hand was sore. He probably thought it would have been the other way around. I had done odd jobs since I was seven, so I had no sense of what others of my age group considered too difficult. Maybe I should have spent less time talking with a friend, and included my partner in the design process. I believe there was a physical line to cross to gain extra credit, and there was a contest to see which vehicle could go the farthest. Our car won (x2 the distance of 2nd place). So, extra credit right? Well, wouldn’t you know it, the designer and builder of the car did not get the extra credit, and failed that class. Had my teacher listened to my side of the story, would I have been an industrial designer? No, probably not. But still, what hell.

United Tote was/is the parimutuel wagering vendor of Pompano Park, Pompano Beach, Florida. All day yesterday the “silly ol’ Winniee the Poooh” part of the The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh theme song played in my head. And so, here’s another long winded story. Operators showed up for the early morning shift or for the overnight shift. Technicians worked the overnight shift. As an operator, the start of our day involved double checking the live race card (harness race track). If a horse was scratched–removed from the race–then changes needed to be made by an operator, so that no one places an impossible bet. As an operator of the morning shift, we performed a lot of the easy technician duties. If someone punched a screen and cracked it, we were called to replace it. But most of our day was spent changing out rolls of self checkout wagering machine paper. Occasionally, we needed to cancel a stolen ticket, or work with track management to figure out something to do with someone’s players club card (VIP card). Cards were stolen, and bets made illegally were cancelled. Technicians knew quite a bit more about the machines, so main board changes and such were left for when the technicians arrived for their shifts.

The tough calls were for jammed bills. Those required a key from park employees

After about six months of working in the TOTE room, one of the technicians went on vacation for a month. My boss at the time asked me if I would like to take the overnight tech shift for some overtime. I enjoy learning how things work, and I guess I was good enough at documenting work performed that I was asked to work the extra shifts. At the time, I had very little since my move to South Florida. All my stuff was back in Gainesville, FL, and my last car was probably sold for scrap from one of the impound lots a few months before I moved (Caddy). Ninety hour work weeks were tough, but I needed a car, and had trouble with impulse spending. At the time there was a thriving karaoke culture in South Florida, and was somewhat addictive and expensive. Thirteen years later and I still remember the majority of the lyrics from my songs. Anyway, so I came in as an operator in the morning, and left as a technician the following morning. A little bit of sleep, and back to work again. Unfortunately, my relationship did not survive the overtime opportunity. Actually it was fortunate, because we weren’t right for each other. She was lonely, and I was doing my best to save for a car and pay my half of everything. There was a Hungry Howies close by that had that cheeseburger pizza. I quickly realized my favorite fast food pizza place. Later I would learn that their Hawaiian pizza is even better. I grew up with pineapple on ham casserole things.

Hungry Howies cheeseburger pizza or pineapple pizza and HBO.

One of the folks that worked directly with the track (TOTE was a permanent vendor) once called me Christopher Robin, because our manager had a tattoo of Eore, and I had a way of of avoiding the trouble that our manager and the other employees got into outside of work. The name of the guy that called me Christopher Robin was Joe. I believe he was an announcer for live race days. He was one of the few people that spoke to me without a condescending tone in his voice. Which I appreciated. Even though the machines were from the late 80s or early 90s, it was the first job in which I felt I was using my natural aptitude. Which was rewarding. The place was kind of depressing though. Termites made it so that entire floors were out of order. Not a lot of smiling faces either. Quite a change from my humble beginnings in Hawthorne/Gainesville, FL. I never placed a wager too, so I was kind of on the outside looking inward.

This one is from 1995 (I was 11). Which wasn’t that long ago. I have a confession to make. I played two years of little league baseball, and I couldn’t hit the ball. It didn’t matter who pitched–whether or not I crowded the plate or did the opposite–I was either walked to first base, struck out, or was caught looking at all three strikes. Naturally, when my team was at bat, coach (all of them) put me on the bench. The baseball fields were often next to racquet ball courts (perfect for wall ball), and sometimes playgrounds.

I probably would have fielded more balls with a boy’s sized glove too

It was nearly impossible to make me sit on a bench when I was surrounded by so much fun. Our team was up to bat, and I was off the bench on a solo adventure. Was it an all star game? I guess that’s not important. Near a small building a few dozen feet away from the bleachers, I hear a voice. It’s odd that I would tune in to one voice out of all the yelling coming from proud parents, and random kids playing, but her voice was different. “Why wont anyone play with me?!” The resignation in her voice combined with the near lack of a southern accent was what really caught my attention. As a kid once with a slight British accent adapted from preschool in Bermuda, I knew what it was like to be an outsider in North Central Florida. I couldn’t help but ask her if she wanted to play catch. “But I don’t have a glove.” I believe she said. A few under hand throws later, and our attention shifted to the pull up bars nearby. I don’t remember much other than showing her how to penny drop, because unfortunately, our time was cut short. A man from near the bleachers was calling her name. By the tone of his voice, she was in trouble, and he was most likely a legal guardian. It was obviously time for her to go. I believe she said “thank you”, and we both went our separate ways.

Have I seen her since then? I’m not entirely sure, but I’m thankful that something good came out of my inability to hit a baseball.