United Auto Stores, #2: The .357 Magnum Pom-pom

The .357 Magnum Pom-pom

I was talking about my good friend Otto the other day, the “grease monkey” featured on the tee-shirts from United Auto Stores.  U.A.  was located on the corner of Story Road and King, in East San Jose, and I worked there from 1974 until 1982, when I moved up here to Bell Springs Road.  Otto did not have to do much to get me thinking back to what it was like to work in a bell-ringing, hand-wringing, number-pulling madhouse.  Not only did I work there, I loved it, because the pace was blistering, the corps of workers amazingly resilient and supportive, and the clientele as colorful, both literally and metaphorically, as that of any inner city in America.

Half of the people who came into the store, spoke little if any English, but that did not mean that they hailed from Mexico.  One of our good customers was a black man from Cuba, who was only able to speak a few words of English.  Blacks comprised a large percentage of our customers, but they spoke English; it took a while to get used to Spanish coming from this guy.  

Otto asked me if I remembered L.C, another black man who was one of the most charismatic individuals I have ever met.  He towered over me in height, even though one of the quirks of working at United, was the four inch thick platform we worked on, behind the counter.  That meant that even I, at five feet ten inches, appeared to be six-two when looking across the counter.  If you asked management about it, you would be told that it was to allow better access to the banks of catalogs, which lined the front counter, like a barricade from the masses.

If you asked anyone who worked there, it was to give a little psychological edge to working on the central corner of the most diversely populated community in San Jose.  There were some attitude cases who came in occasionally, who specialized in intimidation, with their trench coats and the fact that they always came in to the store in small packs.  

Mike’s method of dealing with them was to immediately join them on the front side of the counter, and make pleasant conversation, asking them if they needed help, and accompanying them on their rounds within the store.  It was obvious what the hoods were up to, just as it was obvious what Mike was up to, so it was a stalemate.  For United Auto Stores, a stalemate meant nothing got stolen and no one got hurt.

You couldn’t always tell who the players were.  As jolly as he was, L.C. was hard guy to gauge.  He was a customer first, and then he ran a hot dog stand that he drove around and hit up various locations as close to lunch as he could manage.  He would pop his head in the door, and take a count of how many chili dogs we wanted, and be back in five.  We thought it was great, and L.C. was always cheerful and friendly.

However, I still remember the day he had come in, as loud and boisterous as ever, good-natured and joshing us about how long it was going to take.  In the midst of our exchanges, old L.C. suddenly pulled out this .357 Magnum, held it high in the air with this insanely devilish grin, and said, “Well now, Boys.  How about some service?”  We laughed.

Again, it was Mike with the immediate response.  “No problem L.C.  Just guarantee me that no one else in here is going to pull out his pistol, if I let you take his place in line.”

L.C. just thought that that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, pocketing his .357, and chuckling as he rifled through the car deodorants, looking for the spice-flavored ones.  I didn’t actually have a clue as to what kind of weapon it was.  Jaime, of course, had his eyes fixated on it, and was later able to inform me precisely what kind of weapon it was.  He told me it was his dream to have one identical to it some day.

I would probably have forgotten the whole incident anyway, but after finding out that L.C. had been gunned down in broad daylight, while working his stand, it was indelibly imprinted on my mind.  At the time we heard the news, I was devastated, because I could not see why anyone would shoot such a friendly guy.  It was only years down the line, after contemplating all of the known information, that it occurred to me that L.C. may have had something additional that he was selling out of that hot dog stand, something that was worth a lot more than lunch money, and for which the stakes would be much higher.

I’ll never know one way or another, but I will always remember the sight of that .357 and how it produced nothing but smiles by the whole crew of United Auto Stores, when it was brandished about like a pom-pom.  

A Collection of Christmas Reflections # 9: Them Thar Wheels, Going Round and Round

This is the ninth in a series of Christmas reflections.

Them Thar Wheels,

Going Round and Round

Having completed Christmas Breakfast, and having determined that the coffee cake lamp was out, we looked forward to the day’s prospects.  Reading was standard fare, no matter what the venue.  If we were going out to Ontario, I brought my book;  if Mama was still at church, and Pa was in the kitchen, reading was inevitable; if we were asked to come to the dinner table, the one time of the year when we ate in the house, but outside of the kitchen, there was bound to be some logistical delays, and reading helped stave off hunger pangs.

Christmas Day saw us kids piling into the car with Pa, to travel out toward San Bernardino to visit Uncle Pat and Aunt Emily and our cousins.  There were early years when we included a stop to see Uncle Joe and Grandma O’Neill, who shared an apartment for a time, and there were years when we included a stop at Uncle Jack and Aunt Ginny’s.  It was always fun at Uncle Pat’s, because they really enjoyed the season, and the time was spent sharing stories and showing off new possessions.

  

I used to be amazed at Uncle Pat’s affinity for attending Christmas mass.  He would go to the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, another mass early in the morning, and then go back for the high mass in the late morning.  I know it sounds sacrilegious, but Christmas mass was not an easy experience for me, so why someone would go for a double play, or even a strike out, was beyond me.  But the time he spent at church did not decrease Uncle Pat’s ability to make merry; quite the contrary as I wonder now if all that solemnity did not create the need for Holiday enthusiasm.

This was our closest association with our cousins from Pa’s side of the family, and we could not have been provided with a more benign setting.  Christmas validated all agendas, and continues to do so.

One year, around 1957, I got my first bike, and managed to live out one of any kid’s most treasured scenarios.  I was trying to get that darned bike to stay upright, and Pa was just as determined.  He’d start me off with a good run and shove, and I would sail triumphantly along for about thirty feet, where I would gradually slow down, and then go down.

It did not diminish Pa’s enthusiasm one iota.  “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” he’d say, as I wondered what happened to my cookie. Or maybe it would be, “That’s the way the mop flops.  You got to get back up on that seat and keep pedaling.  Remember to keep them thar wheels going round and round.”  I was always amazed at the transformation of Pa, when he got around the kids on those occasions when he was transported back into his own austere upbringing.  

The dad who came home from work, tired and browbeaten, uninterested in intrusive kids, disappeared on these festive occasions, and was replaced by this beaming, enthusiastic other man.  His exuberance was infectious, and it emerged in the oddest places, like the kitchen.  I spent a lot of time with a potato peeler, or paring knife, helping dice onions, celery, bell peppers, carrots, or potatoes, whatever was going into the evening’s meal.  

On Christmas Day, I was certain to spend an hour or so involved in the preparation of the dinner.  Pa was always in a good frame of mind, which pretty much describes him in a cooking mode.  All of those years  he painted a picture of owning his own restaurant, with each of us involved in whatever capacity best worked.  I distinctly remember thinking that I would much rather wash dishes for strangers than for my own family.  It just sounded so exotic.  I only mention it, because it must have been hard to spend forty hours or more a week, doing something that was not your first passion.  I enjoy envisioning what he may have been like, if he would have been able to oversee his own restaurant kitchen.

Aside from visiting, reading and cooking, Christmas Day was all about sharing and comparing.  We were closely intertwined as siblings, so JT’s new game was as enticing to me, as it was to her.  Brian’s new baseball bat was as welcome to me as it was to him, even if there was a slight service charge, to be extracted along the baseball path of life.

A thousand-piece puzzle was as much mine, as it was the person who owned it, if it were spread out on the dining room table.  Everyone worked on it, and just hoped that a rug rat wouldn’t end up consuming the hapless piece that fell to the floor.  I once munched a puzzle piece belonging to Brian, when I was around two years old.  Payback was meticulously carried out, my penance painstakingly performed until such time as the scale was deemed balanced.  Nothing like having to account for your actions as a toddler. 

Luckily, I had gotten over eating his possessions by the time he got his Camaro.  Chrome valve covers are so hard on the digestion.

United Auto Stores, #1: Otto

Otto

United Auto Stores featured tee-shirts with a “grease monkey” named Otto on it.  I was not a grease monkey, but I was sorely in need of a cash infusion, after having moved up to San Jose in June of 1974, to attend school at San Jose State University.  Why on Earth I went to work for an auto parts house is simply because, when I began looking for a job in the first week of September, there were three job openings that I figured I was qualified for, the first one being UA.   I walked into the auto parts house on the corner of Story Road and King Road in East San Jose, for the first time to work on September 11, 1974.  This was the second job in my life that I began on September 11, the other being in 1967, when I went to work for Augie at Sunrize Market.

Mike Emily, the manager, told me I had all three of the qualities they were looking for: I was a college student, I was a sophomore and I was a veteran of the military.  Being a college student meant not so much that I was smart, but that I had initiative and drive, having made it through freshman year, and not giving up.  Being a beginning sophomore meant there was a good chance that I would be in school a minimum of three more years, a further indication of stability.  Finally, being a veteran of the Green Machine demonstrated the ultimate ability to withstand challenges in the work place.

Mike was a veteran, as was Booker Anderson, the assistant manager, who had retired after a twenty year career with the navy, and was still only forty-three, give or take a year.  Andy was now drawing a full pension from the navy, plus his salary from UA.  I was blown away, which is not hard, considering I was a guy who was just beginning a new field, and commanding a hefty two dollar and fifty cent an hour salary.

However, the good news is that only a month after I started, I earned a twenty-five cent an hour raise, which represents a ten percent increase.  A month later, I earned another raise, and was making five dollars an hour less than two years after I began.  The work was challenging, but so was attracting long-term help for a business with a demanding bank of information needed in order to function independently.  Mike told me early on that the six-month point was a benchmark, as far as the auto parts industry was concerned, in that new employees often did well until that point, and then many ended up switching jobs abruptly.

He explained that the process of becoming proficient in this industry was daunting; there is just so much to assimilate, not only from the point of view of providing customers with the correct parts, but also understanding the intricacies of the automotive engine.  I had told Mike from the outset that I was barely able to do anything beyond a basic tune-up, and maybe replace a water pump or a carburetor, but that I was not an automotive expert, by any stretch of the imagination.  He told me that was perfect, because they preferred to train guys without prior knowledge, so that it was done correctly.

I remember the same logic being applied in the military, when it came to firing the M-16.  The drill instructor told us that it was easier to teach someone who had never touched a weapon before (me) than someone who had been shooting all his life, because there were no bad habits to overcome.  As much as I abhorred any contact with a weapon (I have never fired a weapon outside the military, other than a pellet rifle) I still shot “expert” because, I assume, I had no bad habits to correct, and I listened to the nice drill instructor, as he screamed in my ear.

At United Auto Stores, it quickly became apparent who was approachable for help, and who was not.  Bruno, who spoke fluent Spanish, was awesome; Jaime, the soon-to-be San Jose cop, not so much.  To Jaime, I was always Hippie or Dirty Hippie or any of a number of quaint references to my appearance.  Jimmy had been there since the beginning of time, so he knew it all, but did not have quite the level of patience that the others did.   Booker was great, as was Ziggy, a long-haired, gentle person, who was also good for me to seek out for help.

The beginning was overwhelming, because I had to be careful to NEVER tell someone we could not get the part, unless I was darn sure.  That was a definite no-no, but it also required that I-or any new employee-be able to constantly bombard fellow employees for help.  I had to walk a fine line, and I had to tread carefully on that fine line.  It must have worked, because I eventually ran the delivery service, which kept two little trucks busy, picking up parts from local warehouses, and delivering them to customers all over the immediate vicinity.

  

There was even a time when my sister Laura drove one of those trucks.  In fact, Ann’s brother Joe also drove a delivery truck, which is how I met her.  

Though I was not a grease monkey, I wore those tee-shirts for eight years, while working at UA, before moving up here to Bell Springs Road.  I still have one of those shirts, thirty years later, packaged in the same plastic bag that it was in when it was given to me.  I’m saving it for the day when I visit All-Parts Auto Store in San Jose, and see Mike coming toward me.  I want to see how long it takes him to react to Otto.  He ought to recognize Otto, his old buddy from Story Road, though he may not recognize me.  My flaming red beard is only a flowing mustache these days, and besides, it’s gray, and I have cut my hair.  At least Jaime would be happy, though he’d have to come up with a new nick-name for me.

A Collection of Christmas Reflections # 8: The Fat Red Jabonie

This is the eighth in a series of Christmas reflections.

 The Fat Red Jabonie

Is there any morning in the whole calendar year that feels as sweet as Christmas?  OK, maybe the first morning of summer vacation, IF you are a teacher, might be better.  When it comes to warm and fuzzy, though, Christmas morning tops all, and if there are kids around, then it’s that much better.

The first realization was that I had indeed been finally able to get to sleep, and what was more amazing, I had slept the night through.  Now I could hear clanking in the kitchen, and the sound of a shower going while one of the big boys got ready for eight o’clock mass.  Pa, Eric, Brian, Noel and I all went to the early mass, while Mom and the younger troops went later, after breakfast and present-opening. 

Even church was not as dreary as usual, because Father Mac actually authorized the Women’s Altar Society to decorate it each year.  What they did was bring in twenty or twenty-five freshly cut fir trees, and jam them in along the back of the altar, so that they filled the church with the scent of Christmas, while filling our eyes with greenery.  The organist played Christmas hymns, and we knew what was in store for us, as soon as we finished breakfast.

JT maintains that Christmas morning was the only breakfast of the year that our whole family sat down to together and ate.  I am not sure that is accurate, because I remember Pa lining us all up and telling us that a specific weekend was being given over to accomplishing this roof-tarring venture, or that sewage pipe project, and that everyone was helping.  I then remember Mama going through the refrigerator for left over potatoes, both the boiled ones from the previous night and the mashed ones from the night before that.  She would scramble up a couple dozen eggs, make a pile of toast, and we would all sit down before convening to the site of the work.  Of course, I would concede that one of the big boys was going to get that hunk of left-over steak that Pa had not eaten, because it sure wasn’t going to be me.

However, on Christmas morning, there was certain to be bacon or sausage, with plenty for everyone, eggs, taters, juice and on top of everything else, there was coffee cake.  Christmas Coffee Cake was a once-a-year treat that was universally cherished.  Mama would certainly have made two, and with a little luck, the degree of cremation would be negligible.  Even in the most dire of straits, cremated coffee cake was still pretty dank, and in the grand spirit of the occasion, we overlooked such an insignificant detail.  We were smart enough to recognize that Mama didn’t make the coffee cake for her.

Once we had finished chowing down, and Papa could see that we were straining at the collective bit, he would look at Mama, wink his eye, and wonder idly if any fat, red jabonies had been seen wandering around on the roof last night, and maybe we should “adjourn to the other room.”

We were always careful not to knock him over on our way through to the living room, with the sounds of “O Tannenbaum” ringing through the house.  It’s funny how Noel always managed to be the last one to leave the kitchen, as he paused to make sure that the coffee cake was not being molested [by anyone else but him].

Into the breach we went, each to his or her own stack, where we paused momentarily, assessing the overall picture at a glance and then zeroing in on our individual jackpots.  From time immemorial we had found Christmas morning to consist of this scenario.  As I tore into my stack, I knew from the outset where the end of the tunnel dwelt.  I knew that I could set all speed records for unwrapping my prizes, but I also knew that it was an entire year before I would be able to do it again.  So I took my time.  I looked over at JT’s pile.  (Ugh, a doll.  Poor JT.)  

Whoa.  The Call of the Wild.  Perfect.  I’ll start with that one, before reading The Sinister Signpost, the new Hardy Boys book, that not even Brian had read.  I got a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, a cool magician set, and a  Dodgers pennant, that even Brian thought was bitchin.  What can I say?  Now if only we can keep Noel from bagging the rest of the coffee cake.  You know what they say about the call of the wild.

Hugh's Knot or Just up a [Dirt] Street

Hugh's Knot

or

Just up the [Dirt] Street

I am so fascinated with attitude.  What interests me the most is how much more control I have over my emotions now, than I used to.  My internet went into slo-mo today, for no fathomable reason.  If I call Hugh’s Knot, I will end up talking fruitlessly, to a person seven thousand miles away, after first listening to the hideous tape on the Fair Act Policy.  The first time I made the call, I geared myself up for the inevitable tech frustration, and was rewarded handsomely.  After all, one of the definitions for "knot" provided by my Webster's NewWorld Dictionary is that of a problem, difficulty or entanglement.

“Good morning, sir. My name-uh ees Ralph.  How ees eet that I-uh may help you?”

“Good morning, Ralph.  There is something wrong with my internet service.”

“Can you eh-describe-uh to me, what eet ees that the uneet ees doing-uh?”

“Yes.  It is slow-about five minutes to access a single site.”

“Yes, sir.  I believe that you have-uh violated the Fair Act Policy.”

“How did I do that?  All I was doing was some emailing.”

“Have you been uploading videos or  downloading museec? That will treegger a slow down.”

“No, I have not.  I use words, only.  I have not downloaded, uploaded or unloaded any videos, movies or trucks.  Please make the necessary adjustment.”

“Let me check your heestory, Sir.  Yes, I can see that you have done nothing that would treegger a slow down.”

“Then you can fix it?”

“That I cannot-uh say, Sir...”

And so it goes when you call the tech-support personnel at Hugh’s Knot.  Each time I call, I end up systematically breaking down over the course of the exchange, out of frustration.  The first time I called, I was outraged that I was unfairly impacted, through no fault of my own.  I was very demanding, and would not settle for anything other than immediate resumption of normal service.   Shockingly, I got it.

  I do not download music or videos.  I deal in words.  Words take up a fraction of the memory that videos and music take.  Yet, once a month, as regularly as I get a bill from Hugh’s Knot, I get the dispensation of service.

How can a company get away with bad service?  They can because we live in a rural area.  Because we do not have the numbers of an urban setting, they can rake us over the coals.  If you don’t like it SIr, just try the provider up the [dirt] street.

That is why I no longer take the time, nor expend the energy, to place a call to a company with such low concern for its customers.  Now when I encounter the slow-downs, I swallow my irritation, focus on my word processor, and use the net only when I need to post a piece on my blog, or make a comment on another.  

When I decide to invest the time to use the net during a slow down, I resign myself to five minute delays, between steps in the process.  Therefore, I do not sit in front of my laptop; I occupy myself with another task, such as clearing off everything from the pool table.  Work five minutes, drift back to the computer, enter another command, and return to the pool table.

Is it annoying?  Sure, it is, but it is also a lot better than either getting mad, or not being able to access the net at all.  The point I am trying to make, is that it is all in my head.  I can make the determination that I am going to embark on a course of action that allows me to stay as relaxed as possible, with no room for variation, and have a smooth go of it.  Or I can attempt the impossible, by getting Hugh’s Knot to make the necessary adjustment in the shop, to allow me normal access to the net.

Unfortunately, the first time’s success sent me the wrong message.  if  I call up and work hard to assert myself, I get what I want, but I pay a steep price.  If I take the road of less resistance, I end up with poor internet service all day.  Well, at least I have a choice, and I choose to go the easy route, even if it seems that Hugh’s Knot gets the better end of the deal.   

Besides, if I play my cards right I get the pool table cleared off.  Maybe the next time I get a slow down, I should finally clean out the attic.  It needs it.  

Something in the Air

Something in the Air

Have you ever heard the expression, “It’s all in your head?”  To me that has always meant that no matter how I felt physically, as long as my attitude was good, I could overcome the rest.  As long as what was in my head was OK, then so was the rest of me.  Conversely, if my head is not OK, then it doesn’t matter how physically fit I am, or how capable of doing something I am, I will be worthless.

What happens if what is in your head is not what you’d like?  What happens if that bad dream you had last night is getting in the way of a cheerful beginning to the day?  What happens if your resolve to ignore the fact that it is Monday, has dissolved, and you are being swept away by an undertow of sadness, through an unsettled feeling? 

Is there a way out of a “funk” that will allow one to ignore the view that work is unfair, and that you would much rather be home and reading, or painting, or working in the yard?  Just thinking of all the fall leaves down and swirling around in the wind, makes you want to drop your pen, and pick up a rake, but you can’t, not as long as you are on the clock.

The song goes, “Laugh and be happy, like a merry melody.  A song will make a hat rack look like a Christmas tree.  When you look out the window on a dark and gloomy day, break out a smile and in a while, the gloom will go away.”  If that were only true.  If only a person who was feeling down could talk her way back into equilibrium, then you could prepare a formula for successful transition, from despair to eclairs.  You could brainstorm a list as long as your arm, of strategies for overcoming a sad or a slow start to a Monday.

There is no way I want to underestimate the true force of depression.  I am not talking about a situation where an event or a loss, propels a person under the blankets, with pillows piled on top of his head.  That is for the experts.  No, I am talking about that vague, unsettled feeling that something isn’t quite right.  It could be the turning of the leaves, even if they are pretty.  It still means that summer is over, and that back-to-school feeling hangs in the air.

It could be that darkness is falling at five-thirty, instead of nine o’clock in the evening, a reminder that the cold and dampness of winter are right around the corner.  It could be that you now recognize that you are never going to follow that path that once beckoned so strongly because you are not a kid anymore.  Be that as it may.

By definition, it also means that there are vast unlimited highways and flyways that you chose to ignore, or were lucky you missed.  A lot of those paths follow far more challenging routes than the one you are on.  Whereas it is easy to envision-and long for-a different road, it is also easy to look around and see that there are some rough, unpaved, rocky thoroughfares available.

If the job you have is the one that you chose, and if your life has progressed in pretty much the direction you intended, but you still get bogged down by occasional funkiness, then accept it as the price you pay for not having something more definitive to stress out about, and devise a plan of action. 

There is nothing wrong with sitting down and brainstorming a list of whimsical and frivolous activities to engage in on a funky day, especially if you have to work.  The list should contain ideas for food creations, beverages, both hot and iced, and a list of reasonable diversionary destinations for indulging in after work.

This is not to jump to the conclusion that you are setting yourself up for a funk, by having a plan of attack.  Quite the contrary.  You are simply sitting down, while in a light and breezy frame of mind, and jotting down between a dozen and a hundred specific ideas for drawing yourself out of a low period, by presenting alternatives.  They should not be expensive, and they should be doable.

Forewarned is forearmed.  Meet your funk head on, and do not allow yourself to dwell on that which might have been.  Look around you, and break out a smile, and in a while, with a little luck and preparation, the gloom will go away. 

A Collection of Christmas Reflections #7: The Night Before Christmas

All of this prattling up to this point has been about what led up to Christmas Day.  There is still one more step to take, and that is The Night Before Christmas.

The Night Before Christmas

and

I Couldn't Sleep

Twas the night before Christmas, and I couldn’t sleep.

There were ten hours remaining, and not enough sheep.

Mama had told me, “Just lie down and rest,

The last thing I need is a ten-year-old pest.”

But sleep wouldn’t come, I know cause I tried;

I drank some fresh water, lay on my left side.

I thought to myself, I’ll just count to a million.

If that doesn’t work, I’ll go on to a billion.

I got out my flashlight and took a long look,

At The Prince and the Pauper, my favorite book.

I got it for last year and like it a lot;

Whenever we’re driving, it sure hits the spot.

I could hear Mama talking and moving around, 

And she said she’d tell Santa if I made a sound.

"But Mama,” I said, again and again,

“I never will sleep till I’ve read Little Men.”

“Well, finish tomorrow, and go to sleep now, 

Or you will be sorry, cause I’ll have a cow.

Then you’ll know better than ever before,

How to close up your eyelids and learn how to snore.

There’s simply no reason to still be awake;

It’s way past your bedtime, for Bob Cratchitt’s sake.

And here we both stand, when you should be asleep; 

And you’re looking all wide-eyed, like I’m Meryl Streep.

Well, listen up Mister, and listen up well.

Or you’re going to find that I’m ready to yell.

And if that occurs and your father appears,

You’ll find that you’d rather be shopping at Sears.

He told me to tell you should you need to know,

That the time will go quickly, so go with the flow.

He’s bound to be worried that you’re still awake,

So stop all this nonsense, for Tiny Tim’s sake.

Look if you will at the good girls and boys;

All sleeping so soundly awaiting their toys.

Can you not see that you’re making a mess?

Are you trying to tell me you're doing your best?.”

I thought to myself this is getting quite serious. 

My mind won’t stop spinning; I’m feeling delirious.

If I don’t start napping my strength will soon fail; 

The cops will be called, I’ll end up in jail.

And all because I just could not sleep;

It’s happened before and you didn’t say bleep.

Just cause it’s Christmas and Santa’s nearby;

I’m supposed to sleep-I’m asking you, why?

I think when I’m older and wiser by far,

That I will have access to some local bar.

I won’t care about Santa and all of his deer,

Cause I will be sleeping from too much cold beer.