car for the sum of $800.00 during my senior year in high school. I loved that car, it had a faded blue paint job, some slight rust around the fenderwells and it basically looked like a beater. However, it was equipped with a 350 cubic inch engine, and a borg-warner T10 manual transmission, shifted by a factory-installed Hurst™ Shifter
One month, when Al was being more of a prick than usual, I decided to lock the keys to the dryer in my room. He'd given me grief over the phone bill, and I'm not above being petty. Well, Al had laundry, and he wanted to dry it. He wasn't going to hang his clothes outside, so he decided he was going to hot-wire my dryer. he filled the dryer with his wet clothes, and used a kitchen knife to unscrew the front panel. The then used that same knife to cross the connections on the switch - and at that precise moment, his brother Scott walked into the house. Scott was just in time to see Al electrocute himself - someone should have told him that wet hands + stainless steel knife + electricity don't mix. Well, Al jumped back like he'd been bitten by a rottweiler and started dancing around the kitchen like a lunatic.
Needless to say, we all found this hysterical (with the exception of Al, who still had wet clothes and a tingly feeling all over).
I moved in one weekend in February. My father gave me a dresser and a mattress/box spring set and some bedclothes so I had somewhere to sleep, and put my clothes. My room was downstairs, right next to the bathroom. Directly opposite my door was a washing machine. I set up my black and white TV on my dresser, along with a clock radio. I was set.
Rent was $75.00/week. Doesn't sound like much now, but when all you make is $300/week it's a sizable chunk of income. It goes without saying that I didn't have much spare cash after rent, food, gas and car insurance. What little cash I had left, Al made sure he got by padding the phone bill.
Al was the eldest. He was also the cheapest. He was an accountant, and I'm sure he managed to live in the house for free after charging all of us rent/heat/phone/etc. Regardless, it was still better than living in the trailer.
Scott was Al's brother. Scott was a motorcycle mechanic, and I got along ok with him. Over the years we worked on numerous projects together. Please bear with me, I'm going back 20 years, and things get fuzzy sometimes, but I'll do my best to get them straight.
There had already been garage sales and scrounging relatives, so I was left with very few belongings to furnish my home. I had a sleeping bag, a 13" black and white television set and my clothes. Pretty much all of my worldly material things fit into the trunk of my 1970 Pontiac Le Mans.
I woke up one morning, Saturday, September 17th 1983 to be exact, to the sound of someone unlocking my door. There was a gentleman with a key to my house in his hand, and a very quizzical look on his face.
"You're supposed to be gone by now."
"Can I at least take a shower?"
"Absolutely NOT! GET OUT!"
It's times like this you realize that having few belongings is sometimes a blessing. It was right about then that I realized that all of my worldly possessions fit into the trunk of my car. I drove down to the gas station that I worked at and completed my shift. Once my shift was over, I settled in for a good night's rest in the back seat of my Le Mans. Not the most comfortable car, even at my 5'8" stature, I was somewhat cramped. It was dry however, and the weather in September was mild, so all in all it could have been worse.
I managed to go undiscovered for about a week, living in my car and washing up in the ladies room of the gas station. (the men's room was by far the dirtiest of the two. Neither had hot water though) Once my boss realized that I was sleeping in my car, he offered his popup trailer for me to stay in. Well, the bed in it was larger than the back seat of my car, so I reluctantly agreed. The popup trailer was positioned between the gas station itself, and the immaculate conception cemetery. There was a brook that ran behind the gas station, whose babbling sound added to the ambiance, and attracted rats.
It started out, kind of fun. Hey, it was camping after all, and countless Americans spend their free time living in these things. But countless Americans also ride roller coasters in their free time, and I don't think I'd want to live in a roller coaster either.
Twenty-some odd years have a way of clouding one's memory, however, I do recall that September and October were quite pleasant. Come November, the weather started to get a little chilly. By the time December rolled around, temperatures were in the teens. The camper had no heat, but I managed to string an extension cord from the gas station so I could at least have some light. One night in particular, I remember the temperature dropping down to 10 degrees. I think I wore every piece of clothing I owned that night in an attempt to maintain my body's core temperature.
I know that I've glossed over a lot of the exciting details and adventures that took place over that six-month period, and that may or may not be a blessing for you Dear Reader. Perhaps I may come back at a later time to fill in such intricacies as the joys of building a shower out of automotive parts, waking to the sounds of the tire machine and rat-proofing a popup trailer.
By February, I'd pretty much grown sick of camping. I had managed to find a room for rent for $75.00/week so I bid farewell to the popup trailer, and moved to Cedar Grove, NJ.
The day of the event, I got another phone call. It seems that my uncle was running late, so he told me that our tickets were at the box office.
"Just tell them you're my nephew" were his instructions.
So I put on my best bib and tucker, left Sara with her Grandmother and Laura and I drove the 30 minutes to the theater. We arrived without incident, upon notifying the woman at the box-office counter that I was Richard Davidson's nephew, she told me that there was a table up front with his name on it. We should sit there.
We went in, the theater is old, but smells of fresh paint. There was a bar at the back with a cheese table in front of it. Up near the stage were some round tables, sized to seat six or so. We found the one with my uncle's name on it and sat down.
Uncle Dick had told us this would be a dinner, so we were starving, however the only sustenance available appeared to be the cheese. Fair enough, I told Laura to stay put while I went and got some food and drink.
When I returned, there were more people sitting at the table. Laura said
"These people work in your uncles paint store"
Well, I thought I knew my uncle pretty well, but I certainly didn't know he had a paint store! Upon further questioning, it became obvious that there was another Richard Davidson. The question was, which Richard Davidson belonged at that table?
Just then, my uncle arrived, and proceeded to prove his identity to the tables occupants by producing his drivers license. After all were satisfied that he was actually Richard Davidson, the question of who belonged at the table still was looming over our heads. On the one hand, my uncle, Richard Davidson, built and installed the organ for the theater. The "other" Richard Davidson, owned a paint store. Call me biased, but I'd say organ trumps paint any day.
Just then, the Richard Davidson of paint store fame arrived. Introductions were made, and he decided that Organ Builder does indeed trump Paint Store owner, and retreated with his employees towards the back of the theater.
Ten minutes later, the curtain rose and spotlights illuminated the stage. There were easels lined up, each holding plaques, with writing way too small for me to read. The proprietor of the theater walked on stage and introduced himself.
He started to thank people who helped him on his 18-year task of renovating the theater. The banker that helped him finance it, his wife and family, contractors that worked with him... No mention of the "magnificent organ" that my uncle built. Finally, he arrived at the last plaque on the stage, and said:
"18 years ago, I bought this theater. I knew that I wanted to restore it to it's former glory, and it's been a long long journey. Throughout those 18 years, I was helped by many, but only one person could I count on for all of those years, only one person who had the same vision, the same drive. Ladies and Gentlemen, look around you. See these walls, that wonderful ceiling, the spectacular trim work and know that every surface, every inch of this wonderful theater is coated in pant that came from RICHARD DAVIDSON'S PAINT STORE!!!!! Where is he???" And with that, he looked directly at our table, but alas, the Richard Davidson he was looking for was not there. Way in the back of the theater, fighting his way up through the crowd was the Real Richard Davidson, the one who should have been sitting where we were.
Sort of like the game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" where Paper covers rock, I guess that Paint does cover Organ after all...
:wq!
I bring you this post by popular demand.
On this particular morning, I had purchased said coffee and was traversing Times Square, with my coffee in one hand, and in true yuppie fashion, checking my voicemail on my then cutting-edge, Nextel i1000™ Phone. As I stepped onto the curb of 42nd and Broadway, a man, who looked to be in his 70's shouted to me
"That'll kill you."
I was apparently paying more attention to retrieving my voicemail because the only response I offered the man was an inquisative look. The older gentleman then began to scream
"Microwaves! they'll kill you!"
And again, I didn't fully comprehend his warning, certainly not to his satisfaction, because when I looked at my coffee, (wondering if he thought Starbucks™ actually used microwave ovens to heat their coffee. He elaborated on his rant.
"CELLPHONES! they have microwaves!!!" he bellowed. I imagine the shrug I offered him wasn't exactly the emotion he was aiming for because he follwed that with "I hope you DIE!"
Well, let me tell you, my attention had been successfully diverted from my voicemail, and directed towards this elder gentleman.
He had a somewhat scruffy look about him. He had something dangling around his neck, it could have been a camera, or perhaps binoculars, I wasn't paying rapt attention. After delivering his wishes for my early demise, he stood there with half a grin breaking through the stubble of his beard, waiting for my response.
I didn't dissapoint.
After the realization hit me, and remember I still hadn't had enough coffee for me to function at full capacity, I mustered up my most scornfull look and in a commanding voice, shouted "FUCK YOU OLD MAN!"
This had the most gratifying effect of shriveling the troublemaking old bastard - he actually appeard to shrink a few inches in stature, and he slunk off to bother some other poor, undercaffinated soul.
I gotta tell you though, I sure felt pretty damn good after that. Something about yelling obscenities at strangers is highly liberating.
I Must have management potential.
EOF
