Category: Society

Previously: Part 1, Part 2

 

 

The People that You Meet Each Day

I don’t want to spend time creating and describing stereotypes of New Yorkers to everyone. This has been done ad nauseam in TV, Movies, and books. I’ll stick with some observations and unique people I met during this time.

One year I worked at the high rent East Side stand at 66th and 67th and Lexington. This introduced me to a new type of customer the entitled New York upper class twit. The upper class twit has a lot of money and doesn’t consider the workers and staff around them as intelligent or worthy of respect. I sold trees to many of this type and delivered them to their homes. This was an amazing opportunity for me to experience some posh apartments, incredible art, and to get called a moron. One such couple of twits walked up to the stand and began verbally pissing all over the wreaths that we had for sale, then made fun of the dress and general condition of our staff. I heard this in passing but decided that I’ll try to make a sale. The couple was wearing flashy clothes and jewelry. They were not gaudy, but the gems and watches were very expensive looking.

I approached them and introduced myself, “Hello, I’m Time, what can I help you with today.”

The man responded, “We need a tree that doesn’t look like it came from the side of the LIE.”

I started my pitch, “Well sir these trees were all cut within the last few days and are very fresh, I can pull a few out so you can see them better. What size are you looking for?”

The woman replied, “We need the biggest tree you have, we have a very high ceiling. It’s a very spacious home.”

“OK,” I countered. “Just so you know we have up to twenty five foot trees. They will take quite the effort to show you. So I would like you to be very sure of the height before we pull them out.”

The man replied with a snotty tone, “Ohhh we are sure what will and will not fit in OUR apartment. Show us the biggest tree you have.”

“Ok then,” I said stifling my distain, “Let me get some help and we will open the twenty-five footer.”

I talked to the boss and got his permission to move and open the big Fir tree. We had to close off most of the sidewalk as we unbound the monster. As we unfurred the tree I watched the couple’s eye widen. They walked around it while maintaining their distance from the branches and especially the folks trying to hold it up.

“So what do you think, is it big enough for you?” I asked. “Do you want us to bind it up and deliver it for you?” It’ll be Three hundred and fifty dollars with another fifty for the installation and stand.”

She responded, “Well do you have something else for us to look at?”

I commented, “We do, but they are quite a bit smaller and less impressive.”

The couple walked aside and began to deliberate. I went back to the poor schlubs holding up the monstrosity and told them to relax and try to get it out of the way. The couple argued, with the woman seemingly pouting for a bit.

Finally they returned and the woman spoke. “We’ll take it, we need to move a few things to prepare, but we want it delivered this afternoon so we can decorate it before our party.”

“Ok, please pay the stand manager, tell him your information, and I’ll begin getting your tree ready for transport and delivery.”

The tree was funneled into the special large bailer that we had at this stand and eventually loaded onto the truck. We had to get our delivery guy with the big truck and three guys to move the beast. I went on the delivery to help with the logistics and set up. I was sure to bring a saw, tools, a broom, trash bags, and a forty-foot tape measure.

We approached the building and had to double park the truck while unloading the tree. The home entrance was thankfully on the first floor. We met the help at the door, the couple was nowhere to be seen. We were able to get the thing into the door around the furniture, pieces of art and pictures on the white walls. The living room did have a big ceiling, but it sure didn’t look like it was over twenty five feet. The walls were lined from chest high to ceiling with built in book shelves. There had to be several hundred books lining the walls. The couple arrived and I told them the tree was too big for the ceiling. I measured it and showed it to them. They stood in disbelief, but couldn’t deny the number I showed them. Twenty four feet was the ceiling-to-floor height, if I added the stand then the tree was two feet too tall. The only options were to take it back, cut it, or cut a hole in the ceiling. I relayed these options to the couple and they began whining and complaining to me.

I reminded them that the stand manager would not take a return without keeping half of the money and they would not have a tree for their party tonight. So they decided to have us cut it. I informed them that once we cut the trunk it’ll be a much different tree. It will lose most of the fullest branches. They agreed and then the work began.

As the men cut the trunk I started making small talk with my customers.

“You have a beautiful home I really love all of the books you have. What types of books do you collect? Who is the big reader you or your partner?”

The man responded, “They were picked for their colors, I don’t know where they came from.”

“Well…,” I responded with even less respect than I thought possible, “they sure do look wonderful.”

The tree was cut down to size and stood up after about forty-five minutes, it looked quite ugly now with big open spots. We cleaned up and I started to leave. The man of the house gave his maid a fifty dollar bill and she gave it to me. I was done wasting our collective time, I thanked the maid and turned to the couple who had a confused and disappointed look on their face.

I ended our interaction with a snarky pitch, “Well, thank you for your business. I look forward to seeing you next year, however I would recommend a twenty foot tree. It would be perfect in your space.”

Yorkers could surprise you. I was becoming hardened and disenchanted with people in general after several days in the city. One evening an older couple I had seen walking to the store every other day stopped at the stand. They wanted a Douglas fir that needed to be a certain size and shape. They had a picture with them and a tape measure. They were enthusiastic, respectful, and seemed to be having a great time with the process. They had a strong German accent but kept talking to me and each other in English. They picked out the tree that met their requirements and I packed it up and delivered it. Turns out they lived right across from the stand. As we were walking to their apartment I asked them why they had such a specific tree in mind. The gentleman indicated that they were from Germany and left for New York after the war. Every year they would try to find a tree that matched the one they left behind on their farm and recreate the same look of the picture they had. I stayed for a schnapps and chocolate as they showed me the other trees they had already decorated, this was their third. They let me know that the tree I sold them was the closed they had found to the tree they left behind.

We Tree Men also experienced kindness that could thaw our freezing hearts as the holiday got closer. We had people bring us hot cocoa, eggnog, cookies, food, and brandy. It was those people that made me forget the others for a time.

 

 

The People that You Don’t Meet Each Day

There are some people I met that blew my mind. They were different in one way or another from the others I’ve outlined previously.

The first encounter of an exceptional person was one of beauty. I saw many an attractive person, male and female, but one just took my breath away. I was working the ritzy stand at the time and was shooting the shit with one of my coworkers. Then I saw her. She was at the far end if the Armory and approaching the stand of trees. She was six foot tall or more with brown knee high boots. She had brown or tan leggings that seemed to go on forever like the legs inside. My eyes traveled up to a most impressive and proportional waist and chest surrounded by a sweater and leather jacket. I saw her face and it was perfect in the furry hat she was sporting. I immediately pushed a co-worker out of my way and approached the woman and some dude that was with her. I didn’t know he existed and completely ignored him. She was looking at a ten foot Fraser fir and I immediately pulled it out for her to get a better look. The tree that is.

“Hello miss, how can I help you!!” I sang.

She responded in sweet Australian accent, “I’m looking for a tree for my apartment.”

“Well you came to the right place,” I responded stupidly.

She repled, “I want this one and I want it delivered this afternoon to my apartment.”

I told her way too quickly, “I’ll be sure to deliver it personally.”

She gave the stand manager her delivery info and the money. I told him there was no way I wasn’t going to deliver this tree.

He saw my eyes and said, “Keep it in your pants, Time.”

I proceeded to wrap and carry the tree to the customer’s apartment with extreme urgency. I didn’t want to miss her and deal with whomever the dude was. I arrived at the Park Avenue and 68th street apartment slightly out of breath. I entered and told the doorman where I was going and took the elevator up a few floors.

I ring the doorbell and instead of the beauty I met earlier an older Puerto Rican woman answers the door with a Que?

I responded, “I’m here to deliver and set up a Christmas tree.”

In a Rosie Perez like accent she responded with, “Meez Mak Fearsom wants it set up over there in the corner by her picture.”

Recognition of the photo on the wall was instantaneous and the previous interaction and reaction of mine flooded back with new insight.

I was mentally kicking myself, “You were talking to supermodel fool, one you have lusted over since you were fourteen.”

Inset Elles apartment pic.

There was no sign of Elle MacPherson or her Australian accent. Only the picture on the wall and an old Puerto Rican woman. I received a twenty dollar tip from the housekeeper and went on my way.

The second person that stuck with me was exceptionally shocking for a very different reason. I was working a typical day on a new stand. This one was on the Upper East Side just shy of Spanish Harlem. It was an area in transition. There was a ton of bars in the area and a distinct border between new and old housing. Gentrification was occurring and they were knocking down projects and putting up a new high rise apartment building. There were complaints from half of the people in the area that our prices were too high. This was likely the new and old residents’ different demographics.

An old woman in her early seventies approached the stand. She was wearing a babushka, a blue coat, and was towing a shopping basket. She looked just like my beloved grandmother. My grandmother is one of the sweetest and most caring persons I have met. Every word from her comes from the heart. I smiled as I approached the old woman.

I said sweetly, “Hello ma’am, how are you this beautiful day? How can I help you?”

She started to respond before the word day left my lips with, “You rotten cocksuckers should be ashamed of yourselves. How can you sell these fuckin trees for this much? Who do you think you are? Who’s going to buy this shit?”

 

I had no response and the look of shock, disappointment and sadness on my face must have rattled her. She turned away and kept walking while she muttered more of the same vile stuff.

 

 

Crack, Crime, and Co-Workers

So it was hinted at earlier that crack and crime were ever present in New York at the time. There were good reasons why the guys at the stands were doing transactions in the huts. Strong armed robbery, muggings, stick ups, and theft were everywhere. There were shards of glass vials and pipes all over most alcoves and alleys.

Crack heads were always looking for a buck to feed the pipe. They did this by various methods. There was the straight forward begging in front of a place of business, volunteering to help a passerby or customer in exchange for a small fee, theft, mugging, and selling of random ill-gotten goods. The stand was a natural place for all of these approaches. These folks are always around you like seagulls following a fishing boat. Pedestrians needed or wanted to slow down from their brisk city walk to look at or buy the trees, there was cash being exchanged in the street, there were distracted people both working and patronizing the stand, and finally there was stuff to steal and people at the stand to buy.

You needed to sell while still keeping your eye on the crackhead skulking around the stand. This was very nerve racking and wore you out. A poorly placed fuck off to the crackhead could kill your sale as could the crackhead annoying or scaring the customer. We were on a city street not on private property, so there was no legal recourse for us to tell the crackhead, beggar, or crazy transvestite to leave. There were a few ways we dealt with this. One way was to have a blocker on your stand. One of the bigger and less sales savvy employees would be on one or each end of the stand to intimidate the street person. They would stop them, confront them, and most importantly let them know they were noticed. This would encourage the unwanted person to move on to the next spot for the day.

I walked home from the stand with several hundred dollars in my pocket every night. The seagulls kept an eye out for the guys leaving the stands because they knew we had cash. Some of us walked together or took cabs. I refused cabs because I needed my money and I had two legs. When I left the stands I kept vigilant, mumbled a lot, and in general acted crazy. I also had a very illegal six-inch hunting knife strapped to my hip. My appearance and awareness kept the random crackhead from bothering me. I passed rocks being smoked in and around the dark places on my walk to the hotel. It seemed to be everywhere especially around the dicier stands like the East Village. I would take the bus or subway when necessary because they were only a dollar twenty-five for a token at the time.

Working at the stand at night, or even worse overnight, meant guard duty. You were by yourself against the neighborhood. This meant keeping aware of your surroundings, setting up and consolidating the stand for security, creating sight lines, and staying awake. I had to regularly chase dudes trying to run away with a tree or trying to hide, piss, or sleep behind the piles. I started a habit of juggling or throwing a hatchet or knife into a cut log every time an unsavory looking person would come into my awareness. This kept the crazies away better than more lights or additional people.

With all of the crack related chaos out on the streets, Hotel Hell should have been a refuge for me. This was not always the case.

My second year I decided to go to the city early before my final exams. I needed the extra money and I had the idiotic expectation of being able to study during my time in the Hotel or at the stand during slow periods. After four days I would need to travel back home and take my chemistry, engineering dynamics and differential equations final. Then Dean was going to take be back to the city with a load of fresh trees.

Don agreed to my plan and asked me to take cash back to his wife during my travels back with the company van. I had to work at whatever stands needed me and stay in whatever rooms were available at the Windermere.

I arrived the day after Thanksgiving and was put on Milt’s stand with his brother and some other Hilljack nutcase. They appeared to be in good spirits as I approached and informed me that I would be staying in their room this week.

We worked the full day and got along relatively well. As the night guard got there Milt had to go meet Don and the rest of the managers, Matt and the Hilljack told me they were going to grab some food and drinks at a bar. I went to the corner and picked up iced tea and pizza prior to studying at the hotel. No forty bombs for this college guy. They gave me the room key and told me to let them in once they returned from dinner.

I ate my food while studying for two hours. About this time Matt and the Hilljack were knocking on the door like a drug raid was underway. I checked the peephole and let them in. They passed me without a word carrying bags of beer and entered the bedroom which I assumed was Milt’s. The bedroom had a table and chairs with deck of cards and a very full ashtray on it. They closed the door and I forgot about them for a bit as I tried to study in the living room on my cot. I ignored the sound of clanging beer bottles, laughter and coughing, the strong whiff of weed coming from the bedroom, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on.

Milt arrived back from the stand managers meeting and aggressively knocked on the door for me to let him in. I stood up from my cot as the bedroom door shot open. Matt hurried to the front door and let his brother in. From my view of the bedroom I could see the Hilljack sucking on a crack stem with a butane lighter at the other end. There were four vials of crack on the table and two were empty.

Matt hurried in to the bedroom ignoring me, Milt did the same except for a quick back and forth look to the bedroom then to me. The door was slammed and I considered my situation.

I said to myself, “I’m working with a bunch of goddammed crackheads, I’ve got finals to study for, and now I have to worry about getting rolled in my sleep.”

As I was contemplating my fate there was arguing in the bedroom. I couldn’t make out most of it, but it included Milt and the Hilljack going back and forth about not wanting to go to 42 Street again. Just then the door shot open and the Hilljack trotted out the door with Matt. Milt came out of the bedroom with the look in his eyes I had become familiar with dealing with the street crackheads. I was a hyper aware that he was staring at me.

Milt came out of the bed room toward me, I stood up to face him. He then pulled a folding pocket knife out of his pocket opened it and confronted me. My knife was in my work pants under my cot. Milt stopped half way between me and the door to the hotel room.

Milt wildly spat, “You tell anyone about what you see in this room or on the stand and I’ll cut your motherfucking throat in your sleep.”

I stuttered and said, “Milt buddy, I don’t give a flying shit about what you guys do as long as you chill the fuck out. What you do is your business, now put the godammed knife away.”

Milt smiled at me like the first day at the stand and said, “I’m just fuckin with ya, Time. Come have a beer and some weed and relax. You work too hard.”

I drank a beer, took a toke or two from a joint, and went back to my cot. This must have convinced him that I wasn’t a rat, so Milt relaxed and smoked the rest of the rocks. He told me Matt and the Hilljack fucked up and only got a few rocks. He sent them to 42nd street to score more so it could last for the rest of the night. They returned at midnight with more crack. I kept on trying to study while they continued to smoke and play cards. Milt and the Hilljack spent twenty minutes looking for rocks on the scummy floor prior to deciding to go for another run. They went back out to score again at four o’clock. This was repeated every night as well at the stand.

I was relieved after the four days were over. I was going to another room and stand when I returned. I never wanted to take a final more in my life.

 

The End Game

“So Time, you’re out, you’re free, you’re rehabilitated. What’s next? What’s happenin’? What you gonna do? You got the money you owe us?”

I usually returned from the city on the night of the twenty third. The next day I travel to the farm to get paid. I was able to make enough to get presents on Christmas Eve, pay for my next semester of college, and have some spending money. It was well worth it in the end.

So after an adventure like this you are a mess, tired, usually sick, and wanting a clean cockroach-free bed. Most importantly you need sensory isolation. I arrived home to my parents’ house and couldn’t believe the utter silence and serenity. I hugged and kiss my mom and sisters, hugged my dad, and greeted my family warmly. Mom was in the kitchen getting ready for dinner on Christmas Eve, dad was watching football, my sisters were asking me about my adventures. I was numb but content because I was home. Home where it was noise free, warm, roach free, crack free, Milt free, and chaos free.

Merry Christmas Everyone and thanks for reading.

Sincerely,

Timeloose

 

 

The City Then and Now

The city was a different place than it is today. This is obvious from my story. There was a lot of negative aspects to the job, but there was much to enjoy as well. So much of what made the place enjoyable and tolerable were the people we met and places we frequented when we had time for a break. These were usually food establishments, stores nearby with stuff I could never find at home, and the excitement and flavor of the city itself. I feel this has been diminished over the years. The same things that make the city exciting to nineteen year old time are the same things that were getting routed out by gentrification and growth. They city is thriving, but along the way that flavor is lost. Most of the great places we ate at are now banks or chain restaurants. Several of the grocery’s we sold in from of are closed including the 110th street store. Below were some of my favorite places, some are no more.

Fowad: Not a restaurant but a strange clothing store with crazy outfits. The window displays were fun to look at.

Happy Burger: I hit this place up for a burger and calendar for many years after I stopped doing tree sales.

Columbia Hot Bagels: The best Bagel I ever had. Chewy and soft at the same time. More Cream cheese than I thought possible.

Mikes Papaya: A great place for a cheap meal. The papaya drinks were good and refreshing. This place has gone away as have many of the papaya hot dog places.

Hotel Windermere: Hotel Hell was renovated and now has apartments for six to fifteen grand a month. WTF? How did they get all of the glass out of the lobby roof?

Dive Bar: Still the same as I remembered

Koronet Pizza: Giant slices of pizza that kept me full while saving money.

Previously…

 

The Job

If you read my previous post I had just accepted a short term job in New York City to sell Christmas trees. I walked to my work site after an impromptu meeting with the big boss man. As I walked back I tried to remember my basic knowledge of Christmas trees. Most of this knowledge was from my own experiences as a kid climbing trees and living through a Christmas with live trees. My family liked blue spruce trees, I was familiar with white and scotch pines, and I remembered Douglass fir trees were a bit wimpy at holding heavy ornaments. That was the entirety of my knowledge of the subject. I soon found out that my immediate job had little to do with selling trees.

I entered the stand at 110th and Broadway and noticed details I missed earlier in the morning. The stand was on the side of a fairly large grocery store called Gristedes. This store was allowing us to use their power, toilets, and part of their frontage on Broadway. As I passed the front window of the store I saw a fully decorated tree near the manager’s office.

Dean and I said our goodbyes and made plans to meet back up when he returned tomorrow night with another load of trees.

I walked up to the hut that Jerry had been sleeping in earlier and knocked on the frame with much less vigor than Dean had applied.

“Hello” I called out, “I’m here to start working. Bill told me to get started as soon as possible.”

As the tarp to the hut opened I saw a skinny big nosed guy a few years older than me get up.

“Don’t come knocking like that when I’m countin’ money,” he spat in a Scranton accent that I was all too familiar with.

“Sorry,” I said, “I just started about 15 minutes ago and I need to know what to do. I’m Time, Don and Bill sent me here to replace the guy that got sent home.”

“No praahblem, I’m Tony and I run the stand while Bill sits in the hut. Get over to the bench and start setting up trees with Lumpy.”

So I walked over to the green bench that was essentially a table with a two v-cuts added to the top to act as a saw horse. A guy, who I assume was Lumpy, was using the bench to attach the bases to the trees. He used the table to hold the bound trees while he sawed the trunks straight then hammered bases to the trees using a claw hammer and three eight-penny nails.

I introduced myself to Lumpy, then I grabbed trees off the pile I created that morning, before feeding them to the table. Lumpy was able to attach a base as fast as I could retrieve a bound tree. I then took the upright tree with the base attached to a holding area. We did this for about an hour before we really talked at all. I jumped in and allowed us both to be as productive as we could. Another guy who I hadn’t met started taking the trees we stood up and moved them into the forest on the sidewalk I noted earlier. He cut the twine binding them then gently spread out the branches.

After we stood all of the trees up, Lumpy and I stopped to clean up and talk a bit. I wanted to know more about the stand and what else we needed to do.

I lit up a smoke and turned to Lumpy and asked him, ”So what is the job like, what else do we have to do?”

Lumpy responded, “They tell me to stand up trees, sweep, and then I do it.”

I responded, ”Yea, I get that, but what else do you do?”

Lumpy repeated what he said earlier but added, “If you mess up they send you to work at the other stands, guard for the night, or if you really mess up you get put on a bus.”

“What happened to the last guy,” I asked, “the one who went home yesterday?”

Lumpy look around before he responded, “He got robbed too many times.”

“So he got robbed at the stand? Were trees stolen or money?” I asked.

Lumpy shot back, “No heee got robbed too many times.” He got robbed on the way home from work every day this week by the same couple of….black guys.” He whispered the last bit.

I soon found out that this conversation was going nowhere fast. Lumpy was a nice enough guy, but he was not given a lot of responsibility at the stand. He seemed a bit slow and was given pure grunt work. I needed to ask Tony or one of the other guys working the stand on what else to do.

By this time Bill was back from breakfast and was talking to Tony and a few others working there. I inquired about the rest of my responsibilities and received some better feedback.

Our main job of course was selling trees. We were to help any potential customers by answering questions about the trees, showing them trees that matched what they were looking for, and whenever possible upsell them on wreaths and stands we also sold. I asked about the tree varieties we sold and what makes them different, special, or more expensive. I picked up the gig quickly and learned about prepping, selling, packaging, and the delivery process.

Once a sale has been made you pulled off the bottom of the tag with the price and type of tree written on it in sharpie. The top of the tag remained on the tree as a receipt for the customer. You handed the tag bottom and the money to the stand manager so he could keep inventory at the end of the day. Then you had to remove the base with a rap of the hammer or hatchet hammer, shove the tree in the bailing funnel, put a fresh cut on the trunk with a bow saw, and then bail the tree for transport with a plastic mesh.

The competitive advantage of Don’s stands over the many others in the city were the types and freshness of the trees we sold. The locations of our stands allowed us to display the trees like a forest and our ability to get and deliver large trees was a big draw.

We were the only company at the time selling Fraser fir trees as well as the other more common trees I mentioned earlier. At the time Frasers were not available in most of the north east. Most of what were called Fraser firs were actually Canadian Balsam. Don traveled to North Carolina every summer and tagged thousands of Fraser firs, then had them delivered in late November. These trees cost us quite a bit more than the others and were sold at a forty to fifty percent premium. The other trees came from the local farm back in Pennsylvania and were comparatively free. We offered delivery as a free service within Manhattan. Doing a delivery was a great option for the tree man to make extra money. You offered to carry the tree for the customer or arrange for future delivery and then set the tree up for them. You could expect five to twenty bucks depending on the tree. This is usually worth the money to the customer as most don’t want to get tree sap and needles all over their clothes. I was already a filthy mess, so that wasn’t a problem.

The problem was my outfit was chosen to keep me warm for twelve hours or more in sub-freezing weather. My typical garb was a pair of long johns under a t-shirt and jeans, under a sweatshirt covered by a Carhart or ski jacket. I also wore a stocking cap, thermal socks, leather work gloves, and work boots.

On a typical delivery I would likely need to walk five blocks, up five flights of stairs, then spend fifteen minutes setting up the tree. Apartments in many parts of New York at the time were heated by central steam heat and were usually way too hot. By the time of my walk back to the stand from a delivery I was sweating profusely and freezing cold at the same time.

We had trucks for delivery for our bigger trees, this was typically a two man job and the truck guys could clean up in tips. Tips were my way to keep from asking Don for an additional advance for food and drinks, but more on those two topics later.

Selling the trees came easy to me. I found that few New Yorkers knew even less than I did about trees, so they believed anything I told them. I didn’t lie to them to sell the trees, but if they had any questions and I didn’t know the answer I just faked it.

The New York customer, however, was very willing to shop around if they felt they might get the tree for a cheaper price elsewhere. So we often had people tell us that our trees were way too much and that they would just wait till we were packing up to get them at a discount. Many came back when they wanted a fresh high quality tree that wouldn’t die the moment it hit their steam heated, dry as the Sahara, ten-story walk up. We also had many repeat customers from previous years. Most remember the place they got their tree last year and where they got a good or bad one.

There were the yearly bargain hunters that came by every day and commented that we were never going to sell out so we should sell to them at a substantial discount.

“Hey Tree Man, you’re going to get stuck with all of those trees if you don’t lower your prices!” was shouted by every tenth passerby.

“I’ll see you on the twenty first, then we’ll see what your prices will be,” one persistent passer by piped up every day.

He finally came to buy on the twentieth of December and said he was ready to deal. I told him the price and offered to knock off 5 bucks because we talked so many times. He offered me twenty bucks for a fifty five dollar tree which I rejected.

He countered with, “How much is it going to cost you to pack it up, put it on the truck and take it back to bumfuck with you.”

I responded, “Less than reducing all of our prices earlier and earlier each year because our customers know if they wait long enough we’ll give it to them for free.”

“Well what are you going to do with them all if you don’t sell em?” He shot back.

“Bill,” I yelled out to the stand manager “This guy wants to know what we are going to do with all of the trees we don’t sell,”

Bill responded instantly “We will just truck them back to the farm and burn them all. Crackle crackle, crackle”

I then informed him that the tree he thinks we couldn’t sell from yesterday was sold and turned over with fresh cut trees from our farm this morning. So this tree was cut fresh yesterday and brought to him so he could have the best tree possible. I wasn’t lying exactly, because we did get a delivery of new trees in that morning, I just don’t know that the one I tried to sell him was one of them. Lumpy might have known.

I eventually sold him the tree at a ten percent discount. He came back the next year and bought another tree, but this time a week earlier.

 

My Co-Workers

The job of selling trees was hard work followed by lots of clean up and then boredom. During the work day, early mornings, or late nights there were few people looking to buy a tree. This changed the closer you got to Christmas or on weekends. Most of the day you spent shooting the shit with your crew and watching the people, places, and things you see. You were on the street for more hours than most of the beggars and crack heads.

Here are a few of the types of people I worked and spent time with.

The farmer’s kid who never got out of the county he lived in. These guys went one of two ways, they kept their heads down and worked like animals or they went nuts. The nuts would spend all night getting drunk in the hotel, trying to get hookers, and or buy all of the porn they could find. They weren’t dangerous or troublesome.

The college kid who doesn’t want to get his hands dirty and only wants to work the safe stands. These guys were ok, if a bit too lazy, they were usually good in the high rent districts as they didn’t scare the rich folks.

The older seasonal worker who needs the job for additional money for the holidays. Most of these folks were managers of the stands or temp workers. With a few notable exceptions they were there for the money and worked hard.

People that Don knew from his past that he trusted with big clients. This group was very eclectic and included college professors, truck drivers, and an artist.

Lifers from the nursery that need the extra money and want to get away from the wife and kids. These guys were people like Lumpy, they worked hard but were not very good at solving problems or dealing with the city. The guy who I replaced kept getting mugged for a reason. He showed up to the gig wearing a high school t-shirt, his hunting jacket with the license still attached, and a blaze orange hat. He got mugged because he acted like a tourist and stood out like a blaze orange mark.

Random strangers who might have answered a want-ad or were a friend of a friend who did this last year. This was the wild card group. I knew a few of these guys from high school and they could be ok. Others were complete nightmares. The nightmares had drug habits, looked to buy hot items from the crackheads, and usually spent all of their pay each night at bars, strip clubs, or on the crack.

People like me who ended up there and wanted to make the most of it while dealing with and loving the chaos.

My first week at the stand allowed me to meet and work with several of the types of people I just described. We would spend a lot of time observing the chaos on Broadway at night. There was a constant flow of beggars and crack heads that were hanging around the stand. We were always on the lookout for tree or tool theft, muggings, and people bothering our customers. We eventually built a relationship of sorts with many of the local drug dealers, beggars, and hookers. We occasionally shared a cigarette or shot the shit. Once they knew we would not give them any money or buy any wares from them they backed off. However, every time a new guy arrived to work at the stand he got taken for money or scammed by the same crew of street folks.

The work day at the stand very much depended on where the stand was located and who managed it. The location determined the clientele and the manager determined everything else. I was put on the 110th Street stand for a reason. Dean was and is my best friend and wanted to look out for me. He did this gig for many years before I got involved and this was his stand. Bill the manager was a good guy who wanted the stand to run well. He was chosen because the stand needed a responsible and mature person to deal with the store manager, police, and various city bureaucrats. This location as well as many of the others were won by years or relationship building and could be lost to the competition if any major issues occurred. So the flagship stand was a base of operations on the West side, storage location, and show place for the brand.

The second flagship was on the East side and was a location only someone like Don could have obtained. The stand was in front of the Armory between 66th and 67th and Lexington. This area was extremely wealthy and only a block from Park Avenue. This stand specialized in really large trees, high service levels from the staff, and lots of inventory to choose from. The manager was smart, well organized, and an-Army veteran. His staff were all safe looking college kids and a few grunts that stayed away from the customers. This stand was the money maker and could generate eight thousand dollars a day or more.

The other stands were a mixed bag. There were several stands that were test cases to see if they could generate revenue. These stands became regulars if they made money or were closed if they failed to. Other stands were smaller and leaner because of the layout of the site and required a smaller work force. They could still make a lot of money and were usually retained each year. Overall there were around six stands in the city depending on the year.

I had the opportunity during my first year to float to several stands. At the time I assumed this was because I was such a hard worker, but in reality I discovered that I was sent in by Don to monitor and curtail bad behaviors by the managers or staff.

Don would patrol the stands day and night during the season. Don would enforce cleanliness, customer courtesy, safety, and work ethic issues he saw with an immediate and brutal response. He was notorious for sneaking upon the stands and addressing any issues he saw on whomever was closest to the problem. If the person was the problem then it was even more brutal. Each stand kept a lookout for the Ford F-150 that Don patrolled in.

One morning Don was on such a patrol to the 110th street stand. Thankfully I was pretty busy at the time and not playing catch the hammer with Jerry. I was selling away and then standing up new trees as space opened up. Bill was in the hut keeping warm and watching the money. Jerry and Lumpy were taking turns going to lunch and helping me sell. Don snuck up behind me as I was talking to a customer about a blue spruce. I heard a clicking of ice inside a plastic handled coffee mug as he stood behind me.

Don asked the customer, “So is Timey taking care of you today?”

“Yes he has been very helpful, are these your trees?” the customer asked.

Don said, laying it on thick, “Why yes they are, they were cut down just yesterday from my little farm in Pennsylvania.”

“Timey”, Don said, “Once you are done with this customer come see me in the hut.”

I finished up the sale and met Don and Bill in the hut. He was in the middle of a conversation with Bill while sipping on the coffee mug every few seconds. Bill was arguing mildly with Don about needing another person.

I interjected, “Hello Don, what did you want to see me about?”

Don responded, ”Well fella, I’m going to have you help out a few of our other stands this week before the big weekend coming up. We will have more people coming in on Friday, so you can come back to Billy’s stand.”

I quickly replied, “Ok Don, whatever you want, you’re the boss.”

“Splendid Fella, come to the truck with me and I’ll drive you to Milt’s stand.”

Don and I entered the truck double parked on 110th. He sat down, opened the top of the coffee mug an reached under the seat and pulled out a bottle of Passport scotch, filled the cup to about one half full, filled the rest with diet Coke from a can in the cupholder, and replaced the mug lid. He then lit up a Kool and turned to me.

“Would you like a Menthol fella?” Don asked.

“Sure Don,” I responded. “Why does Milt’s stand need more help?”

“You’ll see Timey,” Don grumbled.

 

 

We arrived at Milt’s stand on Columbus Circle. The stand was a quarter the size of the stand I left. Don drove past the stand then double parked a street away. There was one worker visible sitting on the cutting box smoking a cigarette. He was surrounded by a few trees standing on bases, with several laying on the ground, there was a large pile of bound trees leaning against the back of the hut. There was a mess of branches, trunk stubs, and bailing netting around the stand and across the sidewalk way. Don briskly walked over to the stand approaching the lone worker from behind.

Don loudly asked the worker through clenched teeth, “Terry, where is Milt and why the hell are you fucking lollygagging while the stand is a godawful mess?”

Terry stammered, “Milt and Matt is getting a coffee, I was gonna clean up once they got back.”

Don grabbed Terry’s long greasy mullet and pulled it like he was teasing a girl on the playground.

He growled, “Clean it up now, you pissant. Don’t let me see this stand like this again or you’re going to be on the next bus home.”

Terry quickly got up and started sweeping the stand, shook his head, then straightened his hat.

Right around this time two guys I assume are Milt and Matt arrive at the stand. Milt looks like a six foot four beefy redneck version of Rob Zombie wearing full coveralls and a dirty ball cap. Matt is a lanky and greasy looking redneck with a weird limp. There was no coffee to be seen.

Milt looks nervous and twitchy as he approaches, Matt is a bit bleary eyed.

Milt started speaking as he approached the stand, “Hey Don, sorry I was going to the bathroom and calling my wife.”

Don responded, “Milton, this stand looks unacceptable and the sales won’t improve if you’re not here keeping the display looking good. I’m leaving Timey here to help you get the stand set back up and presentable. I’ll be back tonight and things better be up to our standards. Timey, I’ll see you later fella.”

Don walked back to his truck and left me at the stand with Milt, Matt, and Terry.

I walked up to Milt and introduced myself.

“Hi Milt, I’m Timeloose, what do you want me to do to help.”

Milt walked up to me and got in my face. I could smell the strong odor of trees, weed, and something acrid.

Milt softly answered, “I want you to go help Don suck his own dick and get the fuck out of my shit.”

He then laughed loudly showing his tobacco stained teeth. It was not a sane looking laugh.

He then said, “Go get working setup with Terry and we’ll be by to help later.”

 

 

I did what Milt asked of me and he and Matt walked back into the tent.

Milt did help us get the stand back into shape and we made quite a few sales after the locals got off of work. Milt and I seemed to be getting along better, he was obviously smoking weed in the tent with Matt who ended up being his brother. I had no issues with this or anything else I saw there that day. I imagine that was Don’s point of dropping me off there. I was in effect a watchdog. Milt had started getting antsy as Don arrived to inspect the stand about eight hours later. I was sent to another stand on the East Side the next day, but Milt and my story was not over.

One could and did get a bit crazy and short tempered after a day of dealing with the constant stress of asshole customers, street people, the long hours, and the sheer noise. Most of the folks working at the stands previously never spent more than a day in a city. The constant flow of people and noises could be overwhelming. Our only refuge was the fine hotel we slept in.

 

Hotel Living at its Finest or Alternatively Welcome to Hell

Don promise me a very nice hotel.

I walked back to the hotel from my first day on the job at eleven at night. I was working on being up for over thirty hours. I needed to grab some junk food, smokes, and see if I could get a beer from one of the corner bodegas. I was told earlier in the day that no one would ask for ID. Tony and I walked back together as I would be staying in his room this first night. We walked into the Korean grocery and I went right to the beer case. That was the night I discovered the magic of Old English 800. I picked up one forty ounce bottle.

“Time,” Tony said, “You’re going to need another bottle if you want to be able to sleep tonight.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” I responded. “I’m beat and one bottle should get me a nice buzz going.”

“You’ll see, just get the extra bottle bud.” He replied back.

I quickly answered. “Whatever, it’s my first night in the city so I’ll spurge a bit.”

 

 

I walked apprehensively to the counter, I was 19 and not expecting the Korean gentleman at the counter to just ring me up without an ID check.

“You want more forty?” The clerk asked.

“No, two is good,” I responded.

“Tree guys all get lots of forty. Try Crazy Horse like your friend.” The clerk motioned to Tony.

I was now getting a bit worried. Why were are all of the tree guys buying up all of the malt liquor in town.

Tony and I paid for our beer and snacks and walked the rest of the way to the hotel. We arrived at the hotel about 5 minutes later.

The hotel was called the Windermere and was at 666 West End Drive.

Tony turned to me and smiled, “Welcome to Hell, Time.”

 

 

The Hotel Windermere was a big old building that appeared to have seen better days. The lobby was shabby and covered in what looked like years of filth and cigarette smoke. Everything seemed to have a coating of a tan scummy film. The lighting didn’t help as there was several half lit yellowed fixtures on the ceiling bathing the lobby in a dim shadowy tint.

 

 

As Tony and I approached the front desk a man with a “Habib” name tag grumbled as we approached with bags of beer.

Habib commented with a strong Indian accent as we walked by, “You Tree man need to keep it down, no more complaints this year from my tenants.”

Tony ignored Habib, turned to me and said, “He can go fuck himself, the tenants are louder than we are and half of them are hookers and junkies.”

We approached the lobby elevator and I noted there were twenty-two floors. We got in and Tony told me we were on the sixteenth floor Room 9. All of the rooms nearby were all tree men. Don’s room was on the eighteenth floor, Room 22. We exited the ancient elevator that still had the old operator lever attached with a set of buttons above it. The hallway was as clean as the lobby, but with less lighting and a funk of bad cooking and stale cigarette smoke.

As we approached the room there was a roar of voices and laughter coming from the surrounding rooms. We got to Room 9, Tony got out a key, and opened the door. As the door opened there were about ten people sitting in various states of dress eating takeout food, smoking cigarettes, and drinking forties of malt liquor. All of the windows were wide open with no screens in them.

I asked Tony with concern, “How many of us are in here?”

Tony responded, “Twelve or so, two in each bedroom, and eight in the living room.” Two guys are working guard duty.”

I asked, “Who gets the bedrooms?”

He responded, “Managers and people like me who’ve been doing this for a bunch. Take one of them empty cots.”

I laughed a bit and said, “I’m glad I got the second forty Tony, it’ll be tough sleeping in a room with all these assholes snoring and farting.”

Tony laughed back and said, “Bud, the second or third bottle is so you can ignore the roaches and rats crawling around once the lights go off. Once your shit gets here, keep it closed or you’ll bring some of those cocksuckers back with you.”

As I adjusted to being inside I started noticing the smell of twelve hardworking people in a small space. I also started to realize why the windows were open. It had to be ninety degrees in there. I introduced myself to the drunk and getting drunker roommates. We all shared tales of the city that day. As we all got drunker and more rowdy. We started talking about Don, the stand managers, and some of the more fucked up people in the crew. I came to find out Don drinks all day every day while he is here and never really sleeps. There are rumors of him taking crank or pills to keep himself awake.

As I finished the second forty I realized I had no covers, sleeping bag, or pillow. The others around me started passing out one at a time. I decided to try to do the same. I balled up my coat and used it as a pillow, but as I laid down on the cot a brisk wind blew over me from the open window. I put the coat back on but as soon as the wind stopped it became hot as hell. Thankfully the second forty kicked in fully and I passed out.

I awoke from my drunken slumber every hour or so as I heard a car alarm, squealing brakes on a bus, or someone yelling outside. At some point I looked out the window as the sun was rising and I noticed that the hotel was a big tube, with rooms on the inside of the hall looking at the other side of the hotel. There was a roof above the first floor lobby with a ton of garbage on it.

Dean arrived the next day and met me at the hotel with my stuff. He included a towel, sleeping bag, and clothes. He stayed for the rest of the week as it was getting close to crunch time for the stands. It was good to get a change of clothes and I looked forward to a shower.

I entered the shower after peeling off the ratty cloths I had on. I was worried I might not have any hot water, I was wrong. The faucet seemed to produce live steam even with the cold water on full. After creating a few first degree burns I thought I figured out the right mixture. I quickly hopped in and started hosing off. I found that most of my face, hands and arms were covered with pine pitch that would not come off with the soap and water. After this realization, I discovered that nothing in this world is constant, especially this fucking shower. The raw steam returned and scorched my junk then became ice cold. I was done being thermally shocked and gave up on getting any cleaner.

Each day I would repeat the same ritual of work, fortyies, drunken madness with my co-workers, followed by shock showers. The weekend after Deaner returned we got into our third forty of the night, we were now drinking the Crazy Horse as recommended by the Korean shop owner. The room was littered with empties and takeout containers. Dean thought it would be funny if he tossed an empty from the sixteenth floor. He and I turned the light off trying to keep the locals from suspecting where the bottle came from. He and I looked out the window and down into the black pit of the hotel center. We each grabbed an empty and tossed it towards the center to be sure it didn’t go through someone’s window below.

The bottles sounded like a double barrel shotgun blast that reverberated for way too long. We both pissed ourselves laughing while hiding like children. This became a ritual as well, we limited our fun to one bottle a night. Others heard of our “Forty Bomb” idea and unfortunately it spread and escalated.

A few nights later Dean and I were drinking with another group in their room on the eighteenth floor. Two guys, Brian and Greg, were staying in a much smaller room with another four guys. One of these guys was named Lenny. Lenny was a partier that was drinking himself out of college. Brian, Greg, and Lenny worked at the high end stand on the East Side and were clearing hundreds a day in tips. They were also spending their money as fast as they could make it at strip clubs and bars. Lenny was out at the Dive Bar on Amsterdam this night and every night. Greg and Brian had a few with Lenny then came back to the hotel to drink some forties with Dean and I.

We told them about the forty bomb idea a few days earlier, they started throwing all garbage out the windows on to the roof of the lobby. We were shooting the shit for an hour or so, when we brought up our bomb from last night.

“Hey Brian,” I asked, “Did you hear our Forty Bomb last night? It dropped around two thirty.”

He shot back, “You’re all a bunch of pussies, we perfected the bomb.” “We call ours the airstrike. Three precision bottles, one from each window.”

I was about to ask for more details, but then Lenny came back from the Dive Bar. Lenny was wearing a thick puffy ski jacket and a stocking cap that he violently whipped off as soon as he got inside the room. Lenny was plowed drunk, he stumbled into the living room where we were discussing the bomb and airstrike with Dean, Brian, and Greg. Lenny gathered about six empties from the table and hugged them like they were his long lost mother, arched his back, walked them over to the window, stumbled, then dropped them all at once out into the night. The noise was a tremendous series of shots that seem to last for minutes. It was followed by yells and screams from the rest of the hotel.

Lenny turned to the group and slurred, “Nucleeer Baahms.”

We stopped dropping bombs after the Nucleeer option was executed by Lenny, this is why we can’t have nice things.

 

Next: Part 3…

 

In the early nineteen nineties I had the opportunity to make money for college, experience the thrills of the big city, and learn lessons of free market capitalism. All it required from me was twelve to twenty-four hour workdays laboring outside in the elements, dealing with muggers, crack heads, hookers, pimps, petty thieves, and worst of all the New York City consumer during the holidays. I experienced the best and worst of the city, my co-workers, managers, and citizens during the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. This is a memoir with stories across three years consolidated into one narrative.

 

The Pitch and the Gig

My buddy Dean worked at a family-owned landscaping business that had a nursery and tree farm. One Friday we were hanging out drinking some vile beverages, smoking cigs, and shooting the shit.

Dean said to me, “Time, do you want to make some money this weekend? It’ll be a blast and we can drink when we get done.”

“Well”, I said, “twenty bucks is twenty bucks…So what’s the gig?”

For some context — Time is habitually poor, a freshman in college, and working multiple part-time jobs under the table. Dean told me they needed someone at his job to help drive and unload a truck of Christmas trees from the nursery to a bunch of tree stands in New York City. Dean began the sales pitch.

“The job pays seven dollars an hour, my boss will buy us a bunch of drinks and food when we get there, then we drive home the next day with all the cash and receipts from the stands.”

I responded, “I’m in Deaner, I’m free this weekend and I’ve never been to New York City unsupervised”.

Over the next several weeks I went from being hired labor for the weekend, to staying for the rest of the holiday season selling and delivering trees at several of the stands. Over the next three years I was managing a stand, delivering and setting up decorations at a few really wealthy clients’ homes, and trying to study for midterms during the chaos.

 

 

Arrival and First Impressions

My first tree gig had Deaner and me taking a stake-body truck full of trees from the farm in rural Pennsylvania to New York. We had an uneventful two-hour drive and arrived at three in the morning. We drove into upper Manhattan across the George Washington Bridge, down the Westside highway, and promptly double parked on 110th Street between Riverside Drive and Broadway.

As we exited the truck I was hit with a brisk wind blowing off the Hudson cutting through the large buildings. It’s was about thirty degrees but the wind chill was substantial. I felt apprehension and excitement as I walked into the street and on to the sidewalk. Till now I’ve only visited New York as a teen during school field trips.

In my head I’m saying to myself, “I’m in the big city at three in the morning, woohoo!”

There was still quite a lot of activity and lights from businesses on Broadway even at this late of an hour. As I looked down 110th street it was comparatively dark, but I could see the yellow glow of a cathedral in the distance with an outline of dim street lights.

The tree stand was halfway down the long city block on the right side of the street, the sidewalk was now a narrow walkway surrounded on both sides by upright Christmas trees each with an X-shaped, two-by-four base that was nailed to the trunk. There was also a short pile of twenty twine-bound trees near the back of the stand. Each tree had a two-part tag with a price and description of the type of tree on both halves. There was a hut near the middle of the stand made of two-by-fours and opaque plastic sheeting with a single bulb inside. Near the hut was a green wooden table with a red tree funnel and bailing netting. As Deaner and I walked up to the hut, he and I noted that there was a person inside and he was not moving.

Deaner gave me the fingers to the lips “shush” gesture, he grabbed a base from the pile, snuck up to the hut, and then violently pounded the base against the frame of the hut and screamed.

“Give me all your money, Mutha Fucka!”

We saw the obviously sleeping figure bolt upright and start to stumble around the hut while stammering.

“Whuuut… nooo,” followed meekly by, “go away man I got an axe.”

Deaner yelled out, “relax Jerry, it’s Dean, you need to stay the fuck awake or you’re going get rolled and cleaned out.”

Jerry popped his head out of the hut and put on a goofy smile.

“Hey Dean,” he responded.

Shortly thereafter, recognition pushed through the resin in his brain.

Jerry turned towards me and said, “Time, woooww man, how’d you get here?”

Jerry and I were acquaintances from high school. He’s one of those permanently stoned, even when he’s not, Grateful Dead loving, harmless hippies that everyone of a certain age had in their high school.

We collectively tried to wake up by grabbing a smoke and a cup of instant coffee from the hut. We then unloaded forty or so trees from the truck.

We drove to and unloaded trees at two additional stands on the West Side of Manhattan with the help of the night guards in various states of consciousness. Deaner and I got in to the truck after the third stand was resupplied.

I asked him, “where to now, Deaner?”

Deaner responded back, “we gotta get to the other two stands but they’re on the East Side.”

Neither I nor Deaner knew this at the time, but there were only a few ways across Central Park from the West Side to the East Side, you could go around it or take two or three cross streets. I read from an Exxon map that there was a crossing at 65th street that seemed convenient since our next stand was on 66th and Lexington.

I bellowed over the stake body truck engine and wind noise, “Take 65th Deaner”

Deaner responded, “will do, Time” as he turned into the park.

 

 

We were accelerating as we plunged into the relatively dark park in the middle of the bright city center. Everything was going well until we saw a stone tunnel under an overpass fast approaching. We were going way too fast and ignoring signs of clearances and no commercial traffic warnings. Dean and I looked at each other for a split second in shared horror.

Deaner shouted out, “Fuck It!” Then he hit the gas.

The two by four stakes sticking up out of the top of the truck hit and sheared off one at a time as we shot through the tunnel. We stopped for a quick second after exiting the tunnel and I checked the load. The trees were still in the bed of the stake body but all of the stakes were broken off the truck and laying in the tunnel. There was no sense in waiting to be arrested or having the truck impounded.

I turned to Deaner and yelled, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

So we got back in the truck and continued on our way.

We arrived at the last two stands, unloaded the last of the trees, and drove back to the first stand on 110th street to park it for the rest of the morning. We then walked to meet the boss for breakfast to provide an inventory of the deliveries at each stand. Before we arrived at the restaurant we both agreed that the tunnel incident never happened.

 

 

The Big Boss

Dean and I walked a few blocks down Broadway to Happy Burger on 93rd to meet the boss, Don, or as Dean called him, Uncle Donny. He was not his actual uncle but he saw him as a bit of a mentor and comic figure. Happy Burger was a greasy spoon restaurant that served huge burgers and great breakfasts. We walked into the dim back of the restaurant and I see a skinny older man dressed in clean work clothes, wearing a stocking cap, smoking a Kool, and holding a thermos mug. He had wispy gray hair, glasses, and a stern look on his face. He was surrounded by several grubby looking tired guys eating breakfast and talking. As we approached the table, Donny’s face changed to a smile as he called out to us.

“Well hello Deany my boy, is this your man Time you told me about?”

Dean introduced me to Don and the table of stand managers. Don invited us to sit down as he began talking to me.

“So Timey how was your drive in, do you like the city, are you busy the next several days or weeks?”

After each of my responses Donny would respond, “splendid, splendid.”

Don was surly when we arrived because he had just fired two guys that morning and sent them packing to the Port Authority.

Don turned to me and asked in a cultured and intelligent sounding tone, “So Timey how would you like to make some money this week and experience the wonders of New York culture during the best time of the year?”

Deaner turned to me and said he could go to my house, pick up some clothes, and then bring them back on his next trip in.

I turned to Don and responded, “I appreciate the opportunity, but what’s the pay, and where will I be sleeping?”

 

 

Don responded that the job paid seven dollars an hour excluding tips and that he had paid for a very nice hotel for his people to stay in while they worked in the city. I would also be given a forty dollar advance for expenses and food.

I though it over and decided I would stay the week and try it out.

“I’m in Don, thanks for the opportunity.”

Don smiled again, stood up, shook my hand, and responded in a soft-spoken voice, “Splendid, splendid Timey.”

As I shook his hand I got a strong whiff of Scotch and Kools.

“So when do I start, Don?” I responded back.

“Well Timey”, he sang, “better three hours too soon than a minute too late.”

One of the stand managers, Bill, then spoke up.

“He means you need to get your sorry ass over to 110th and Broadway because your shift started thirty minutes ago.”

Deaner and I left the Happy Burger and walked back to the stand at 110th street.

I turned to him and said, “Well…twenty bucks is twenty bucks”

Deaner responded, “You’ll remember this for the rest of your life and if you hustle you’ll make lots of money. So work hard, have fun, but don’t get yourself killed, fuckface.”

 

Part 2: It’s Good Work If You Can Get It — The Job; My Co-Workers; Hotel Living at its Finest, or Alternatively, Welcome to Hell.

Part 3: Oh the Humanity — The People that You Meet Each Day; The People that You Don’t Meet Each Day; Crack, Crime, and Co-Workers; The End Game; The City Then and Now