Chocolate Thunder Dawkins: On the 2nd Thursday of every month my office conducts unit meetings. They take place in the conference room and everyone in my unit’s obligated to attend. We sit at the round table and listen to our managers recite various numbers up the food-chain via a speakerphone that connects the offices nationwide. You can hear as each office checks-in.
Boston has joined the meeting.
Los Angeles has joined the meeting.
Portland has joined the meeting.
When we have these meetings, an adjuster from each office is obligated to discuss one of their more problematic claims. Then staff nationwide are encouraged to evaluate the facts and debate the value of the claim.
Being that I’m an investigator (as opposed to an adjuster) I’ve never been asked to participate in these discussions, though I’m still obligated to attend. I’m expected to take note of the issues discussed and to be mindful of them on future investigations.
I’m the only investigator in my particular unit, but there’s another investigator on staff--Amy, who speaks at every meeting. Amy heads the company’s Special Investigations Unit which investigates claims that have been red-flagged. This can happen for a variety of reasons, but they oftentimes turn out to be fraudulent (or at least, contain elements of fraud). I was supposed to work special investigations--and therefore in Amy’s unit, but we’ll get to that in due time.
Amy discusses fraudulent cases and scams at every meeting. She gets visibly upset as she rattles off the dollar amounts involved in each of the cases and gesticulates with amazement at the audacity of the perpetrators. She was a criminal justice major in college, votes Republican, and has yet to wear a skirt after two years worth of meetings. I can’t stand Amy.
About two or three months ago, Amy suggested that I give a presentation on New York Labor Law. Just mentioned it aloud--out of the blue to the VP at one of our meetings.
“You know Jerry,” she said towards the speakerphone in a manner that reminded me of Kate Jackson from the old Charlie’s Angels show, “this Labor Law issue and the grave injury aspect are constantly being revised by the courts. Perhaps we can get Lodo to do some research and give a presentation since he handles so many of those investigations.”
To his credit, I think Jerry was as surprised as I was to hear my name dropped. At least, that was the vibe I got from his voice over the phone.
“..Uh, yeah Amy, that sounds like an excellent suggestion,” Jerry responded in his cowboy drawl. I could see him out there in LA as he stroked his blonde mustache. “What d’ya think there Lodo--is that something you’d be interested in helping us out with?”
I choked down my coffee, wiped my mouth, and cleared my throat.
“...Uh (cough),..yeah Jerry, if its something you’d like me to do then of course I can do that.”
“Oh that’s super Lodo, then we’ll put you on next month’s agenda for a presentation on New York Labor Law.”
New York Labor Law. Does that sound like a fun subject reader? Fucking Amy. For the life of me I don’t know where that suggestion of hers came from. I can’t stand public speaking and had to down (2) Xanax just to deliver that frickin’ presentation. But I got it done reader ‘cause that’s what I do. Just like this God damn post that’s taken me forever to finish--I get the shit done.
But ask some people how much you should give and there only answer is more, more, more, more. No sooner had I completed that Labor Law presentation when Amy had another epiphany.
“You know Jerry, maybe next month I can use a fact-pattern based on one of my cases and we can have Lodo perform kind-of a mock interview of me. Afterward, we can see how many potential issues the adjusters recognize.”
“Why that’s a heck of an idea Amy,” Jerry responded. “What d’ya think Lodo? You mind being our guinea pig next month? I promise we’ll go easy on you.”
And what was I going to say to the VP of the company--No?
So now the 2nd Thursday came around I had to perform this mock interview in front of our entire NY staff and the whole management team via speakerphone. Over 300 years of experience that watched and listened and critiqued like I was some kind of performing monkey. Keep in mind, this wasn’t in response to any issues with me. In fact, all previous management reviews of my work had been stellar. So why I was being singled out remained a mystery.
But I’ve been doing this kind of work a long time now, so I nailed that interview. Went through my whole list of questions patiently till every one was asked and answered no matter how much Amy and her tight-lipped, mousy little puss tried to change the subject or digress into another topic. I’d finished in a little more than half-an-hour and could tell by the expressions ‘round the room that my co-workers were impressed. Yet that wasn’t good enough for Amy.
“That was good Lodo, but when I said that none of the apartment’s locks were broken, why didn’t you come back to that issue?”
“’Cause supposedly there’s a police report, and forced entry would be addressed in that.”
“...Okay, but her explanation might not mach-up with the police report’s. Plus it would have been helpful to get a read on her mannerisms and to get her thinking. You know...”
“Wait a minute Amy,” I responded, “that’s your job to ask those kinds of questions. I just handle the initial interview. If the adjuster’s find red flags based on that, then it’s your job to handle. That’s why there’s SIU and what I do. You’re getting our jobs confused. This was a good interview. I know a good interview--and this was good,” I insisted as my palm came down on the table.
I’d expected another manager to intervene, but instead Amy and I just stared at each other. Her lips wore a self-satisfied smirk I’d have liked to smack the shit out of, but before I could complete the visual in my mind’s eye she spoke.
“..You’re right Lodo, that was a good interview. Maybe if you didn’t smoke so much weed you could work in SIU.”
“What did you just say?!” I demanded as I shot out my chair.
“I said maybe if you didn't smoke so much pot you could work SIU.”
Now reader, you have to understand that when I first interviewed at my company it was to be a Special Investigator. That was my background and I actually got hired for the position. But then, three days before I was due to start, they threw a curveball at me.
“Okay Lodo,” the Human Resources person told me as she handed me a slip of paper, “just show up on Monday at the clinic listed here and they can take your urinalysis.”
“...Urinalysis?”
“Sure,” she said with a professional smile from behind her cats-eye glasses with the old-school neckchain. “You can’t have access to our data bases without passing a drug test. And you certainly can’t drive a company car.”
Well reader, I did some things to try and pass that test, but we’ll save that for another time. For now we’ll just state the obvious, which was that old Lodo failed that test by a wide (wide!) margin and SIU was out of the picture.
Still, up till now only management had been aware of that issue. For Amy to just say that in the open, in front of everybody sent me ape-wire.
I shot-up out my chair with intentions to lay into her like the fuck she obviously hadn’t had in a year; but luckily my boss was right on it. And I can assure you reader, that when my 6’ 6” Chocolate Thunder boss stands up everyone takes notice.
“Amy that is a totally out-of-line thing to say for a variety of reasons. I’m really surprised at you. I thought Lodo did an excellent job and I know he took time out of his work week to prepare for these presentations. Jerry, I'm gonna ask your permission to conclude this meeting since unfortunately, emotions have got involved out here in New York."
“No, no,” Jerry said with what I thought (or hoped) might be a chuckle from his end. “Maybe this is a good time to wrap things up. We can discuss some of the more...professional aspects of things that came up next time around.”
So the meeting was over, but I continued to pace ‘round the room as everyone slowly filed out. After a minute or two I was left with my boss and a few insignificant stragglers who shared wide-eyed looks.
“Why did she say that?! ” I asked my boss. “Am I wrong to be upset? For her to remind Jerry ‘bout my drug test and to tell everyone in the office? That’s personal stuff_____. Highly personal stuff!”
“Highly,” my boss said calmly as he smiled toward the others in the room. “..You know what I think Lodo?” he finally said.
“What?” I asked as I doggedly returned to my seat.
“I think she likes you.”
“Oh no way!” I answered.
But before I could even finish the comment our Workers Compensation Manager Tim chimed in.
“Yes--yes! That’s what I thought too,” he said with a Kris Kringle giggle. She likes you Grdzak! That’s why she’s always trying to work with you. She wants you to be in SIU.”
“Oh get the fuck out,” I responded, which is something I can say to Tim. But he just continued to nod his head yes.
I exchanged incredulous looks toward both Tim and my boss as I attempted to make sense of the rapid series of events. Suddenly, tacitly, we all deferred to my co-worker Cindy who’d lingered behind as she frantically worked on some unknown report on her laptop.
“What d’ya think Cindy?” Tim asked.
Cindy never even looked away from her computer screen. She simply continued to peck at her keyboard as her mouth silently formed the words “Oh yeah."
* NOTE: This post (or series of posts) may be the most difficult things I've done. Not saying they're my best--just the most difficult to complete. I should have known better than to start a series so close to the holidaze and fear my writing has suffered for it. But the conclusion (for this and 2009) is one final post away. To anyone who still stops by--thanks a ton. And Happy New Year!!!!
These jobs we do are so God-damn stupid. Oh, uh--I’m a banker. Uhh--I’m a car salesman. Really? Who gives a fuck! There’s only (3) jobs that are worth a shit in this world: an artist; a doctor; and a farmer. Thats about it in terms of things that actually matter. Maybe plumbers make our lives better, but otherwise--all these jobs we do are just busywork. Moron crap the powers-that-be created to keep us busy. Isn’t that what we call it? Our busyness? Hey, what busyness are you in? How do you make that stupid green paper that may as well be Monopoly money? Oh--you sell floor tile? Fascinating. Be sure to breed. Have lots of kids. Buy a house. Vote Republican you dumb-ass piece of shit. Build a nice cage for yourself. Stay busy so you don’t have to think about your existence on this planet.
God damn work. "If she touches you Lodo then you’ve touched her. What’re you crazy to let some woman ride your scooter?" Yeah I guess so. Guess I’m nut-job crazy cause I don’t drive a car even though the rag-heads blew-up my Trade Center. Crazy for not being a rah rah Republican fuck-wad. Crazy not to buy a house. Crazy not to consume a garage full of idiotic material goods that I’ll never use. Jesus--why couldn’t I just be a fat-ass drone who listens to Taylor Swift and watches NFL football like the rest of this retard country?! But no, I meet a woman my age who’s still got a little juice left in her twat and what do I do? Why, actually try to have some fun! Nut-job I know. What was I thinking?! Don’t I realize that insurance investigations are the key to self-actualization? That our contribution to society is off the charts?Imagine where I can be in 10 years if I just...
These were the thoughts that ran through my head as I kicked my scooter along the back streets of Queens. My boss had left me at the subway station an hour earlier, and then I’d taken the F train towards Jamaica. Now here I was, as I worked the bitterness of that taxi-cab conversation into a tighter and tighter ball. Honed my negativity into a sharp edge--the only positive being that it fueled the self-righteous will that propelled my scooter up the hill that led to my next appointment.
But if you’ve ever listened to The Allman Brothers or Joni Mitchell--or a billion country songs, you know the road is the greatest American metaphor we’ve got. Who knows what adventure lies just round that corner? Or up that hill? The road’s like a roller-coaster. Like life. You have ups and downs; but you’ve gotta stay open. Who knows what opportunity awaits at your next appointment? C’mon Lodo, lets see what’s inside this all-you-can-eat Chinese Buffet.
So I locked my scooter into folded position and wiped the sweat from my brow. Then I adjusted my hat in the reflection of the restaurant’s window before I took a deep breath and entered the lobby.
And life really is like a roller-coaster. I mean, its got its ups and downs. Before I even reached the front counter I was greeted by one of the most beautiful Chinese girls I’ve ever met in my life. She looked at me from behind her mysterious, quiet eyes.
“Jus' you?” she asked with a thick accent as she began to lead me to a table.
“Actually I have an appointment. I’m here to meet with _____ about an accident last week.”
The hostess looked at me with a confused expression.
“Its no just you?” she asked with a timid smile.
“Naw,” I said again, “I’m here to meet with the manager. I have an interview scheduled with him.”
Again I got a confused look, as the girl’s eyes flashed toward my scooter.
“Wait here,” she said as she led me to a table near the front, then went to speak with another girl behind the cash register.
The two gals exchanged a few words before the 2nd girl approached. Her English was much better.
“You here to see ______?” the register girl asked.
“That’s right. I have an appointment,” I answered as I handed her my card.
The girl took it and smiled.
“You rode here on that?” she asked as she pointed toward my Xootr.
“From the subway,” I answered.
The register girl nodded her head in what I interpreted to be approval, then disappeared into the kitchen. Shortly thereafter the manager emerged with his right hand eagerly extended.
“Mr. Grdzak?” he asked with great animation.
“That’s right,” I responded as we clasped hands.
The manager looked at me for several seconds as he gestured for me to take a seat.
“..You know,” he said, “you look very familiar to me.”
“I get that a lot. I’m sure its just coincidence.”
I proceeded with the interview, which doesn't add much to our story, so I wont expand on it. The basic fact-pattern was that an overweight woman entered the restaurant, was seated by our gorgeous hostess, proceeded to plop herself down into one of our cheap chairs, which subsequently collapsed under her weight.
For that indignity, the fat woman now demanded $ 1 million dollars.
“She was so fat,” the manager emphasized as he gestured with his arms as though hugging a keg of beer. “The chair just go flat.” This time he placed one hand above the other and clapped them to demonstrate how the cheap, Chinatown chair pancaked under her weight.
Actually a pretty common case here in New York. I’ve investigated a few of these. But because the whole staff observed it, I had to interview everyone. I started with the register girl.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“My American name is Sherry,” she said.
“Okay Sherry, I’m going to start this tape recorder but don’t get intimidated. I’m not a lawyer. We just use the recorder...”
“You know,” she interjected as she looked at me with wide eyes. “You look like the guy from that movie--you know who I mean? He liked the little girl.”
“...I don’t think I like the sound of that Sherry.”
“No! No!” she said with a giggle, “Not like that. He was a cool guy. He killed people. Bang, bang,” she said as she formed her hand into a gun. “You know who I mean?”
“The Professional?” I asked, though I was fairly certain I knew who she meant since I've heard it often.
“Yeah!” she said with a slap of her hands. “The Professional! You look like The Professional.”
“..Okay,” I responded. “..I guess that’s good. But let’s stay focused here, okay?”
“Okay,” she nodded as she stifled her amusement and became serious.
She told the same story as her manager, so I wont go over it again.
“She was so fat!” Sherry said as she scrunched her face and shook her head in disgust. “She like three of me! Like a whole cow.”
“Okay,” I responded as I gestured toward the tape recorder. “I think we’ve hammered that point pretty good.”
But these girls were relentless. I interviewed (3) of them--the register girl, the waitress, the girl who walked around and served coffee. Sherry served as interpreter since none of them spoke good English. And it was always the same.
“You look like The Professional." "That woman was so fat!" "Who you think he looks like?" "How fat was that woman who fell?--Oh my God!”
Each interview ended the same way--the girls would descend into a giggle fat as they puffed out their cheeks and collapsed on to the table as they recalled that poor, fat woman’s fall to the floor.
After the (3) girls and the manager I’d just about beat the case to death, but there was still one last girl to interview.
Sherry gestured for the hostess to come to our table. The (2) girls sat across from me, side-by-side to each other as I proceeded with my standard introduction.
They were both nice-looking gals, but the hostess was a true knockout. Something about the long hair of a young girl--a young Asian girl in particular that’s just...its not the same when they get older.
Anyway, I began with my standard introduction when I noticed the hostess whisper something into Sherry’s ear that caused her to smile. The girls began to laugh and exchange words in Chinese. Their good mood was contagious so I too began to smile as I placed my machine on pause.
“What?” I asked Sherry.
“She say you look like Bruce Willis, but I tell her--‘No, he looks like The Professional.’ But she doesn’t know that movie. Probably too young.”
“..Probably” I said as I stared at the sheen of the hostess' hair with a bit more regret than I’d have liked to reveal. “Maybe we shoul...”
“She think Bruce Willis is very handsome,” Sherry continued as she playfully bumped shoulders with the hostess who returned the favor.
“I’m flattered,” I said as I shifted my gaze back and forth from girl to girl. “..Now, tell you what, I’m gonna start my machine so we can wrap this thing up.”
I proceeded with my introductory questions:
“What’s your name?” I asked the hostess.
Sherry interpreted my question, to which the hostess answered, “Liu _____.”
“What’s your date of birth?”
Again, Sherry interpreted the question and Liu answered.
“What’s your address?” I asked.
Sherry asked the question, but this time Liu became shy. Timid. Her and Sherry exchanged words.
“...She no want to give you that,” Sherry finally said.
“Uh, okay. But its important for identification purposes. They can’t see her face on the tape. The only way they know who I’m talking to is if I get answers to these questions.”
Sherry interpreted my concerns to Liu, but she just shook her head No. I didn’t push it.
“Okay,” I said with a laugh, “how ‘bout a phone number? Again, just for the insurance company.”
But again Liu shook her head No and this time Sherry commented.
“Liu very pretty. Everyone want to go out with her. Sometimes guys they finish eating and they just...sit here. Look at her. One guy, she gave him her number and he start to...how you say when they follow...
“Stalk her?” I asked.
“Yeah!--stalk her,” Sherry said with wide eyes. “So really, none of us supposed to give out our number.”
“Okay, that makes sense. We’re not going to pursue anymore of that.”
The shift of the conversation to stalking resulted in a return to seriousness, so I quickly finished the rest of the interview and prepared to leave. I packed my gear into my backpack and retrieved my scooter from beneath the table when Liu suddenly said something in Chinese.
“What’d she say?” I asked Sherry.
“She wants to look at your scooter.”
I handed the folded scooter to Liu who seemed surprised at its weight. She lifted it up and down in consideration and tried to make sense of the locked handlebars.
“Its okay?” Liu asked me as she gestured toward the floor.
“Sure,” I said as I grabbed the scooter, placed it on the floor and unlocked the handlebars. Liu rolled the scooter in front of her. Back and forth without getting on just like Kris had done that morning.
“Try it!” Sherry commanded as she looked toward Liu, then towards me. She slapped at my shoulder like we were old friends. “Its okay, right?”
I let out a heavy sigh. Looked out the window toward the street and asked myself What’re the odds?
“C’mon,” I said to the girls, “...put on a coat and we can go out to the parking lot.”
*NOTE: Sorry for the delay in posting y'all, but thanks to anyone who still stops by. I'm going to split this into at least another part, but should be back to my old routine (next post in 3-4 days). And to my friend Rules who was just out here for a week. Merry Christmas girl--I love you a ton!!!!!!
Kris rolled down toward my boss and me as we stood at the bottom of the hill. She looked somewhat like a novice skier; with knees a bit wobbly. Her mouth hung agape and her eyes remained fixed in front of her, locked in concentration as she veered toward us. As she drew close she hopped off the foot platform, but momentum forced her to trot the scooter directly into me.
“Whewwwwwwww!” she shrieked as she steered into my chest, then stumbled a step back as I grasped hold of the handlebars and helped her stay balanced.
“That’s awesome fun!!!” she exclaimed with a playful slap of my chest as she regained full balance on her feet. Of course she immediately turned her attention toward my boss.
“Who’s this?” she asked as she brushed a lock of grey hair from her face.
“That’s my..”
“I’m _______,” my boss interjected as he extended his huge hand to Kris. “I’m Lodo’s supervisor. I’m here as an observer today. Lodo’s going to handle the investigation, but I’ll sit-in on the interview. Just in a supervisor’s capacity. It has nothing to do with this case in particular."
Kris inspected my boss’ huge hand with wonderment.
“...Uh,..okay,” she answered with a roll of her eyes in my direction as she concealed a smile, both of us disappointed that things had suddenly become so serious. “I guess we should go inside then.”
Kris led us into the building and up to her apartment. Were it not for my boss, things might have become interesting; but with him there I was forced to be very methodical and mechanical as I worked my questions.
So the interview was very mundane and there’s really nothing more to report in that regard until the return trip back to the office. My boss had called a cab, which was a nice luxury for me. He made a cellphone call as I stared out my side of the window in the backseat, when he suddenly addressed me.
“You know for someone as smart as you are Lodo you do some of the stupidest things.”
“What d’ya mean by that?” I asked as I turned ‘round from the window.
“You don’t know what I mean? ...Really?”
My boss and I locked eyes.
“...You mean about the scooter?” I finally asked.
“Yeah Lodo--about the scooter. Don’t play innocent with me. I don’t like that. What if she had fallen and gotten hurt? That’s just totally irresponsible on your part. You’re not getting paid to ride scooters with our building superintendents.”
“Why would I get in trouble if she fell? She’s an adult. She wanted to try the scooter. That’s her decision. It was fun for her to ride down that hill.”
“You’re not there to have fun.”
We sat silently for a few seconds until my boss spoke again.
“Speaking of having fun, the way she touched you was totally inappropriate.”
“What d’ya mean by that?” I asked.
My boss stared at me with a wrinkled brow.
“..Say what d’ya mean again.” he told me.
“What?” I asked.
“Say what d’ya mean again.” he repeated.
But the way he said it I got the distinct impression that the last thing I should say was what d’ya mean? So instead I said,
“..I don’t think I want to say that.”
“Smart move,” he responded. “..Now, when that woman--Kris came down the hill she rode that scooter right into you. She fell right into you Lodo. Then she’s like...stroking your chest before she pushed herself off. Th..”
“Oh I don’t think it was that dramatic _____. I think she jus...”
“Hey! I know what I saw Lodo.”
I could see our cab driver’s eyes steal a quick look at my boss via his rear-view mirror. I ran the events back in my mind to recall if there was any validity to what my boss had said. But he continued.
“If she touches you Lodo, then it could be argued that you’ve touched her. And...why would there be any physical contact at an interview? Just like, why are people riding scooters during an interview? You understand where I’m coming from? Or do you want to ask me what I mean again?”
“...I don’t think I wanna do that.”
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to have to split it into another part. Please come back in 3-4 days for the next installment. Thanks for reading!!
I mentioned a month or so back that I oftentimes feel like I’m being watched. Course for the most part its just a bunch of nonsense that says more about my arrogance than the state of the world; but truth be told I’m pretty hot these days and I’ve caught a lot of people’s attention.
And in fact I am being watched--literally, as proven by my boss earlier this week.
He’d warned me that he was going to do it. Warned our whole department that at anytime, anyplace he might show-up at one of our appointments. Just to watch how we conduct our interviews and the way we present the company.
Still, I didn’t expect to see him up in The Bronx for my early a.m. appointment. I figured he’d pick something close to his house, towards the end of the day. That’s certainly what I’d have done.
But I guess I have my own way of doing things. Like the way I ride my scooter to appointments. Nothing incredibly original about that, though I have to say I still get my share of looks at the office and in places like Crown Heights or the Bronx.
But fuck ‘em, that’s what I say. People-powered machines are where it’s at, especially in the city. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve zipped past a Mercedes Benz or Ferrari as it crawled to a red light. I’ve often been tempted to knock on their window as I pass. Have ‘em roll it down so I can tell em what a dumb-fuck Republican they look like as they idle away in that $100,000 car. But of course I never do. That’s something Rush Limbaugh would do (if his fat, junkie-ass could ride a scooter).
And why get negative when I’ve got my scooter? Man, I love that thing. Sure it sucks going uphill, but then you just get off and roll it. But downhill? My Xootr gets going pretty fast. I’ll carve little crescent-moons like when I ski down a moderate BLUE run at Winter Park. I can feel the wind tear my eyes and hear the wheels spin rhythmically on the concrete beneath my feet. Its peaceful. And fun.
So yeah, despite being in the Bronx I was in a good mood as I rolled into my first appointment. Our building was at the bottom of a pretty steep hill so there was no need to kick as I glided into my 10:30 appointment at 10:29 and 58 seconds.
I found the superintendent outside, on the sidewalk, with arms folded in front of her as she monitored the street for the car she’d expected. Instead I rolled right up to her feet as she stood next to the curb. Our eyes locked and she emitted a surprised smile.
“Mr. Grdzak?” she asked, as she looked me up and down.
“That’s me,” I answered, also a bit surprised since the building owner had told me his super’s name was Chris. Not Kris. I’d expected to meet a man.
“Oh my God” she said to me, “you rode here on this?” she asked as she gestured toward the scooter.
“Well, from the train station. Yeah,” I said with a laugh.
“That is so cool,” she responded as she instinctually reached out to touch the alloy frame.
I stepped back from the Xootr and rolled it toward her.
“Check it out,” I told her.
The super took the handlbars from me. She didn’t step on the platform, but simply pushed the scooter back and forth in front of her to get a feel for how it rolled. She tested its stability and measured its weight.
“Wow,” she said with wide green eyes that still had a sparkle despite her being close to my age. “My kid has one of these, but its not serious like this one. They’re taking these things to whole new level. Its even got brakes,” she said with a squeeze of the hand-brake.
“Try it out,” I told her since it was obvious she wanted to.
“Oh, I don’t want to keep you,” she said as she brushed a lock of her grey hair from her forehead. I liked that she still wore it long and that she wore a down vest instead of the heavy coats that most women wear when the temperature dips below 60 degrees.
“I have all the time in the world,” I told her with a smile. “These appointments are what I do. Here,..” I said as I adjusted the height of the handlebars and pushed the scooter back to her.
Kris stepped on the platform and began to kick. She was tentative at first, but quickly gained confidence in its stability.
“Oh its smooth!,” she said with a laugh as she made a 180 and began to kick a little harder. She rolled past me and went up the street about 20 yards or so, then turned round. She came to a stop in front of me and rested a foot on the pavement.
“I’ll bet it can go pretty fast,” she said from those same wide eyes I’d seen earlier. “Is it hard to stop?”
“Try it out,” I repeated yet again as I pointed up the hill from which I’d arrived. “Take it up there a little bit if you want and come down.”
A mischievous look spread ‘cross her face as she slapped at my arm.
“..Okay,” she said and proceeded to kick the scooter about a quarter-of-the-way up the hill. Then she slowly turned ‘round and began to roll down. She looked good. Comfortable. She was obviously athletic and quickly got a feel for the hand-brake. Within a few seconds she was back in front of me again.
“Oh my God that’s a blast!” she said breathing just a bit hard.
This time she didn’t step off the scooter but continued to ride back and forth like a child that’s just discovered its new favorite toy. It made me happy to watch her. So few women her age retain the bounce she had.
“You can take it to the top of the hill if you want,” I told her. “Just be careful, you’ll get going pretty fast.”
This time she didn’t even answer. She simply turned up the hill and proceeded to kick her way to the top.
I watched as Kris made the long, slow climb. Despite her inherent athleticism, she didn’t have a kick technique yet. It was a pretty steep gradation and in all honesty, its definitely hard to go uphill.
So I don’t know how long I watched her before I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned ‘round to find my boss right behind me. All 6’ 6” of him.
“Oh--hey!” I said with obvious surprise when I saw him. “What’re you doing here?”
“I’m here to sit-in on your interview. I told you I might show up anytime.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. ..Right. That’s great.”
We looked at each other silently in the street of that shit-hole Bronx neighborhood. Stood there for several second until my boss finally broke the silence.
“..So? Are we just gonna stand here? Don’t you have an appointment with the super? Where is he?”
I was about to answer his question when we suddenly heard the shrill sound of female exhalation cascade from the top of the hill.
Whewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!
“There she is” I said as I pointed toward Kris who rapidly descended toward us.
My boss’ eyes blinked rapidly.
“..Please tell me that’s not your scooter,” he said.
“She’s pretty good on it--no?” I answered with almost a bit of pride for my scooter gal.
But my boss didn't seem particularly impressed. In fact, he didn't seem happy at all.
My boss looks like NBA legend Darryl "Chocolate Thunder" Dawkins:
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to have to split it into more than (1) part. I should have Part 2 finished after the weekend. Thanks for reading!
Coney Island Freakshow: Couple Waits on The Cyclone at Coney Island: Barbershop in New Lots (Brooklyn): Lodo Grdzak w/ Agata (Polish Happy Hour): At 5 Pointz: Marcus Strickland at Blue Note (few weeks ago) : Panel Truck in Midtown: Same Panel Truck as Above (Different Side/Different Day): N.Y. Yankees World Series Victory Parade Thru Canyon of Heroes: (Jorge Posada stands beneath traffic light (arms outstretched); Johnny Damon to his right; Derek Jeter to far right, where Index Finger can be seen pointing): * All Pics taken by Lodo Grdzak w/ exception of those in which I appear. All pics (5) Boroughs of New York, U.S.A.
Once you hit a certain age, a birthday can’t help but make you contemplate your own death. As for myself, my birthday falls very close to Halloween; so even as a kid birthday presents and cake candles were always accompanied by images of black cats and witches, ghosts and graveyards.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve been hung-up on this theme of death for the last month. Ever since my birthday and Halloween. Or maybe it was because my old friend Rodney died last month. Or because it was around this time of year that I last saw my buddy Jake.
Whatever the reason, its been over a month now since Halloween, so this is my last post on dead people. In fact, we’ll wrap-up the topic not just with a post about a dead person, but about the death of my career as a hotel bellman.
So,..back in Epitaph For James I mentioned that I used to work as a hotel bellman. All the musicians that passed thru Denver stayed with us, and I met everybody: Chris Isaak; ZZ Top; Lou Rawls; Wilson Pickett; Lyle Lovett; Indigo Girls; Huey Lewis (and The News); David Crosby; Ricky Martin; Chuck D; Flavor Flav; Duran Duran; Monica; NSYNC; Bonnie Raitt; Sheryl Crow; Gilberto Gil; Brian Setzer; George Benson; Carlos Santana. I met Lenny from Motorhead. I met the wrestler Goldberg. And of course the only one that really matters--Hall of Famer Jeff Beck.
One guy that stayed at the hotel--or was supposed to stay with us was singer/songwriter Robert Palmer. He was one of the rare musicians that I actually took pains to meet.
As an artist, Robert Palmer was a bit of a conundrum. One of those guys who’s records consistently had four great tunes and five that were completely God-awful. Perfection? Absolute dreck? For someone so talented he seemed to have a unique inability to discriminate between the two.
But I’d always been a Robert Palmer fan. He made a kind-of world music before the term was coined and sang blue-eyed soul in a way that was instantly recognizable. He didn’t have the strongest voice, but got over with his unique tone and originality. He had a somewhat odd way to his phrases--a hard, staccato delivery in which he’d emphasize a particular word that became his trademark.
The lights are on, but you’re not home, and your mind, is not your own.
That tune would come on the radio and you’d be like What the hell is this guy’s problem? But then (10) minutes later you found yourself humming that inane melody with those same hard accents he’d used. He was a real song stylist who could teach these American Idols a thing or two about how to make a song your own. Even if you didn’t like him, you had to admit he was different.
And he never sold-out, that’s what I loved the most about Robert Palmer. Not even when Power Stationthrew a shit-load of money at him. He was a real artist.
Robert Palmer had a strange stay at my hotel. Usually bands were very quick to get in and out of Denver. In fact, oftentimes they wouldn’t even stay overnight in the room: they’d finish their set, use the room to take a shower; maybe grab a bite from room service. Then they’d hop back on the bus and be on the road. I saw bands do that several times.
But for some odd reason Robert Palmer’s band was at the hotel for two full days before the show. Almost three if you include the day of the concert. Palmer himself stayed at a friend’s house in Boulder--another oddity. This made it impossible for me to meet him; but gave me a lot of access to the band.
Robert Palmer had a big band. Aside from the standard guitar, drums, bass, and keyboards, he had eight or nine background singers. All 6’ tall black guys, perfectly groomed, with thick London or British accents. Half of ‘em were gay, but the girls at the hotel loved ‘em; so I made it a point to be seen with them whenever possible.
I particularly wanted to impress Delfina who worked the front desk.
“Lodo,” she said to me the 2nd morning of their stay, “I heard you went out with those guys last night. You’re gonna get fired if G___ finds out.”
Poor Delfina, she was so hot! But her vision was so narrow. You’re gonna get fired if G___ finds out. So what? I mean, I know it sounds arrogant; but being a bellman was only temporary. Just another chapter in the story of Lodo. And why the hell should Delfina be satisfied as a front desk clerk? She was beautiful, bi-lingual, very refined--she could’ve been anything; yet sold-out for what? $8.00 an hour and some health benefits? Sometimes she made me mad; but in fairness, she was very young.
Anyway, the afternoon before the concert I still hadn’t met Robert Palmer, so I brought up the subject to one of the background singers. Just sort-of nudged him about it with an off-hand remark. In response, he gave me a blank paper and told me to list everyone’s name on it that wanted to go to the show. Course this was against hotel policy since only the band’s road manager is supposed to give away tickets--and then, only via the hotel manager. As a bellman you can never ask for tickets.
So when my boss found out about that list he began to investigate and when he found out that I’d had drinks with the band that was the end of your bellman Lodo. Right there on the spot.
But that was the next day, after we’d gone to the show.
In regards to the concert, it was a complete disaster. At least for Robert Palmer. He took a complete bath on that show, which was something I’d seen happen to a lot of artists in Denver.
Think about it. What’s the musical demographic in Denver? Is it a country town? Rock ‘n’ roll? Bluegrass? R & B? Tex-Mex? Folk? I can assure you that what’s popular in New York or Philadelphia or Chicago may be completely unknown in Denver. So a lot of acts that do well out east make that long trip to Denver only to play an empty house.
Its also true that this was a good fifteen years after the Addicted to Love video. So Robert Palmer wasn’t exactly the hottest ticket.
But what really spoiled things was a huge snowstorm that began in the early afternoon. By 4:00 p.m. it still hadn’t stopped, and around that time it was announced that the venue for the show was being changed from Denver to Boulder. Pretty late in the game for an announcement like that.
So between the snow and the demographic, a lot of things had piled-up against old Robert Palmer. How many people willing to take a forty minute drive in that kind of weather became evident when we arrived. The crowd consisted of maybe seventy people at the FOX Theater and ten of ‘em were my group from the hotel. And I know none of us paid!
Robert Palmer waited as long as he could for the place to fill, but eventually had to take the stage. I was interested to see his reaction to the small crowd, but when he finally came out what hit me was how unhealthy he looked. Palmer’s claim to fame--even more than his music--had always been his perfectly tailored suits and elegant sense of style. He was the international. The Playboy. A kind-of musical James Bond.
Only now he looked a good fifteen pounds overweight. His white suit looked cheap and fit incorrectly--too tight ‘round the waist. His face was fleshy and he’d already begun to sweat before the end of the first tune.
But the voice was still there. And the unique sensibility. While he initially surveyed the small crowd with an air of defeat, he seemed to quickly reverse track--perhaps sensing that these were his true die-hard fans. He threw himself into the music: the Power Station stuff, a few tunes off Riptide, the video hits like Addicted to Love and Simply Irresistible, and an incredible Marvin Gaye medley that featured Let’s Get it On/ Mercy Mercy Me and about a half-dozen Marvin standards. He killed those tunes ‘til the ladies were compelled to toss their panties on stage, which seemed to be his cue to exit.
Yet there was one last order of business.
I stood with a group of 40 year-old women in front of the stage as the roadies immediately got to work and packed the gear. They seemed to do so in double-time, anxious to get out of town and the bad weather when I caught the eye of my friend the background singer. He laughed and gestured for me to come ‘round to the side, and when I got backstage Robert Palmer was already halfway out the door prepared to leave.
“Hey--Robert!” my friend called to him in his thick British accent. “Wait a second.”
My friend walked me over to where Palmer stood, impatient to leave.
“This guy’s from the hotel,” my friend said to him as he extended my hand and practically forced Palmer to shake it. “Very cool--from Detroit!”
Palmer looked at me from behind his intense, close-set eyes. He wasn’t a big guy, but had a very...knowing look about him. Like he could measure you at a glance.
And there I stood before him. The drunken, hotel bellman. Next to one of his nine background singers that he had to pay for. And let’s not forget the rest of the band--another half-dozen paychecks! Add airfare to that, plus three nights at the hotel to play for a crowd of maybe seventy people...
Robert Palmer looked at me and that background singer like he couldn’t decide which dumbass he wanted to shoot first. He was so mad that to this day it makes me laugh. He shook my hand tentatively, but said nothing. Instead he gave my shoulder a friendly pat before he shot a look at my friend with a staccato groan that almost sounded like Marge Simpson when she’s angry. Then he turned and left the theater.
I suppose it would have been nice if he’d said something, but I wasn’t disappointed. You can’t judge a guy by thirty seconds, and the circumstances were obvious to anyone with eyes.
And I wasn’t mad at my boss the next day when he fired me. I knew the rules. And I wasn’t even mad at Delfina for narcing on me. I’m sure they both had their reasons for what they did. Just like we all do, as we try to make it to tomorrow.
