Anyone driving a car these days knows how perilous it has become. Every time motorists fasten their seat belts and enter such death zones as Rte. 128 or the Massachusetts Turnpike, there’s always potential for mayhem. All drivers face the possibility of horrific accidents.
Perhaps it’s always been this way but the peril seems to have intensified with the increased rudeness and stupidity of today’s drivers. Bad driving transcends age, gender or the number of years driving.
Sociologists have teamed with taxonomists and developed a new, Latinized categorization of driver types.
For example, there the species Hominus tailgatenous . We all know them. They’re the idiots who cruise highways and secondary road and tailgate. Hominus t. has forgotten or never knew the rule of thumb regarding distance vs. driving speed – 55 mph means 55 feet between cars should be maintained. But, no, these bozos will be driving 70 mph and be within ten feet of your rear bumper. It’s worse in the passing lane. Cars will whiz by at 85-90 mph with tailgaiters pinned to each others’ tails. Have you ever noticed most catastrophic automobile accidents usually occur in the passing lane?
Hominus taligatenous
There’ll be two or three cars twisted in steel, glass and rubber pretzels. Often bodies are laying in the roadway; ambulances wailing their sirens and whisking victims to nearby hospital emergency rooms. Traffic in the opposite lanes slows due to “curiosity factor”. Drivers say to themselves, poor bastards, there for the grace of God……. Yet we never learn.
Then there’s Bmwensis serpentium. We’ve all seen these whack jobs. Members of this species feels they’re special. They usually drive the snotty prestige cars – BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Porsches – traffic rules do not apply to these drivers. They’re once again traveling well above the speed limit. And they weave.
B. Serpentium “Get outta my f****ingway!!
First they’ll be speeding in the aforementioned passing lane. Without signaling, they suddenly swerve and pass into adjacent lanes, then to the right traveling lane. Snakelike, they weave in and out with total disregard. Suddenly they’ll say, oh, shit, I’m in the wrong lane! They once again dart in front of motorists saying, fuck you untermenchen, this is my exit! These creatures are the entitled who have contempt for fellow travelers. It’s always a matter of time before these elitists create a deadly accident when they cut the weaving too close. Their motto is “I’m better than you plebes! Out of my goddamned way!”
Then there’s rapidly growing organism, Telephonus arseholiensis. They’re the scofflaw cell phone addicts who insist on illegally using their phones on highways and secondary roads. There are many telltale behaviors with this group. On speedways, their cars will drift to and fro within their lanes and they’re usually driving below the minimum speed limit. They often can be seen texting with the phone at 12 o’clock on the steering wheel. It’s a perverse case of multitasking. At traffic light stops their necks bend downwards as they gaze at a phone resting on their groins.
Still others are brazen and can be seen conversing with the phone in full view. They are usually smiling and laughing, totally unaware of their dangerous behavior. How many drivers exclaim, “Where’s a state cop when you need one?”. People continue to thumb their noses at society. Traffic laws be damned. It’s been recently reported that cell phone scofflaws create more accidents than drunks or potheads.
As an addendum, there’s a subcategory of T. arseholium. It’s called Pedestriamus craniorectuminversionensis. This pertains to pedestrians whose eyes are affixed while gazing at their cell phones. They walk along city sidewalks, necks bent, and are oblivious to all that surrounds them. Many times they’ll bump into each other at crosswalks. They’re most dangerous while crossing streets. They make a cursory scan of the roadways, cross and are often jostled by the blaring horn of a car that’s nearly killed them. There are also joggers – and bicyclists- gazing at their cell phones and diagonally crossing streets and eschewing crosswalks. Picture P. cranion encountering a T. arseholium; the perfect storm of hubris and stupidity.
The perfect storm
One category has existed throughout automobile history. We’re talking about Automobilus methusalum. They’ve been around a long time. In the 1950’s they drove Plymouth sedans; in the 1960’s the Chevy IIs were popular. Each decade has a car model that defined this species. In the year 2021, the Honda Civic is this group’s favorite. They are usually wizened little old men and women who can barely see above the car’s steering wheel. They rarely drive on major highways. Rather, they creep along roadways at 20-25 mph and create logjams. Motorists behind them lean on the car horns, flail the arms in frustration and cuss a blue streak.
Methusala Behind the Wheel
On single lane roads, many drivers will tempt fate and roar past these ladies and gents. They’ll scream at the duffers and make obscene hand jestures while passing. Everyone’s in a hurry except A.methesalehnealum. They’ve got all the time in the world. Or so they think. The worst thing for most Seniors is losing their driver’s license.
So there you have it. No matter where you live or what you do, bad drivers aren’t going away. The best advice is to drive defensively. It’s a jungle on the asphalt, folks, and you must drive with your head on the proverbial swivel. We must wait for the arrival of driverless automobiles. They will be coming to save us from ourselves.
Skeeve is an Anglicized version of the derogatory Italian adjective, schivo . The word is defined as someone or something that is disgusting. Filthy–dirty. It can mean the condition of someone’s house or a person who is unhygienic and smells. It can be used for a rundown restaurant or a movie house where the theater seats are 30 years old, never have been cleaned or replaced and have chewing gum glued to the fabric.
Skeeve at the movies
Skeeve is a versatile word because it can be used to describe just about anything that is personally offensive. It has gained popularity in America. Some don’t realize its origin. It also can be used in various forms—adjective, noun or verb — “This place is skeevy”; “Don’t go to that place, it’s full of skeeve”; “I skeeved when I saw that woman’s kitchen!”
Little did Vincent Di Merda realize he would encounter the word his late Sicilian grandfather would use. “Meengia, che schivo!!!!”
Vincent “Vinny” Di Merda was a medical technician who suffered through the 2020 Covid pandemic and would soon be exposed to a jaw dropping example of skeeve. He worked at a prestigious Boston hospital and was on the frontline during the crisis. Strict hygiene, universal mask wearing and hospital protocol became the norm. Like most health care personnel, he was subjected to the psychological stress of the killer virus.
In his early forties, Vinny had maintained a regular fitness regimen. He and his wife Judy belonged to a nearby health club. They tried going to the gym about three times per week. During the pandemic, however, the fitness center closed for four months. Because he worked at a hospital, Vinny was acutely aware of the potential risks of exposing oneself to Covid 19. He decided it was too soon to return after the club reopened in fall, 2020. The couple did “work out” at home but it couldn’t replace the aerobic exercises obtained at a gymnasium.
The result was an increase in sedentary lifestyle. It happened to many Americans. And like so many others, Vinny gained weight. He was over his normal 160 lbs and ballooned to 175 lbs.. He altered his diet but it had no discernible effect. Things started an upturn when Vinny became eligible for the first wave of Covid vaccines. Judy, a registered nurse, also received her vaccinations. They both felt fortunate to have the inoculations. By April 2021, the universal panic began to subside.
In late spring of 2021 they enthusiastically resumed their gym activities. That’s when the trouble began. During his 40-minute commute to work, Vinny began experiencing a sharp pain in his right upper leg. It felt as if someone was sticking a cattle prod in his thigh. The pain was position-sensitive – he experienced it only while driving.
After one week of enduring this piercing new pain, he was examined by a hospital neurologist (it helps to be an employee—less waiting). X-rays were taken. Diagnosis: sciatica, a condition where the sciatic nerve is compressed by surrounding vertebrae causing considerable pain.
He was referred to the orthopedics department and had an appointment with Elizabeth “Legs” Callahan, M.D. An attractive woman in her 40’s with long, straight brown hair and light blue eyes, she received the sobriquet with her reputation of flaunting an incredibly beautiful set of shapely legs. Male patients especially noticed her gams.
“I’ve reviewed your Xrays, Vincent, and there’s good news and bad news,” she said. “You don’t have a ruptured vertebral disc and that’s the good news. However, you do have bone narrowing in the spine where the sciatic nerve exits. It’s a physical irritation that’s causing the pain and probably stems from months of decreased physical activity.”
She told Vinny no surgery was necessary and steroid injections would probably be overkill. Callahan is a physiatrist, an orthopedic specialist who attempts to treat back pain with the avoidance of surgery. She ordered six-week regimen of physical therapy (PT) that would stretch the nerves through various and specific exercises.
Vinny went to the hospital’s PT facility and met with a physical therapist who provided him with a list of various exercises specifically used for sciatica. The Covid restrictions had been lifted but the building, like all hospital locations, maintained strict mask and hygiene protocol. For example, the therapist, a pleasant and competent woman, sprayed chairs and equipment with disinfectant before and after use. The therapist instructed Vinny to do two sets of exercises daily and return for an evaluation in one week.
Vinny religiously performed the exercises but was discouraged. The sciatica didn’t seem to be abating and the pain continued to occur only while driving. The PT sessions continued for one month. No significant improvement. He was scheduled for a follow-up appointment with Dr. Callahan in two weeks.
He decided to seek alternatives, specifically chiropractic. In the past, Vinny saw a chiropractor, Dr. Carol Hildebrand, who helped improve such conditions as back spasms and twisted vertebrae. She unfortunately had retired. Chiropractic is an allied health profession that often successfully relieves back, neck and shoulder pain. Many back problems are due to twisted vertebrae that pinch spinal nerves. Twenty years prior, an orthopedic surgeon had misdiagnosed Vinny’s shoulder pain as a bone spur and had scheduled surgery.
He had misgivings about the surgery that was usually painful and left significant shoulder scarring. A friend suggested obtaining a second opinion and recommended Dr. Hildebrand who examined Vinny. There was some skepticism on Vinny’s part. After assessing his spinal alignment and performing tests along the spine, she diagnosed the problem. He was suffering from a pinched nerve. Her branch of chiropractic uses the “activator”, a ballpoint pen-shaped device that is pressed along the spine. She used no bone cracking. Activators are non-invasive.
After two weeks of therapy, the shoulder pain dissipated. No surgery, no scarring. This was an example of an often maligned profession proving its legitimacy. Physicians often accuse chiropractors of quackery.
He and Judy were Hildebrand’s patients until she closed her office and returned to her native England. No one purchased her practice. A close friend who had intermittent back issues recommended Dr. Hubert Jones whose office was located nearby. He called for an appointment and fortunately the office had an opening in two days. Vinny gladly scheduled the meeting. He was about to enter Skeeveville.
Jones’s office was located on the main street of a suburban town south of Boston. The building was a strip mall that also housed a pizza parlor, nail salon, massage parlor and used sporting goods store. He entered the reception area and completed the usual paperwork that listed patient medical history, chief complaints and medications. He gazed around the room and said to himself, hmm, this office needs some love. A fresh coat of paint would be a good start. The first hint of what was to come occurred when Vinny used the office rest room.
The room was dingy and needed a new roll of toilet paper. The paper towel roll was placed in a box on the floor and not in its rack attached to the wall. He returned to the waiting room and soon Dr.Jones appeared.
“You must be Vinny,” he said with a voice muffled by the obligatory mask. “I’m Dr.Jones. Please come this way.”
Jones gestured towards an examination room. He was in his 50’s, average height, and had closed cropped hair. Many health care workers often wear scrubs and clogs – it’s the unofficial hospital wardrobe. Jones wore a dress shirt, denim pants and scuffed, unpolished shoes. He was polite and ushered Vinny into the room. This is where it started to fall apart.
In the middle of the room was a chiropractic table. Vinny was accustomed to vinyl covered treatment benches with clean sheets that were replaced between patients. Jones’s bench was blue hopsack cloth. It was dirty and had grease stains. The stitches were threadbare and frayed. So much for cleanliness next to godliness. While sitting in a nearby chair, Jones proceeded to take a case history – when, where, how long since onset, etc. Vinny gazed around the room in search of a sink and there was none. He wondered if Jones had washed his hands somewhere before the examination.
“Well, Vinny, this is a classic case of sciatica and it’s pretty straightforward in terms of healing,” he said as he nonchalantly placed his dirty shoe directly on the on the table.
Vinny meets Dr. Jones’s shoe
I can’t believe what I just saw thought Vinny, his eyes bugging out of his head. With a filthy shoe, this guy just stepped on to a place where I’ll be laying down for treatment! Jones then circled the table while talking and again the dirty shoe was resting where Vinny would be placing his head. This was world-class skeeve. He tuned out most of what this “healthcare professional” was saying. Reluctantly, he consented to having his bones cracked. I’m going to burn these clothes when I get home he was yelling internally.
While doing the manipulations, Jones wrapped his arms around Vinny’s torso and began the cracking. Vinny said to himself, “This guy’s clothing is in contact with mine. How many customers had a similar procedure today? I’m sure he doesn’t change shirts between patients.
Jones ended the appointment with ten minutes of heated electovibration therapy. Three pads are placed directly on the back. Are these suckers cleaned and disinfected between patients?, Vinny pondered.
Jones told Vinny he was confident the sciatica could be resolved after four weeks of chiropractic adjustments. Of course, the visits were out-of-pocket. Health insurance would not cover the appointments.
“Dr. Jones, I want to think about this,” Vinny said as he handed his credit card to the receptionist for payment. “I’m not used to the spinal manipulation technique. I’ll get back to you.”
With that, he left the office and yelled, “Please anybody, hose me down right here. I can’t stand the skeeve!”
Vinny phoned Judy before leaving the parking lot and described the entire experience. She was incredulous. Upon arriving at home, he disrobed in the garage and tossed his clothing into an awaiting washing machine. He then dashed up the stairs and immediately showered for 20 minutes. He was de-skeeved.
He decided he’d stick with traditional therapy and glad that day’s nightmare was behind him. He made a judicious choice. With diligence and religiously adhering to the therapy and gym work, the sciatica finally abated. Guess what? He was pain free in four weeks. What do you think about that, Dr. Jones?
In 1931, cartoonist Chester Gould created a newspaper comic strip, Dick Tracy. It was immensely popular and introduced America to a cast of characters that became household names. One of them was a disheveled roustabout named B. O. Plenty, who, as the name implied was a skank before the word was invented. He had dirty hair, wore a pith helmet and wasn’t too clean. Mr. Plenty is the inspiration for this essay.
Mr. B. O. Plenty (by Chester Gould)
Rosamond “Roz” Chabot is a trainer at an exclusive physical fitness center located in downtown Boston. In her late 20’s, Roz was a three-sport athlete at the University of Michigan. She majored in biomechanics and health sciences. An unapologetic jock, she decided after graduation to pursue a career in health and fitness. Despite the onslaught of obesity in America, many people are committed to maintaining or improving their health. Physical fitness is a growing industry.
Fitness programs vary from local, low-budget gyms to more expensive and exclusive facilities that employ people like Roz. There is also increasing popularity of exercise equipment like the $5,000 Peloton stationary bicycles for those who eschew organized gym programs.
An ebullient woman with good interpersonal skills, Roz is perky, stands 5’8”, has azure blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. She has the lucky combination of good looks, competency and an ego she keeps in check. She always cares about her clients and strives to improve their health and fitness. She works at Ba’Hai Health in Boston’s financial district. Roz also has a marvelous sense of humor, except for the day after the Covid 19 mask regulations were finally lifted. She always kept a mask handy. Some clients still wore them.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Jean Claude and Marie. I’m Roz Chabot”, she said. “This is your first day at the Ba’hai fitness, correct?”
“Oui, excusez moi, yes,” Jean Claude Du Bois said with his French accent.
As senior fitness trainer, Roz’s task is to assess client level of conditioning and customize an appropriate workout regimen. The DuBois had recently arrived from France and were both working at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT); Jean Claude was a biochemical researcher, Marie an economics professor. The couple were in their early 40’s and were feeling the need for an exercise program.
Jean Claude was tall, about 6’1”, very polite and handsome. Roz looked at him and noticed how much he resembled actor Russell Crowe. Marie was, like many French women, brunette and brown-eyed. A beauty. Both were born and raised in Paris.
Roz ushered the couple into a small meeting room to discuss their needs. Unfortunately, the meeting didn’t start well and rapidly went downhill. Once the door was closed, Roz turned to them and Boom!, she was figuratively thrown against the wall. Both husband and wife had the worst body odor –B.O.- she’d ever encountered. It was the equivalent of a Muhammad Ali upper cut that snapped her head back. She had difficulty breathing due to the stench and thought how could these two Europeans be oblivious to the acrid odor assaulting her olfactory system. Quick on her feet, she retrieved her blue Covid mask.
Roz meets Jean Claude and Marie Du Bois
“Uh, let’s leave here and go the main gym,” Roz deftly said. “There’s more room out there, and, unless you object, I still prefer masking.”
I could use a sixty-foot distance from these two stinkers, she thought. Roz’s experience was compounded by another cultural difference. Both Jean Claude and Marie had greasy hair that probably hadn’t been shampooed for several days. Not a pretty sight. She desperately wanted to say, “Time to change that oil, you two!”.
The final note of their sanitation issues was Jean Claude’s dirty fingernails. I can’t believe I’m interacting with two highly educated persons who don’t have a clue about physical appearance or hygiene, she said to herself.
Roz hoped someone at MIT would eventually prep them on hygiene rules and regs. As the head trainer, she dealt with many well-heeled professionals. These two would not make the cut as her clients. The Parisians would be passed along to a staff member.
American society places a high value on personal hygiene. Countless soaps and men’s and women’s deodorants are continually advertised. Daily showering is the norm. Most Americans wouldn’t dream of leaving home without utilizing such products. Europeans mock us for our obsession with cleanliness.
For example, after World War II, soldiers returning from Europe had many stories about cultural differences and fundamental views on hygiene. B.O. was the norm. Europeans simply didn’t often wash themselves, especially the French. That reputation unfortunately continues. Both sexes smelled; women didn’t shave their arm pits or legs. B.O., clinically known as bromihidrosis, occurs when apocrine glands located in hairy parts of the human body secrete fluids that combine with skin bacteria. The chemical reaction causes the stench. Some wag once quipped a European’s B.O. would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.
Roz felt obligated to assess the couple’s needs. Wearing the Covid mask and maintaining the now unnecessary social distance, she sat at her laptop and asked them what was most important.
“We would like to increase our physical fitness,” Jean Claude said with a Gallic lilt. “I’m in the laboratory most of the day and Marie is teaching three courses. We come home and we’re tired.”
She entered the data, coded her assessment and plan and the computer instantaneously produced a daily routine.
“Well, I’ve devised a daily regimen for you both,” she said and promised to email the details. “For the first few weeks, you’ll need to meet with us here so we can assess your progress. I’m having Kurt, our team leader, help you go through the exercises. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
Roz left the Dubois and dashed toward the gym exit. She left the building, removed her mask and gasped. Ah, I can breathe again, she exclaimed.
Roz didn’t realize this was going to be a bad day at the office. Her next club member was Peter V. Coolidge, a highly successful hedge fund manager. Peter was a quintessential Yankee. In his late forties, he was very much a blueblood.
He grew up in Concord, MA and was a double Harvard – undergraduate and business school. Having those credentials gave him a leg up in career trajectory. He came from old money and was making new money. An obscenely large amount of money. He was married with three children, drove an $80,000 Audi and lived on Cambridge’s exclusive Brattle Street.
Regardless of social station, middle age rears its ugly head. Peter’s body was getting soft and he’d developed a gut. He’d been a varsity lacrosse player at Harvard and, like Roz, a natural athlete. But that was yesterday. Peter tried to maintain his fitness but time and Covid, like most of us, had affected his diet and activity. I need to get back in shape, he thought.
So here he was at the health club meeting with Roz. He was a handsome man of average height. He possessed a shock of brown hair flecked with gray. In the era of grunge and relaxed clothing, he was an oasis of tasteful business attire –suit, necktie, starched white shirt and highly polished dress shoes.
Once again, Roz greeted her client and ushered him into the meeting room where the Dubois’s odor still lingered. It was déjà vu all over again. She was about two feet away from Peter when he said “Hello. Hi, Roz. I’m Peter Coolidge.”
Peter did not have B.O. but the two H’s-hello and hi – were a blast furnace of bad breath. Yup, it was evil halitosis, an affliction that transcends socioeconomic status. Once again, Roz’s head was pummeled. She found herself arching her back to avoid further onslaught. This is not my day, she thought. The breath was foul and had an acidic smell that forced her to increase her social distance from Mr. Coolidge.
Peter V. Coolidge and his breath
She again donned the mask which helped. Does this guy realize his mouth is a lethal weapon? I’ll rename it Brahmin Breath, she declared. One exhalation could kill plants, wilt flowers and dissolve chrome off an automobile bumper. The poor dentists who deal with this condition could qualify for hazardous duty pay, she said to herself.
Roz was the most popular and sought-after trainer. She felt obligated to accommodate Peter. She decided she could tolerate his breath – it was better than the B.O. Twins. She would merely maintain a buffer zone. The masks would help. She queried him about his goals and asked questions about diet and exercise.
“Here’s a printout of my assessment and plans, Peter,” she said.
“Let’s schedule twice weekly meetings. Follow the instructions on these pages and I know you’ll be getting fit. I’ll also email you a copy. See you soon!”
It was lunchtime and Roz again left the building to breathe welcomed fresh air. She daydreamed about walking through a forest in her native Colorado. Aromas there would be a wonderful antidote for today’s nasal trauma. Time for a sandwich and some mineral water, she thought.
Returning to the fitness center, Roz saw three new clients with joint pain and various orthopedic maladies that were straightforward and easy. The clients were congenial and their problems would easily be solved.
Her last client of the day would complete the cycle that started her morning. Clyde Bunting was a CPA working for one of the Big Three accounting firms. Despite spending his entire day staring at a computer, he was quite fit. He was spindly tall and prematurely bald. His hands were enormously large and perfect for his leisure activity of rock climbing. Clyde had been climbing at Tuckerman’s Ravine in New Hampshire. He unfortunately grabbed a rock that became loose and fell six feet. He had fractured his right knee cap and tibia bone and arrived at Ba’Hai with a knee brace and crutches.
Clyde underwent surgery. He would walk again, the orthopedic surgeon told him, but he’d would require extensive physical therapy.
Roz reviewed the pre and post-operative xrays. Clyde’s tibia sustained a severe break that required many screws and metal plates inserted during surgery. According to the surgeon, the prognosis was good. However, there’d been considerable muscle wasting after the surgery. Many leg injuries or surgeries cause loss of muscle mass. The job of a physical therapist/trainer is, through exercise, to strengthen the leg muscles, especially the quadriceps.
To arrive at an accurate assessment of the leg and muscles, Roz told Clyde to don a Johnny gown. She wanted to inspect the thigh and lower leg. This is where she hit today’s trifecta. With shoes and stockings removed, Roz examined the leg, and wham!, lightning struck again. Clyde’s feet smelled like Gorgonzola, “the pungent Italian bleu cheese”. She began gagging and was afraid she’d wretch. Quickly, she donned two masks.
Is it Clyde Bunting or Gorgonzola?
Clyde suffered from bromodosis, the medical term for smelly feet. Once again, bacteria located in the feet are the culprits. They thrive in a warm, dark environment when covered with stockings, especially if the socks are dirty. Bromodosis can be controlled with meticulous hygiene but body chemistry and genetics can complicate the odor problem.
Like dentists, podiatrists deal daily with such biochemical weapons of mass destruction. Feet are one of the most unattractive human body parts. Clyde is one person who wouldn’t be playing much footsie and certainly not with Roz.
She suffered through the evaluation process, developed a therapy regimen. She liked Clyde and was sympathetic to his horrific accident. A broken tibia would probably require months of rehabilitation. It was a challenging case and with masks scented with Shalimar perfume, she was determined to help this man.
Her profession was one of healing patients who experience pain and also involves persons who care about their health by losing weight and becoming physically fit. The big question is how to deal with clients whose odor problems are impediments. How does one diplomatically reveal this to him? It’s a social hand grenade and thus far no one has solved the problem.
Roz’s work day was finally done. On her way home, she stopped at a drug store and bought a package of pine tree-shaped car fresheners having an elasticized loops. Many people hang them from their automobile rear view mirrors. After the olfactory assault she decided to mainline and held the scented tree under her nose for her 45 minute commute home. It smelled good. Really good.
It was the last week of April, 2021 and all Dr. Vito Di Stronzo wanted was a new car. In his 65 years he dreaded a time that affects us all: dealing with car people and the labyrinthine world of automobiles sales. Everyone has a personal story of getting screwed over by a mendacious salesmen. In today’s world, car dealerships have spawned a new twist: both buyer and seller are using the internet during this mercantile courtship. Like most of today’s societal changes, car buying has undergone depersonalization.
Many consumers conduct car purchases via computer, cell phone or laptop. Today, there is yet another phenomenon: females selling cars. Vito had always dealt with male salesmen who were historically hustlers trying to make the maximum profit. During one of Vito’s car experiences, a salesman, during the sales pitch, was eating a greasy bowl of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Chicken fat dribbled down his chin. “Hey, in the business you gotta eat when you can. So what model ragtop are you lookin’ for?”. The experience was not finger-lickin’ good.
Just about anyone who leaves a dealership says, “ Somehow, I think I got hosed”. Alex Baldwin in the movie Glengary Glen Ross has a famous line, “Get them to sign on the line which is dotted, get mad you sons o’ bitches! Don’t forget it takes brass balls to be in sales.”.
Vito is a successful dentist who lived a financially comfortable life. He is also a sucker for convertibles. He became bald in his 40’s. His family teased him: “Oh Vito, driving with the top down is why you’ve lost all your hair!” or “You wear a baseball cap while driving because you don’t want people to blinded by the sun when it reflects off your chrome dome.” He took the ribbing good-naturedly. He possessed a strong ego.
He’d owned four convertibles and his current vehicle was a 2013 Chrysler. It was a beautiful car, perhaps the most stylish he’d ever owned. It had an unusual color, auburn metallic pearl coat, to which he added a distinguishing red pin stripe.
A 2013 Chrysler200 convertible
People were always complimenting him on this car. He had detailed and Simonized the car twice yearly. It was pristine for its eight years. There was nothing mechanically wrong with the car but this perhaps was the last year he could sell the car privately and command a decent profit.
He discovered a major issue was product availability. During the past decade, fewer car manufacturers were selling convertibles. Chrysler had discontinued rag tops. The only American convertibles were the muscle cars: the Chevrolet Corvette, Camaro and the Ford Mustang. I’m too old for those cars, he’d decided. Volkswagen has also discontinued the iconic Beetle convertible.
At his age, Vito decided he’d sell the Chrysler and lease his new wheels. He had researched the alternatives and had his eyes on an elegant Audi four-seater convertible. He wanted black with a tan interior and with all the bells and whistles. Expensive, yes, but he knew the pleasure was worth the cost. His income bracket could readily absorb the increased monthly payment. It was time to do his homework.
The internet has dramatically changed the dynamics of car sales. Shoppers can shop online and avoid the tension associated with unctuous salespersons. Such companies as Kelley Blue Book and Edmunds have websites that purportedly provide consumers with the best strategies to level the playing field. He also learned these companies play both sides of the game.
They supply data regarding MSRP( manufactuer’s suggested retail price) and compare it to something called invoice price and recommend what the consumer should demand as a fair and equitable price. But there are two sides to these companies. To obtain information, Vito had to supply his email address, telephone number and his car’s make and model.
Within hours, he was bombarded with emails and telephone calls from area car dealerships. They sent cheerful messages. “Hi Vito, this is Janice at the Audi dealership. Give me a call. I want to help you buy your new car!”. Or they would leave terse messages such as “Hey, this is Melissa. How’s the car shopping going?”. Let the online bartering begin.
Text exchange:
Vito: “I’ve researched your invoice price. It’s $3,000 less than the sticker price. What’s the wiggle room here?”
Julie the saleswoman: “Well, yes, Vito there is indeed a difference in those two prices. What price are you thinking about?:)”.
Vito: “I want to lease the Audi for a price so I don’t pay more than $450 per month. You crunch some numbers and then we can talk.”
Julie: “Whoa, don’t think we can go that low. Well, you’ve probably heard this before but I’ll have to talk to my manager.”
Everyone who’s bought a car has heard that line. If she has to talk to the manager then why the hell is she working there, he mused.
Of course Vito couldn’t conduct all negotiations via the internet. It’s foolish for anyone to buy or lease an automobile without the “test drive”. Consumers want see the car, drive the care and smell the car – few aromas compare to the new car smell, which vanishes with three months of ownership. Test driving a car occurs at the dealership and that’s where the spider meets the fly.
His research online indicated there were few, if any, Audi convertibles in greater Boston. One saleslady, Melissa, contacted him and said, yes, we have one. Let’s make an appointment, she said.
He was free on Saturdays and drove 45 minutes to this chrome and glass dealership. An older man wearing a nylon windbreaker and a soiled necktie greeted him at the door. Vito presumed the man was a service employee. He was rumpled and the ubiquitous Covid mask covered his face but not his big, reddened nose. He was bulky and drug store reading glass perched on said proboscis. He never introduced himself.
“I’m here to see Melissa for a test drive,” Vito said.
“She’s upstairs,” the man brusquely replied. “Have a seat here.”
With a ham-fisted gesture, he pointed towards a nearby desk. His shoes were scuffed and he wore wrinkled trousers. Because of Covid 19, a clear plexiglass shield lay between customer and salespeople; this barrier was a true metaphor. A few moments later, Mr. Nose reappeared with a worksheet. He then informed me he was the salesman who’d be handling the negotiations. “You’re a salesman?” Vito thought.
Dr. Di Stronzo meets Mr. Nose
“So you’re here to purchase an A5 Cabriolet,” he said in a gruff tone.
“No, I’m here to test drive a convertible per my conversation with the salesperson,” Vito testily replied.
“Well, we don’t have any convertibles on the lot,” he chided.
Vito was incredulous. There was an increasing tension between the two.
“Look, I drove down here because I was told a test drive would be available,” Vito said, as his Italian temper arose. “Now you’re saying that’s untrue. What kind of dealership are you running?
“Hey Vito,” the Nose said. “All I was told was you were ready to buy.
“Oh, that’s rich,” Vito replied, his voice rising. “You want me to purchase a $53,000 automobile sight unseen. I don’t think so.”
The two men glared at each other. Vito did not blink. Then came the expected.
“I’ll have to talk to my manager,” Nose said.
Mr. Nose and his manager, Candace
The manager, a hefty woman in her mid-30’s, arrived with the Nose in tow. She had dyed blonde hair, impressive false eyelashes, and exquisitely manicured, long French nails. The mask kept her expression a secret. Her name was Candace. In a cheerful, tone she apologized for the misunderstanding. Melissa had misinformed Vito, she admitted. She produced a sales worksheet that listed charges and total cost of the vehicle.
She told him there were no available convertibles in dealerships statewide. Meanwhile, the Nose stood silently behind the manager.
“Well, I’m sorry, Candace, but I don’t think we’re a good fit,” Vito said without malice. “I’ve driven here on a wild goose chase. You’ve wasted my time. I’ll think I’ll look elsewhere.”
Vito abruptly stood and headed towards the exit.
As he was leaving, Candace ran after him and said, “Dr. Di Stronzo, what can we do to make this right? We’d like to get you into a new car.”
“That ship has sailed, Candace,” Vito replied. “Oh, and by the way, you should have your staff clean up their appearance. Your slovenly, large-nose “salesman” looks more like a Walmart greeter.”
Vito was now a man on a mission. He returned home and resumed his search for an available 2021convertible. He called several dealerships to see if there were any available elsewhere in neighboring states. In pre-internet days, dealerships could scour inventories and often find an available make and model. He then recalled reading a recent online business magazine that stated the automobile industry, like so many businesses, had been adversely affected by Covid-19. Manufacturing and delivery underwent delays. He also remembered the article said computer chips, a vital component in modern cars, were back-ordered.
It was 4 pm and Vito decided he’d call the last dealership on his list. He was connected to Gloria, another female salesperson. He expected the same rigamarole.
“Actually, Doctor, we don’t have any 2021’s available,” she said with a pleasant voice. “They’re really scarce. However, we do have a used 2019 Cabriolet in our inventory. There’s not much difference. You could at least test drive the car. I think you’ll love it.”
Vito was impressed with Gloria’s delivery. She had a smooth, calming, voice, promising a soft sell. The good news was the dealership did have car, 2019, that was a reasonable facsimile.
“I’ll drive down on Tuesday but please call me if you’ve sold the car,” he said. “I don’t want to go on another fool’s errand.”
Tuesday arrived and Vito drove to the dealership. Gloria greeted him as he entered the agency. She was middle-aged somewhere in her mid-40s, early 50’s. She dressed professionally, was personable and created a hassle-free environment. He was required to produce his driver’s license and sign several documents.
They walked outside and there it was. A stunning cobalt gray Audi convertible. It was a used lease car that was available for sale. Gloria gave him the keys and he slid into the luxurious leather driver’s seat. He started the car. Gloria stood by the passenger’s door. Vito lowered the window and said, “Aren’t you coming along for the ride?”.
“No”, she replied. Because of Covid we don’t accompany customers.”
Just as well, Vito thought. He eased out of the parking lot and drove along the highway. The car was comfortable and silent except for the high-end sound system. The dashboard was an overwhelming array of lights, buttons and controls. After about 15 minutes he was sold. Yes, this was the car. He quickly returned to the dealership.
Gloria couldn’t see it but Vito was smiling beneath the mask. Next came the “discussion”. Without naming names, he told her about the unpleasant Mr. Nose experience. They discussed the scarcity of convertibles. Next came a rarity in car sales: Gloria revealed the truth.
“Well, Dr. Di Stronzo, the reason you couldn’t find a car is because they’ve stopped manufacturing 2021 models,” she said. “If we sit here today and you want to complete the sale, it’ll be for a 2022 model.”
Mr. Nose and the other online/telephone marketers hadn’t revealed the truth. They perpetuated the longstanding reputation. Car people talked jive but Gloria possessed unusual candor.
“Actually, Dr. Di Stronzo, I couldn’t sell you a 2022 today,” she said. “Audi hasn’t released the pricing schedules. They’ll be announced in mid-to late May. I can contact when when I have the numbers.”
Vito had become Diogenes; he’d searched and found an honest car salesperson.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Gloria,” he said. “I appreciate your honesty. I’m impressed. It’s refreshing to meet someone like you at a car dealership. Call me when you’re ready. Never thought I’d hear myself saying it, but it’s been a pleasure.”
And with that, Vito left the dealership and drove off in his shiny auburn-colored 2013 ragtop. I’m going to miss you, he thought. It’s been a good eight year run.
On the eastern coast of Sicily lies a small village that has been luring inhabitants for millennia. Its name is Taormina and is located on a coastal roadway between Messina and Catania. The village is actually located more than 800 feet above the azure Ionian Sea. The views are breathtaking.
Sicily has a semi-arid climate. Warm enough to make winters bearable. In spring and fall, the sun shines daily. The only glitch is summer when the Sirocco winds blowing from Arabia bring a blast furnace of wind-intensified heat. For the rest of the year, natives and countless tourists enjoy the vistas of the sea and, of course, the brooding volcano, Mt. Etna.
Taormina has one major street. It is narrow and is actually a dead end. No automobiles are allowed access. The famous Hotel Timeo is located to the right just before the biggest surprise and treat: an ancient Greek theater. Under the warm Sicilian sun this treasure is a classic amphitheater with 50 rows of seating.
Taormina’s Famous Greek Theater
It is so well preserved the local artisans produce plays throughout the tourist season. The acoustics are still magnificent but the view is more enthralling. Perfomances are accentuated by the ocean backdrop. Plays performed there are the highlight of any vacation. It’s incredibly sensual. The smell of the salty air is combined with the aromas of nearby restaurants. During evening performances, Etna provides background fireworks.
“Rome may be the eternal city, but Taormina is the eternal town,” says tourist guide Domenico Buonfiglio. “Just think of the hundreds of thousands of human beings who have walked along these streets since the ancient Greeks.”
Domenico Buonfiglio, touristguide extraordinaire
In his walking tour, Buonfiglio, whose Italian accent adds charm to his anecdotes, recounts the town’s rich but tumultuous history. He was born in Rome and educated there. Italy has historically been a balkanized country, he said. After the fall of the Roman Empire and the Vandal hordes, Italy became a nation of city states and the regionalism persists. Milan is culturally different from Venice which is different from Florence. Each region has different cuisine and language, or dialect. It’s impossible for a Roman to understand a Sicilian. They speak in sub-languages.
After graduating from college, Buonfiglio’s curiosity about the various regions lured him into a career of discovering the differences in a country so rich in history and tradition. He was entrepreneurial and transferred his fascination with Italy into a tourist business. At age 56 Buonfiglio owns the largest agency in Italy. He fell in love with Taormina along the way and is the place that has captured his heart and spirit.
Of all Italian regions, Sicily has been the biggest political football. The ancient Greeks first colonized the island. In fact, many historians claim the best Greek ruins are found in Sicily, not Greece. Sicilians often debate which city has the most and the best. Most agree it’s a tossup between Catania and Syracuse. The Roman Empire succeeded Greece. Following Rome, Sicily has been ruled by Moslems, French, the Vatican and the Holy Roman Empire. Each nation left an indelible imprint of the food, language and culture.
For example, the Moors were known for their sweets. Marzipan was created in Sicily. Taormina is famous for this delectable candy.
During World War II, the Nazis occupied the town and General
Albert Kesselring established headquarters in Castelmola, a stunning hilltop town overlooking Taormina. He didn’t stay long there because the Allies invaded Sicily and der gute General hightailed it up the boot of Italy.
“Let’s put it this way, “Buonfiglio said. “The Sicilians did not like the Germans and were ecstatic when they were forced to leave. Their hatred of the Germans equaled their animus for Mussolini.”
The beauty of Taormina is its survival of all unwelcomed political regimes. It continues to provide the world with a pacific presence. The panoramic views, the warm Ionian water, the smell of lemon trees that grow wild there and the blessed sun remain unchanged.
Sicily is an island of many paradoxes. It is Italy’s largest producer of citrus fruits. It also produces wheat, nuts and fish, especially tuna and sardines. Of course it is infamous for the “mano nero” – the black hand- , the original term for the Mafia. Mt. Etna is one of the few continuously active volcanos. Ironically its volcanic ash combines with native soil and is perfect for producing hearty, robust wines.
“There’s something for everybody in Italy but paradise is reserved for my beloved Taormina,” says Buonfiglio with a playful smile.
I was rummaging through some cardboard boxes in my attic last week. They’d been stored away after my wife and I sold our property in Belmont, Massachusetts three years ago.
Near the bottom of one of the boxes lay a black, rectangular device with rounded edges. I smiled and reacted as if I’d discovered gold. The “device” was my mother’s “No. 2A Folding Autographic Brownie” camera. I was overcome with a wave of nostalgia. So many family paper photographs were taken with this camera. Photos of my parents’ wedding, my brother’s First Holy Communion and me with dressed up for Easter and missing my two front teeth.
The Brownie was compact
My grandmother had given Mom the camera as a gift for her 16th birthday. It was 1930. Eastman Kodak’s Brownie camera was the photographic equivalent of the Ford Model T – Kodak made owning a well built camera that middle class Americans could afford. When first introduced in 1915, it sold for a whopping $6! The Folding Brownie was the early prototype of hand held cameras that would evolve into smaller, lighter, more compact cameras. Kodak Brownie cameras became similar to such eponymous products as Kleenex tissues, Thermos bottles and Mack Trucks. The Brownie was the precursor and to modern devices: Polaroid, Leica, Hasselblad and Nikon cameras.
Physically, my Brownie is heavy and weighs about one pound. It is a strange looking device. A sliding lever opens and the camera’s lens stares at you. A locking device is squeezed and the photographer pulls the lens and its accordion housing made of fabric upward into locked position. The lens has a view finder and another lever is clicked. Aim and shoot developed a new meaning. The photographic image flashes on to the underlying film. Unfortunately photograph film is no longer available so the Brownie sits there, a desiccated antique of another era.
Camera ready to snap photographs
When you pick up this camera, you are holding a piece of American history that signifies a different era, one where American entrepreneurialism was at its zenith. Kodak was created in 1888 by George Eastman and Henry A. Strong. The company, Eastman Kodak, originally manufactured photograph plates for the old-fashioned 19th Century cameras. Civil War photographer Matthew Brady used such devices. The company was headquartered in Rochester, New York. Eastman was clever and tinkered with creating a handheld camera that would utilize photosensitive “film”. The Kodak empire was created when the company devised a dual marketing strategy: manufacture the camera and the film. Laboratories were created across the United States and capturing life’s images on a piece of shiny paper was integrated into American life. Camera shops were created. People could purchase film and the stores, pharmacies and department stores.
Of course the Hollywood film industry was a highly important client, especially with the introduction of color movie films that burst upon the scene during the 1950’s. The “Kodak moment” was born and survived for 100 years. Paul Simon’s famous song “Kodachrome” was a tribute to a product that many thought would never cease to exist. There’s a famous photograph of Kodak’s Monster Brownie. It was a huge camera developed for the U.S. Army’s Air Corps during World War II. The camera was a Brownie on steroids. It was used for aerial reconnaissance and manifested how Kodak was such an integral part of American history.
NowTHAT’s a camera! Air Corps Kodak used in World War II Air Corps reconnaissance missions
Near the end of the 20th Century photography transitioned from analogue film to digital. All cameras were digitized which eventually led to the amazing iPhone where clear, pixelated photographs that are literally within hand’s reach.
Unfortunately, with so many famous corporations the so-called Peter’s Principle again proved true. During the last part of the 20th Century, Kodak executives, unlike Apple and Microsoft, lacked foresight. They were reluctant to embrace the new kid on the block, digital photography. They could not accept this new innovation. Delving into the digital market would affect the highly profitable film business.
They dilly-dallied and were too late. Analogue cameras suffered a quick death as did manufacturing film for products that were being abandoned. There would be no more film processing at Seattle Film, the local drug store or photography shop. Kodak did introduce digital devices but the products weren’t popular and the camera industry eventually was ceded to the Japanese Nikons and Canons.
Eastman Kodak filed for bankruptcy in 2012. It survived but is a shell of itself. The company has switched to digital imaging and photographic equipment, materials and services. Kodak has also quizzically delved into the pharmaceutical industry. It is still headquartered in Rochester but tens of thousands of Kodak employees lost their jobs and careers.
As with much in life, for every change and advancement in our lives, there’s always something lost. Anyone under age 40 will never experience the fun of using boxy, clunky hand-held cameras that were omnipresent at family gatherings. Or will they ever experience the blinding light of camera flash bulbs. They’ll probably won’t understand the artistic skill of photographer/environmentalist Ansel Adams whose famous black-and-white masterpieces were created with techniques no longer existing. Such is the detritus of modern evolution.
After I was finished with my nostalgia trip, I rubbed my hands over the camera’s textured surface. I sniffed the camera’s bellows – it always had a distinctive and pleasant odor. The camera was solid and well made. It is a tribute to mankind’s ingenuity. It introduced the world to a medium where memories were made and preserved for future generations. It is a touchstone to the past, present and future.
For one last time, I caressed the No. 2A Folding Autographic Brownie, lovingly placed it into the box and returned to it to my attic. Au revoir, ciao, auf wiedersehen, goodbye. Click.
He is age twelve and old. His muzzle is gray, has white whiskers and his body has changed. His name is Kaiser and he is a German Shepherd Dog. His life has developed a rhythmic pattern. Eat, sleep and tend to bodily functions. Despite his age, Kaiser is a happy dog. He gnaws his rubber peanut toys, constantly follows my wife Kathy-he’s a Momma’s boy- and is limited to increasingly shorter walks. No more romping around in our fenced backyard. His right rear leg is arthritic and loss of locomotion will probably be his undoing.
For now, we embrace the Serenity Prayer’s famous line, “Living One Day at a Time”. Kaiser weighs 70 lbs. and is considered a small male. His coat is called sable, not the Rin Tin Tin classic black and tan. Sable shepherds are more lupine in appearance; many people are intimidated by them. He is, in fact, though, a very goofy dog and loves to approach strangers. At our veterinary clinic he is treated like a rock star. Most of the staff are females and adore Kaiser. Before the Covid pandemic we’d watch him flirt with the ladies as he obligingly kissed and nuzzled them.
Kaiser is a rescue dog. We adopted him as a two-year-old. He was living in a New Hampshire double-wide trailer park. His bloodline was superb and his American Kennel Club(AKC) registered name was “Vino von Valtenstein”—breeders usually assign a letter to each litter. Vino was, you guessed it, from the “V” litter. Once purchased, he became Kaiser, a far more suitable Teutonic name. We know nothing about his first owner except he was scheduled for imprisonment on drug charges. The owner paid for basic obedience training but most days Kaiser was chained to a tree within the trailer park.
Our breeder Karen found him and whisked Kaiser away. There was a familial link. The breeder had sold us Kaiser’s aunt, Gundi. The physical resemblance between the two was uncanny.
Aunt Gundi
“Kaiser is a good boy but needs some socialization,” Karen said. “He hasn’t been abused, more like neglected and not thoroughly trained. He does know the basic commands and I think he and his aunt will get along well.”
We introduced Kaiser and Gundi at Karen’s training center. Female dogs usually dominate males and Gundi was no exception. With a few sideways glances, a couple of growls and some neck biting, she put Kaiser in his place. A bond was created and the pecking order established. The rescue fee was modest and we blissfully drove home. It was a treat seeing four canine ears in the rear view mirror.
The first priority was a veterinary evaluation. Kaiser had received the usual canine vaccines. He was an intact male and neutering was one of the first things on the to-do list. However, our veterinarian, Dr. Michaels, noticed two glaring problems.
“Our buddy here has fleas”, he said while distancing himself to avoid infestation. “He needs a pesticidal bath ASAP. This is common in dogs with his background.”
Dr. Michaels inspected his ears and discovered infections. Antibiotics and a thorough cleaning were necessary and through his lifetime the ears have been a continual issue. We still use special cleaners and medicinal drops.
I asked him about the neutering surgery.
“Oh, we can wait on that,” he said with a laugh. “His balls aren’t going anywhere. Let’s first get the hygiene and medical issues squared away.”
Dr. Michaels said Kaiser was in pretty good shape. His legs and hips were sound — many German Shepherds have congenital hip dysplasia. We should have good luck with him, he said. Aunt Gundi and Kaiser became pals and chased each other in the backyard.
My wife and I have owned eight shepherds most of whom had a companion. I guess many persons in our neighborhood were intimidated by the sight of shepherds walking in tandem. Kathy is a professional dog trainer and all our dogs were friendly but their presence and bearing could be off-putting. According to the American Kennel Club’s breed guidelines, German Shepherds have “a certain aloofness that does not lend itself to indiscriminate friendships”. As the years passed many neighbors felt more comfortable but others still feared them because of traumatic childhood experiences. Breeds such as German Shepherds, Doberman Pinschers, Rottweilers and Pit Bulls have developed bad reputations.
During her long career, Kathy has learned the bad-boy dogs can be legitimate threats. The issue usually stems from poor genetics, lack of socialization or owner ignorance.
Also, buying purebred dogs costing $1,000 to $5,000 has prompted many people to adopt shelter dogs that have a much lower price tag. Dog bites sometimes stem from rescue dogs of unknown backgrounds. They are often from Southern states. Many of such dogs are Pit Bull mixes and owners take risks with these dogs of questionable provenance.
We have always fancied German Shepherd Dogs and have been lucky to own good ambassadors of the breed. Kathy often brought our dogs to her basic obedience classes. They were calm, non-reactive and friendly. One shepherd, Rex, had the classic look and majestic behavior. He posed for famous Polaroid photographer Elsa Dorfman who captured his regal but friendly nature. Puppies and owners would gather around Rex when he visited the puppy kindergarten classes. He was very approachable.
Handsome Rex
Kathy and I are at a crossroads. Boss Lady Gundi unfortunately died from a brain tumor in 2017 and Kaiser has been flying solo since. He will probably be our last shepherd. Owners grow older and age dictates what you can and cannot do with dogs, especially with large breeds.
Our attitude is to enjoy Kaiser for as many days, weeks, months he’ll be with us. We’ve all settled into a routine, especially since the Covid 19 virus arrived. Having a faithful dog has helped save our sanity. As he has aged, Kaiser has become an even softer more affectionate dog. He stares at Kathy and me with loving brown eyes that reveal developing cataracts. He is also stone deaf.
He still enjoys car rides but cannot jump into the back seat. He now requires a ramp when loading and, once inside, loves to stick his head out the passenger window. Many drivers passing us smile and wave.
The age expentancy for large breed dogs is between ten and twelve years. Kaiser is approaching the right parenthesis of his life and that is why we cherish every day he’s with us. We know the day will come for the long good-bye. We dread the inevitable. In the film Gladiator actors Djimon Hounsou and Russell Crowe’s Maximus ponder the brevity of a warrior’s life. Houndou says “We all will die….but not yet.”
In memory of Sarge, Buzzy, Helga, Rex, Dixie, Roxanne and Gundi.
Epilogue: The long good-bye occurred August 20, 2021. Kaiser was euthanized after degenerative spinal myelopathy affected his right rear leg. We are heartbroken and will miss him terribly.
Attached to a basement wall lies a family heirloom. It is not fine china, a framed portrait or a family coat-of-arms. The inheritance is a homely, rickety cast iron shoe shine rack that has served three generations. It is approximately 100 years old and is still used to polish my shoes as it was it for my late father’s and Grandpa Joe’s. The beauty of this family keepsake is its durability. Even today, the metal device slides along a track and stretches shoes. A large wing nut locks the device and the ritual of polishing shoes begins. Ten decades of service and, to my delight, this device still functions.
The author’s Coulter Manufacturing, Inc. shoe rack, patented 1904
I’m a sentimentalist and derive much pleasure from using something old that pertains to an activity, shining shoes. Caring for footwear draws little attention in the year 2021. Everything, including wardrobe, has become casual. Many associate shined shoes with several dubious groups: politicians, bankers, lawyers and Wall Street denizens.
As with so many aspects of life today, the pandemic has affected the simple act of shoe shining. I haven’t worked since March 2, 2020 and was forced into indefinite retirement. My elegant Allen Edmonds shoes lie dormant on shelves with, as music legend Chuck Berry would say, no particular place to go. They merely collect dust. I must confess that during the past year, I occasionally polished the shoes for a simple reason: nostalgia. It is a rite that has followed me my entire life.
My grandfather was a Sicilian immigrant. He was a barber who spoke no English when he arrived in America. I barely remember him but I do know he was a proud man who had an innate sense of style and physical appearance. There’s a family photograph of Grandpa wearing a bowler hat, a vest with pocket watch, a carefully groomed mustache and highly polished shoes.
How a person presented himself was very important in Italian culture. Both grandparents were proud of their five children and despite living through the Great Depression, they maintained a sense of style and decorum with the family. The shoe shine rack was always present and used during those years.
Within my family, using the rack became second nature. Although I never considered the routine demeaning, within society shoe shining sometimes had a negative connotation. Some would refer pejoratively to shoe shiners as “bootblacks”. The inference was their job lay with social inferiors. Throughout major cities, immigrant kids gathered at railway stations prepared to shine shoes on city streets, in subways and at hotels.
In a famous scene from the movie Goodfellas, a Mafioso insults actor Joe Pesce’s character, gangster Tommy “Spitshine” DeVito. The “made man” ridicules Pesce for being a shoe shine boy in his youth.
He yells, “Now go home and get your fuckin’ shoeshine box!” Pesce is livid, hurls expletives and with the help of fellow actor Robert De Niro, the Mafioso is beaten to death. Poor optics for shoe shiners.
The above scene was fiction and had nothing to do with the simple act of improving one’s physical appearance. For me, shining shoes was simply an integral activity instilled by my father. As a child, I watched Dad as he rubbed his shoes with a liquid cleaner. Using the shoe shine rack he would then apply aromatic shoe polish, brush the shoes and then buff them with a cotton nap cloth.
Shoe polish has a clean scent. It is composed of shea butter, and carnauba and bee’s wax. Turpentine is also included and gives the polish its distinctive aroma. Dad would often apply saliva that would provide a mirror-like sheen to the shoes. Hence the “spit shine”. Even today, shining shoes provides a pleasant and olfactory memory.
Two Australian brothers developed the modern shoe polish named Kiwi (one of the brother’s wives was a New Zealander). The product was introduced prior to World War I. The British and American soldiers were expected to complement their uniforms with polished shoes. Kiwi became the unofficial military polish. As part of the industrial revolution, mass produced footwear became affordable. I occasionally sift through fading family photographs taken during the big four Italian holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, St. Joseph’s Day and Easter. The photos become interchangeable. The adults were dressed in their finery, the many cousins were wearing a shirt, tie and, of course, shined shoes. The family uniform. Patriarchy ruled.
As I grew into adulthood, proper grooming also included wearing clean starched shirts, tasteful neckties and subtle after shave colognes.
We are, however, living in an era of relaxed mores. Covid 19 has increased style changes. “Working remotely” has lowered sartorial standards. Warmup suits and Uggs slippers have supplanted jeans and L.L. Bean flannel shirts. Men don’t shave and women are less concerned about hairdos and makeup. Why bother with blush and lipstick if a mask is covering your face. And there’s certainly no need for polished cordovan wingtips in the family den.
When this national nightmare is over, employees will eventually return to office buildings. Normalcy will hopefully return. Finally seeing each other’s faces will be a welcome sight. Commuter traffic jams will resume and the office environment will reappear. Slippers and flip flops will be left at home.
Dress codes vary by company standards. Many high tech firms haven’t objected to men’s rumpled shirts and trousers or women’s sweatshirts and spandex pants.
Regardless of this dumbing down in the workplace an employee’s physical appearance eventually makes a difference. According to a New York University psychologist, it takes only seven seconds for employers to assess their first impressions of job applicants. And in that time an interviewer can also make up to eleven initial judgments. Interestingly, the researchers found job candidates’ footwear is the first item noticed. Does a man wear polished Salvatore Ferragamo shoes or well-worn Nike Airs? Do women wear Manolo Blahniks or black low-cut canvas Chuck Taylors?
The research shows scanning a person’s physical appearance paradoxically starts from toe to head. In today’s world, wardrobe probably has less significance than 20 or 30 years ago. There’s a famous line in playwright Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. Referring to salesman Willy Loman, the character Charley states: “He’s a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine.”
I have often thought of that passage as I descend into the basement and place my shoes into the rack and continue the ritual started long ago. Enjoying the redolence of the shoe polish, I hope Dad and Grandpa enjoy my homage to them and what they taught me about shoes and life.
“Good morning class,” Teacher Mildred Gale said to her freshly scrubbed fourth graders. “Today we start our penmanship exercises. We’ll be using the Rinehart method.”
Miss Gale was dour and a character from Central Casting. She wore rimless eyeglasses; her triangular face possessed a priggish mouth that rarely smiled. She wore no makeup and her hands were unadorned with jewelry or nail polish. Her dresses were matronly – the style you see in Vermont Country Store catalogs and, of course, there were the obligatory sensible shoes. She was, shall we say, not warm and fuzzy. Miss Gale was the quintessential old maid.
“All right class, let’s take out our pens and begin writing,” she said.
Miss Mildred Gale
Public schools had universal hierarchy. Grammar school was kindergarten through grade 6. Miss Gale taught at the Daniel Butler school in Belmont, Massachusetts , a Boston suburb. Junior High, an age group where male and female hormones exploded was grades 7 through 9. High school included grades 10-12. Then it was off to college, the military, or the trades.
An accompanying inkwell:
“I detest sloppiness when it comes to writing,” she’d sneer. “There is no excuse for writing too fast or too slow. Both extremes will cause messiness. An even pace is the best way to write. Do you hear me, people?”
Of course most students did smudge after leaving an ink puddle after a cursive letter. With the Rinehart Handwriting System, the T’s, F’s and S’s were the usual culprits. Once the smudge occurred, kids would grasp the blotter and try to absorb as much ink as possible. The botched writing assignment would incur Miss Gale’s wrath. Many kids would earn only a middling C grade in penmanship. The writing courses were taught in all grammar school grades. Most students would arrive home with black ink stains on their fingers – or, worse, their clothes.
Fast forward to today. Miss Gale would be shocked at the classroom curricula. She’d discover a completely alien environment. Slate blackboards and chalk have been replaced with whiteboards and erasable Sharpie ink pens. There’d be no desks with inkwell holes or ink and stick pens. Introduced in the 1950’s, ball point pens increased in popularity and eventually replaced fountain pens. Penmanship would be abandoned from school curricula. Students today no longer write in cursive hand writing. Everybody prints. For anyone under age 40, written signatures are extinct.
And yet there are people who cling to yesteryear. Fahrney’s, a Maryland –based company, has survived and specializes in fountain pens. The pens vary considerably in price. A Parker or Cross pen can be purchased for less than $100. Mont Blanc, a German pen company, manufactures fountain pens that are considered the Rolls Royce of writing instruments; many many Mont Blanc pens cost more than $1,000. Prices increase when 18k gold nibs are used.
Boston has several stationery stores that still sell medium to high-end fountain pens.
“Yeah, the fountain pens are a niche market,” said Buster McGee, owner of With Pen In Hand stationers. “We have some customers who’ll purchase five or six pens at a time. Penners can sometime border on being fetishists. They want different nib widths and different colored inks. Peacock blue, for example has made a comeback. It was really popular in the 50’s but black and blue inks are still the main colors.”
McGee is a classic stationer. Tall and lanky, his face is adorned with a waxed handlebar mustache. He wears three piece suits. The necktie is highlighted by a diamond stick pin and his vest has a chain attached to a gold pocket watch. His shoes are polished. He’s a dandy and if it were 1910, he’d probably be wearing spats. His persona fits perfectly with someone who uses and sells fountain pens. In fact, he writes with a Mont Blanc DeLuxe fountain pen with a rhodium nib. The pen costs $985.
He said fountain pen popularity during the past 40 years has neither increased nor decreased. The demographics are tilted towards older men and women. Most people under 40 are oblivious to such an alien device.
“Kids today see a fountain pen and think of their parents talking about rotary telephones and Rolodex file cards,” he said while shaking his head. “They don’t have a clue.”
According to McGee, the pens have gained increased popularity in the Middle East and Asia. He’s sold many German Mont Blanc and Pelikan pens to Chinese students who attend area colleges and universities.
McGee said there are many famous names still associated with the American fountain pen industry: Parker, Esterbrook, Schaefer, Cross and Waterman. These companies continue to manufacture pens. Most pens are made from acrylic plastic; the more expensive use alternate materials ranging from wood, brass, silver or gold. Many also manufacture the water-based ink.
Fountain pen devotees consider them “instruments” rather than pens. There is a ritualistic component when one decides to write with fountain pens.
The ink bottle is opened and the pen’s rubber sac is squeezed. The ink is sucked in and the pen is ready for use. There is an atavistic pleasure in writing with pen and ink. Nib widths vary with the writer’s style. Some prefer the tight clean lines of a fine nib; others use the middle-of-the-road medium nib. Still others love the bold, broad cursive lines on the blunt nib that blend on paper with a flourish. Of course, there’s the extreme art form of calligraphy.
In an era where we are surrounded by tools of the computer age—cells phones, lap top computers and Bic ball point pens, it’s nice to know there’s an oasis of a different age that survives with purists and afficianados. Men and women who cling to the old ways will still enjoy the feeling of a nib gliding across smooth Clairefontaine writing paper. This is a form of communication that transcends centuries. Pen and ink. Pen and ink.
N.B.
The title of this essay, Out Of The Inkwell, is homage to an eponymous 20th Century cartoon series spanning the years 1918 to the 1930’s. Using a stick pen, illustrator Max Fleischer created many black and white cartoon characters. His most famous characters, Betty Boop and Popeye, still remain pop culture icons.
We are living in an age of intolerance. Political, religious, cultural. As each year goes by the schisms seem to widen. The divisiveness has been exacerbated by a plague that has gripped the world for nearly twelve months. Isolation, fear, depression, suicide and wide-scale unemployment have added fuel to the fire.
We have all witnessed the change. Can’t do this, can’t do that, can’t eat here, can’t go there. It’s incredible how swiftly life as we know it has been transformed. People are searching for diversions to pass the time that will aid us during the plague and pestilence.
Me? I was fortunate to receive a Christmas present from my sister-in-law, Terri. It was a suet bird feeder and one slab of her homemade greasy square of lard and crunchy stuff that would create its own Broadway show.
Neither my wife nor I had ever had a suet feeder. We used black sunflower seeds which attracted cardinals, juncos and mundane sparrows. A mouse infestation inside our house several years ago freaked us out. Our birdwatching promptly ended.
We’d hired a pest control company. “Lose the feeder and the vermin go away,” a technician said. “Feeders are mice magnets. I’m gonna install the poison boxes in your basement JIC.”
Out of isolation and boredom, we succumbed to the temptation of luring songbirds to our deck. It had been a couple of years, we thought, and the company performs periodic checks for mice and the usual summertime pests, carpenter ants.
Up went the feeder and we waited. And waited. After about three days, it was JFK International Airport! Downy Woodpeckers –never had seen them before—Blue Jays, Juncos, Starlings and Chicadees. It was as if we’d opened a crack house!
A Starling
For several days, we sat in the dining room overlooking the back deck and reveled in watching our avian friends eat with gusto. There was a hierarchy. Blue jays, the biggest bird at the feeder were the schoolyard bullies. “Screw!” they’d say as they pushed away the little guys.
Or so we thought. Turns out the Starlings were the street gang members. It wasn’t uncommon to observe them with their winter plumage of black with white flecks. These thugs began pecking away at the suet. To our surprise, even Mr. Blue Jay gave obeisance to them. Three or four Starlings would assault Jay with their shiv-like beaks. Jay would fly away and wait in queue.
“Hey, this is my turf, asshole!” one Starling would squawk to another.
The pugnacious Starlings battled amongst themselves for position and reminded me of the juvenile delinquents in the film Blackboard Jungle. Woodpeckers – they have this beautiful red stripe on their heads – and Juncos with their gray bodies and white chest – would patiently wait their turn. Blue Jay would then reappear and shoo away the Juncos. They, too, were very bellicose among their species. One Junco gave two vicious pecks and resumed feeding. Several minutes later it was he who was kicked off the greasy mountain.
The Woodpeckers were solitary, only one bird at a time. They were patient and would wait until the crowd thinned. Each species had an arrival and departure time. It was always survival of the fittest. Some arrived the in morning, others in the afternoon.
We began using binoculars and would observe the birds’ eating habits. Some jabbed away at crunchy peanut butter; others preferred cornmeal. Sometimes it was difficult to determine which recipe component was preferred. The suet’s main ingredient was leaf lard, the unctuous glue that was mixed with the various nuts, cornmeal and sugar. My sister-in-law had included the recipe but warned It was messy to prepare.
Not surprisingly, the suet was consumed in less than one week. My wife and I decided to prepare a batch of this avian cornucopia. We discovered a major glitch: leaf lard was unavailable in our area supermarkets.
“We just don’t have any,” a butcher told us. “Not much call for a tub of lard these days. I couldn’t tell you where to find it.”
Disappointed, we sought the best alternative. A local market sold commercial bird suet. There were various recipes that contained similar ingredients. We bought one whose label boasted “Attracts All Winter Birds”.
We installed the new batch and waited. After five days, no birds had visited. Hmm. Something’s wrong with this suet. The store gladly accepted a swap. This time, we selected the one that claimed “Woodpeckers Love This!!!”
It took a while but a few days later our woodpecker friend returned and pecked away at the suet. In no time the Starling gang was back but apparently weren’t as enthusiastic.
“Hey, what is this cheap shit in the feeder?!” they seemed to complain. “Bring back the lard!”
They boycotted for several days but thought differently after an Arctic blast brought temperatures of 5 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind chill made it feel like -10 degrees. The flocks resumed eating. Any port in a storm.
My wife and I love watching these avian performances from the comfort of our dining room. With binoculars in hand, we’ll continue to enjoy observing the challenges of birds’ lives. For them, survival is harsh. They freeze their cloacas off in winter and endure brutal summertime heat. Brave little creatures who perhaps inspired Thomas Hobbes’s famous line, “Life is nasty, brutish and short.”
Let’s hope 2021 will be a better year for birds on wing and their human admirers.
Addendum
Terri’s Bird Suet
1 1/3 Cup Lard
1 Cup of Crunchy Peanut Butter
2 Cups of Quick Oats
2 Cups of Yellow Cornmeal
1Cup of Flour
1/3 Cup of Sugar
Super Suet
Optional: Use 1 Cup of Yellow Cornmeal and 1 Cup of Songbird Seed
Melt lard and peanut butter in a large pot. Turn off heat. Stir in remaining ingredients at little at a time. Spoon mixture into trays or shallow pan. Press down forms. You can refrigerate, then cut into shape of your feeder, wrap in plastic wrap and freeze in zip lock bags for later use.
Tip: Line your containers with plastic wrap or parchment paper so you may lift out when cooled. It keeps suet from breaking into pieces.
leodenatale.com 