I spent my career in a world where numbers defined success or failure, profit or loss, win or lose. It could be at once rewarding and heartbreaking. I made some lifelong friends — men to ride the river with, as they say in Texas — and I encountered a few black-hearted snakes destined, I hope, for a long swim in the Lake of Fire.
I said “career” as though I spent a few decades in expensive suits and cushy leather office chairs in fancy offices with panoramic views of a city, ridiculously overcrowded, filthy and running a constant 88-decibel ambient noise level. That’s not exactly what my career looked like. Oh, at one point I did have an expensive suit. The last time I remember seeing it, I used the trousers (yes, children, “trousers” is a word) to help protect a couple of antique rifles during a move from Texas to California.
I never did get to spend a lot of time in a big leather chair in my own big fancy office. But there was one time when my separation from the company was a big enough deal that it required an atmosphere befitting my lofty stature in the corporation. For this life-changing meeting, nothing but the finest appointments would do.
The call came from the secretary to the board chairman. He would like to see me at my convenience in 10 minutes in the front lobby. Perhaps I might join him for lunch if there’s time.
“If there’s time.” Right.
We were joined by the corporation’s vice president for human resources and walked briskly to a black BMW 750iL parked illegally in a handicap space. For a moment I stopped fearing my termination just long enough to smell the new leather and silently express my admiration for the engineering that produced the smoothest, quietest engine I’ve ever witnessed, and a V-12 to boot. I thought that was pretty swanky.
Next I went to work for Mr. BMW’s competitor, a Ph.D. from Oxford with a corresponding accent, Wranglers and an F-150. Though a smaller company, that gig was definitely a step up in class. At least I was fired in my own office.
Before those two career highlights, there were minor league positions that came with fancy, head-scratcher titles to put on my resume. Remember, these were the times that tried men’s souls, because nobody but IBM and some strange fella in a California garage had a computer. Getting your girlfriend to type up a resume could be risky if your wife caught the new cologne scent and your stupid smile. So I went to the library and pulled a small, handwritten ad off the bulletin board. When I got to a pay phone (see the 1950s Superman TV show for reference), I negotiated a price and a delivery schedule with the advertiser. I remember almost all my typing jobs costing $30 or $35. One research paper in my senior year was $75, but it was 20 pages plus footnotes, bibliography, a carbon copy and a mimeograph copy because I liked the smell.
At the point where the second highfalutin gig went south — north, actually — I felt there was only one thing I wanted to do. I knew if my mother found out, she would be too mortified to show her face in church again. Nevertheless, back to California I went. I unpacked, finding my antique rifles in my trousers and putting them in the safe. The guns, not the trousers. Then, knowing the grief it could cause my dear mom, I obtained a bona fide California used car dealer license.
Not wanting to hurt the woman who raised me, I called her and said we had moved from Texas back to California. When she asked what I was going to do next, I said we were going to have some fun and I was going to sell machine guns. She thought that maybe with the Feds looking over my shoulder full time, I’d have to keep my nose clean. She endorsed my business choice and wished me luck. Good woman, my mom — a woman of deep-rooted principles whose father never in his life purchased a used vehicle nor permitted his offspring to even acknowledge the unfortunate existence of anything related to used cars. She would not have survived the trauma of learning her only son was a used car dealer. That would have killed her dead.
I missed writing last month’s column and I apologize. It’s not as though I didn’t want to send another 900 or so mostly English words out into the ether. So many of you kind readers have told me of the many uses you have for the column and it makes me almost proud. I wasn’t aware that a little Moxie, some gastric distress, a laptop, and my legendary, imprecise and rather porous memory, all mixed together, could create a product that is actually useful and totally recyclable.
Some of the uses mentioned were protective liners for cat litter boxes, absorbent sheets for bacon and fried chicken grease, and placemats for grandchildren who have yet to develop the concept of table manners. I know there must be plenty of others, and I’d love to hear about them. So, if you have an interesting use for this “Thinking in Public and Not Even Embarrassed,” send it to me at butch.lawson1@gmail.com by June 10. The winner(s), if any, will be announced in the July column.
And here’s another thing: The most unique, interesting one or two will win a free visit with yours truly on our deck. Extra points if Deputy Sheriff Bradbury arrives to investigate. Moxie and smoked chicken wings could be served, and other Anchor dignitaries may be there if they have no self-respect. I’ve met quite a few of them and they seem alright, in spite of all their learnin’.
You’ll have to bring your own big, cushy leather chair.
