Stand In The Place Where You Work

My freshman year at Euphegenia was at an end.  I had more or less bombed out, with exception of D.B.’s class.  But I had been having fun.  A year of freedom felt good.  I didn’t know what to do for the summer but didn’t want to leave my new friends and go back to Wisconsin.  Fortunately, my stepdad had connections at both of the two major riverboat casinos in the Chicago area.  He called me one evening and asked if I’d be interested in working on a boat for the summer and living with them.  Initially not much, but he went on to remind me these companies produced a lot of entertainment.  By the end of the conversation I was certain any entry-level position could lead to some good connections.  I hadn’t really ever considered working on a casino boat.  My only knowledge of casinos was based on the cruises I’d been on with my dad.  Otherwise my perception of casinos was that they were run by the mob and working in one would be dangerous. 
            I was taking an Art of Auditioning class that spring that was being taught by none other than my favorite admissions counselor, Tim “Ben” Timm.  Prior to becoming a college admissions counselor, Ben had been an actor and singer.  He and his wife still did some kind of cabaret act or something at the time. I’m not sure.  It was all kept very secretive.  Probably rightly so, considering if the inquisitors discovered he was moonlighting in some beer hall or gin joint it would likely cost him his day job.  During a break I told him about the call and the opportunity on the boat.  His eyes lit up and he told me to go for it.  Ben knew which I did not at 18 that this particular riverboat casino shared the name with a popular casino out in Las Vegas, the big dance.  He explained to me how many jobs there were for performers in Vegas.  And pointed out it was a short jump from Las Vegas, Nevada to a town called Hollywood, California.  Ben’s advice was essentially go to the interview, do what I had to do to get the job and network, network, network.  Even when I told him I probably wouldn’t be back in time for class that week, he said no problem. 

So I did.  My stepdad phoned in a favor and I got an interview.  Well, it wasn’t so much an interview as it was a cattle call they were holding that particular afternoon.  They were looking to fill a multitude of service positions, from street sweepers to food service.  But they were also hiring for the security department.  My stepdad sold them all their 2-way radios and other paraphernalia and had scored me a guaranteed interview for a security officer position over the summer.  If it worked out, I could continue to work there weekends when school started back up again.  I went in dressed in the best clothes I’d brought with me to school.  I met with the head of security and he mentioned a few times how much he liked my stepdad, i.e. that’s why he was even talking to me.  It was also very clear I was completely unqualified for the gig.  The only thing I had on my side was my size.  I was tallish, biggish, and swarthy looking enough that perhaps I could have some intimidation quality.  Although I actually told him I hoped to spin a position with the casino into a foothold in the entertainment business.  I seem to recall he didn’t even bother to turn his head away as he rolled his eyes.

Despite my total lack of any qualification, he asked me how soon I’d be available.  He basically said give him a call when school was over and he’d put me on the schedule.  He shook my hand and that was it.  Interview over.  I knew I’d likely be started off on a shitty schedule, working from late afternoon to the middle of the night or something, but the pay was great.  Especially for a 19 year old kid who’d never made anything above minimum wage.  This was the kind of money people with their own places and cars made.  I could definitely forgo any kind of social life for one summer to make this kind of scratch.  Most of which I could sock away all summer since I’d be living at my mom’s, using one of their cars, eating their food.  And who knew?  By the next summer I could be working in one of their lounges or something.  In a couple years, I could be out in Vegas.  Doing God knows what of course, but it didn’t matter.  It seemed like a great opportunity. 

And then, shortly before finals I was talking to my dad up in Wisconsin.  I was nervous to tell him about the job.  I knew since their church railed heavily against gambling and alcohol my only hope would be to lead with the money.  He’d have a hard time disapproving of me earning an income not that much less than his own.  After that I’d bring up how it could be beneficial to me eventually making a living at this already risky thing I wanted to do.  Surely he’d see the merit and give me his blessing.  So after a few minutes of bullshit banter, he asked me when he should come down and pick me up.  I took a deep breath and then boldly and confidently said, “Well, um . . . the thing is . . ..” 

I clumsily spit out the details as quickly as I could, hoping it would overwhelm him and he’d just say ok without really hearing.  He heard.  A man of many words and selfless understanding, he paused for a second, and then gave his typical “hmm.” 

That of course meant he was thinking of how to say no without being confrontational.  My father may be the one person in the world who hates confrontation more than me.  Well, he and my brother.  I waited desperately for him to say the logical thing, like how it made sense for me to take the job.  Instead his response and I still hear it clear as a bell because even though part of me knew it was coming, it still completely flabbergasted me, was:  “No, I don’t think we’re going to do that.”   

That was it.  His reaction, his answer, and his explanation all summed up in a cryptic statement.  He didn’t think we were going to do that.  We were going to do that?  I should have asked who the fuck he meant by we.  This was a great opportunity for me, not we.  But yes, it could actually benefit us since I could start paying back my school bill a little faster.  I might mention my dad and stepmom barely had a pot to piss in, despite how well they spent money.  And while he had worked for one company for over 30 years, they have also jerked him around most of that time.  He’s been laid off, rehired, had his job threatened, forced to move, a number of times.  So you would think me taking a bold step to ease some of that financial burden would be welcomed.  The effort should have at the very least been appreciated. 

It didn’t matter though.  Had I just said to him “Dad, my mom and stepdad are cutting me a check for twenty-million and you a check for ten, and all you need to do is walk across the street to get it” he would have said no. 

Actually scratch that.  He’d probably have walked over for his check.  He just would have told me he didn’t want me to take mine.  The reason?  It was something from my mom.  Or that my mom was the catalyst for the opportunity.  It was that same decade & a half old wound that started smarting again the minute I told him my mom and stepdad had hooked me up with this job.  Had the exact same situation been made possible by my stepmother’s brother or parents, they would have physically pushed me to the job. 

I didn’t even have a comeback.  I was so thrown off by his response.  If he’d had said “no way, you’re not working around gambling or all that drinking” I would have at least understood where he was coming from.  I might have even had a retort for such arguments.  But his answer, if you can call it that, was just plain dismissive.  My dad had dismissed me.  That was new, even for him.  The worst part is I just more or less accepted it.  Even at nearly 19 years old and after a year of freedom and getting by on my own, I still didn’t have to power to fight with my dad.  I didn’t want to upset him.  Isn’t that funny?  I didn’t want to risk having him be upset with me.  I think somewhere deep down inside, I was still afraid if I pissed him off, he’d just leave.  He’d bale on me, just as he did when I was 5 years-old.  I don’t remember the wording of the rest of the conversation, but I know it didn’t come up again.  We just made plans for him to come get me.  Of course, ironically, as soon as he did pick me up to take me back to Wisconsin, one of the first topics in the car was that I’d need to find a summer job. 

I should have been pissed.  I should have been livid.  And had I been a man, I should have challenged him.  I should have unloaded with a double-barrel flame thrower of pure honesty and just asked why the fuck he would deny me the chance to make money and maybe even get closer to a career?  I should have demanded he answer me or dared him to leave again.  I should have drawn a line in the sand and asked him if he could possibly answer me or just run away with his tail between his legs again because things were uncomfortable.  In retrospect, I think the idea of me making any money scared him.  It scared him and my stepmother.  They associated the ability to earn with a form of power.  They were afraid to give me any power.  I certainly know they were unwilling to. 

I should mention something.  Remember when I talked about them dropping me off at school, the promise was they were going to send me $100 a month while I was at school as “walking around money?”  Remember how excited that made me because having $25 a week in college to spend was like being Montgomery Brewster in Brewster’s Millions?  Yeah, that was a great story.  Sadly, I never saw a single check.  They never sent me any money while I was at school.  Not a dime.  They didn’t even mention it.  When I’d come visit, dad would hand me whatever cash he had in his pocket, usually a twenty before I left.  That was it.  And he did it without even a blush of embarrassment.  Essentially that $100 a month was lie.  For what purpose?  Your guess is as good as mine.  Again, maybe it was another psychological power thing.  But they never sent me the money they promised, that I never asked for by the way, and now they wouldn’t allow me to take a job I wanted.

Perhaps now it will make sense to you if I tell that shortly after I moved in to Euphegenia, my mom and stepdad did something really nice, and I never breathed a word of it to my dad.  Mom called and said they wanted to come up and take me to dinner and they had something for me.  So they drove up one evening and told me that when my brother had gone away to school they had opened up a bank account for him and deposited $1,500.00 for him his first year.  That was solely to be his spending money.  They had told him to use it wisely and not blow through it in a week.  Once it was gone it was gone.  I’m sure this was meant to be some experiment to teach him how to spend money responsibly.  In the case of my brother, that experiment didn’t just fail, it exploded in white hot fire destroying everything in the lab!  However, that not withstanding, they were going to do the same thing for me.  And guess what.  They actually did. 

My stepdad took me to what was then First Chicago Bank, which doesn’t exist any longer and we opened up my first checking account.  True to their word, he deposited $1,500.00 for me.  It was a big deal because my mom and stepdad didn’t contribute to my schooling at all.  They didn’t want me going to Euphegenia.  They didn’t even recognize it as a real college.  Boy, if only I’d heeded their advice.  It was a real surprise they were willing to give me this money.  And I was given the most amazing thing I’d ever held in my hands, an ATM card.  This was the early 90’s and debit cards weren’t as prevalent as they are today.  I know I sound like an old man when I say back in my day you had to have the money if you wanted to spend it. 

I heeded their advice/cautions and didn’t go crazy.  My biggest extravagance when I got back to school was to go buy a used Sega Genesis (the entertainment system of the day if you were any kind of Baller) and a couple games.  Aside from that, I was almost scared to spend that money.  I remember at one point a couple months after they’d given me the money, my stepdad called and asked how mush was left and I nervously told him it was around $1,200.00 and I was really afraid he’d be upset.  He was actually shocked in the other way.  He couldn’t believe I’d only spent $300 in that time period.  I guess I was just afraid to go out and blow it, knowing it had to last.  

That money from my folks really made a huge difference in my ability to have a life at school.    Perhaps some parents don’t put much stock in that idea.  But emotionally, that money saved my life.  It enabled me to go out, get to actually know people, get off campus now and then, and just decompress.  Admittedly, I could have really used more time in the books and less having fun, but really, which is more important? 

Either way, I did not tell my dad and stepmom that the money even existed.  They hadn’t been concerned enough to send me a nickel.  Yet I had this sneaking suspicion that, had they found out about the money, they’d want to get their hands on it.  Even though in the grand scheme of things, $1,500 isn’t a life altering sum, for anyone from college students to working class adults, it is a lot.  And while part of me thought my concern about telling my dad was simply paranoia, there was voice in my head saying if I told them about the money, they’d demand I write them a check for the entire balance.  I feared he and my stepmom would guilt me, as they had done before, and act as if they were entitled.  Sometimes, no matter how paranoid you tell yourself you’re acting, you should really heed that little voice.         

 When I got home, to make matters even stranger, I didn’t even recognize the house he took me to.  My dad and stepmother had sold the house I moved out of when I went to college, the house they lived in around Christmas time when I had sex with Kori in the spare room, and had bought a whole new house.  And they never once thought to even drop me a postcard that they were thinking of moving.  I had no idea.  My dad literally let me know about twenty minutes before we got there.  Of course I suppose that does beat them moving and not even coming to get me, or showing me where they’d gone.  Actually, in some ways, maybe it would have been better if they had done just that!  The house was fine, even nice actually.  Not big, but new.  But the moment I walked in, something didn’t feel right.  The house was comfortable, but I was not comfortable there.  I suppose I could say there was a chill in the air, and this was late May. 

Just as in the car, the conversations immediately turned to me finding a summer job.  I kick myself now for not standing up for myself.  I had a fucking job!  A good one at that, and it was just handed to me.  And because I was still a daddy’s boy and didn’t want to upset the apple cart, I walked away from it.  And by the way, without getting too deep into it, rest assured my stepdad was pissed when I told him as much.  He told me he’d never do another favor like that for me again. 

I can tell you now, as over the last 15 years our relationship has grown so much and so strong, I know he would, if I asked.  But back then, he meant it, and I don’t blame him.  He’d called in a favor, put his name and reputation on the line, and I just threw it back at him.  Not even.  I just snuck away, back to Wisconsin, sadly just like my father always did in his life.  And here I was being told by my father and stepmother who made me turn it down that I needed a job.  It’s really sadistic when you think about it.  I’d almost think they were intentionally trying to torture me, psychologically, if I thought they were smart enough to think of such a scheme. 

I applied a few places, here and there.  Stores at the mall, Musicland, Suncoast Video, and other fun places I liked that I figured I could tolerate for three months.  The downside was those places only paid minimum wage.  That was not good enough, not for my stepmother.  My stepmom, God love her, wears the pants in their marriage.  It’s the pattern she grew up with.  Her mom told her dad when to jump, how high, and if he could wipe his ass when he landed.  That poor man was a simple, quiet farm boy from Oklahoma who’d moved to Wisconsin and worked hard his whole life while his wife stayed home every damn day.  He came home every evening to orders and disapproval, and I daresay he worked harder on her weekend projects than he did at his job.  The man probably looked forward to Monday mornings.  She treated him like he was stupid, but he always took it with a nervous chuckle and did what he was told.  They’ll say I’m going to Hell for saying this, but it’s no wonder in his early 60’s he developed Alzheimer’s and checked out.  It’s the only reprieve, and the only revenge he could get.  And for the record, there is no Hell, but if there was I was already going long before I typed that sentence.

My stepmother isn’t quite so overbearing on my dad, but she gets pretty damn close.  And she has worked.  After all, that’s how they met . . . when he was married.  She hasn’t had a fulltime job that I know of for the last 15 years.  My father on the other hand is going to be working until the day he dies, literally with his fingers on the key board or checking a switch.  I hate that.  But, again, it’s due to choices he made, or more likely let himself be bullied into by his wife.  More to come later on that.  But you can see why he sat mostly quietly as my stepmother spelled out for me that working a minimum wage job that summer was not going to cut it.  She had already pulled an ad out of the paper for a factory not far from the house that was hiring college kids.  I was to go there the next day and apply, end of discussion.  And as the dutiful son that imagined myself to be, I did.