You Can Call Me Al

There was a time back when I was living in Burien, Washington in the late Summer of 1986 and I heard a song on the radio I fell immediately in love with - see further below.

It was at a time in our lives that was rather unstable. Our house had burned down a few months back and my family, my mother, sister and brother were all pissed at each other. We had been going to family counseling at a city services center nearby to discuss our "feelings" about the recent fire tragedy. I was pretty much of the opinion that shit happens and you move on, and every one thought I was repressing and kept trying to get me to talk about what I was really thinking.

Which was, "Quit bothering me about my damn feelings!" And since it was what I was also saying as well as thinking, I thought that and a nickel would help them to buy a clue.

The family counselor thought I was suicidal; something shared with the other three family members, yet at the time no one told me of the counselor's opinion. I found this out about five years later when the family was reminiscing about this episode of our lives a decade later during a Christmas gathering.

To say the least mi familia and I were at odds in respect to one another, and each had a different source for being stressed out. My mom was having a hard time finding work, my sister was still angry about losing all her pets to the fire, Jason lost the bulk of his D&D manuals, comics and ninja magazines, and I had lost most of my pet gerbil, Gizmo, the bulk of my LEGOs and the Commodor64 (not that I got to do much programming on it or a way to save any work).

My brother and I had started selling candy door to door out of a van owned by a guy named Rich (amazing how I just now remembered his name when I got to the end of the sentence). I had found his number stapled to a phone pole along 1st Avenue as my brother, Jason, and I were headed back from the local video arcade. It offered a way for teen age youths to make $60 up to $100 a week.

I took one of the slips from the yellow ad that had Rich's phone number and took it home trying to convince Jason we should check it out to make some money during the rest of the Summer. He was skeptical and figured I was too young to be considered since I was only thirteen. We got home asked our mom if was okay to try, and she said yes as long as she got to meet the guy.

We called, talked to Rich and he stopped by two days later in his bid brown and tan Dodge Van with his current group of enterprising young lads. My mom did a little face time with him, and Jason and I got in the van to begin a new career of door-to-door candy sales.

This is how Rich had it set up:
He'd buy the candy, and other items such as sponge sets and sometimes roasted peanuts in commemorative jars, from a central supplier who sold the items to "distributors" in bulk. Rich would then give each kid like myself a pre-assorted box of candies and sponges (Why sponges? Well, they sold well along with the candy for some reason so it became a staple of the business.) worth a certain amount. The boxes of candy, which were knock offs of popular candy bars in bite sizes and taffies, had a suggested retail of $5 each, the chocolate peanut turtles were $6, the sponges were $3 each, and for each item sold, the kid gets a dollar commission. Now if we chose to, we could sell our haul at any price we set so long as Rich got his $4 for the candy, $5 for the turtles... You get the picture.

We were also given these cards laminated to protect them from their heavy use and the elements, since we also went out while it was raining now and then. The card had some schpeel about how the kid in front of you handing the card was learning a trade, being kept off the street to cause trouble, blah blah blah... It was the thing you handed to the person opening the door so they had possession of something of yours so they couldn't close the door on you without giving it back. The card was something they were distracted by with all these logos some guy in a New Orleans basement design over fifteen years ago while he started devising the business. While your potential customer is looking at the card trying to figure out what's going on, you're already down on one knee have your courier box open and a few items laid out in display at their feet.

There I was, the youngest Rich had ever used in his amorphous and mobile group. Rich had his 17 year old son along most of the time, and they like my brother doubted I'd do much business. The patronizing was thick at the idea of me making more than five dollars that first day out. They really came for Jason, three and a half years my senior, and I was just a tag-along as usual and they let me go on that first day so I'd get it out of my system.

The candy was carried in these white cardboard boxes that had a handle, they were just like those cheap pet couriers, yet without the vent holes. It looked like we were walking down the street of some unknown neighborhood with a pet of unknown composition, passersby would wonder if you had a kitty inside. Or a sleeping puppy. Everyone loves puppies, until it pees on the imitation Persian rug.

There we were in the van that first day having a quick and dirty explanation of the drill. Rich would already have a neighborhood scoped out and drop us off at a corner and assign us a route to loop through and tell us what time to meet him back at the drop-off point. The courier box had a set monetary value we were to return with in in any variety of product and/or currency. Preferably just the currency, with as few coins possible.

I sat there in the back of the van, which was flavored with the smell of stale tobacco, and quietly listened, watched, absorbed what the veterans told us. They singled me out especially and asked if I understood what was expected of me.

I nodded, "Take candy, bring back money." I could tell my simplistic distillation of the concept wasn't well received.

Rich let out a couple of the experienced salespersons, let Jason out, and then before I was the last one in the van he let me loose chuckling at the sight of me lugging the box out of the van. The courier box weighed about thirty-five pounds and seemed to get heavier the further I carried it. It was just extra incentive to sell the product.


Knock knock knock or Ding-Dong depending on whether they had a functional doorbell or not.
You wait listening for the sound of activity in the dwelling.

The door opens... "Uh, hello?"

I start: "Hello, sir or madam. My name is Jon, and I'm here representing the Society of Youths..." something something or rather, it's been over two decades and I forget the name on the card.

Hold out card and shove into their hand...
Let go of card regardless if they take hold of it or not. If it starts to fall, they'll grab at it - they always do.
They look at card quizzical...

Continue said schpeel: "... blah blah blah. Keeping me off the streets and working in a responsible manner. Blah blah blah..."
Go to one knee opening box start laying out the goods with the crinkling of the cellophane they are wrapped in.

They look down at you, you are in a position of piety down at their feet and they stand there above you in the position of power. Or are they?

Big smile now. Start describing their options of candy of generic names, pause slightly for a bit and act as if you just decided here's something extra special here and tell them about the pack of assorted sponges. Sponges! Say nothing about cost just yet. Nothing! Let them get used to the idea that you are hauling to their very door sweets that they need not leave their home to acquire such yummy-tummy goodliness.

Or sponges! Everybody needs sponges to go clean something at some point. I learned that the sponge accessories were far more special for no other reason than it being your wildcard. You can adapt your schpeel to fit the customer by how you described uses for the sponges.

I went to a door in an apartment complex once, and when the door was opened an unfamiliar musk scent was presented to me as I presented a young man with the laminated card. As I knelt down and started to open the box I was able to see past his knees into his apartment. I saw that he had a big calendar poster that displayed a couple of frolicking ferrets. I knew about ferrets, I first read about them many years before during my budding obsession with the Space Shuttle. I had read that NASA trained ferrets to follow lights while wearing harnesses that were connected to bundled wires. The ferrets are put into the inner hull on one end of the Shuttle, see the light and go towards it, not to find Nirvana, but a NASA engineer with ferret treats. That's how they wired up the Shuttle back then. Good ferret.

Part of the prescribed schpeel when one is mentioning the sponge pack is to describe some of the possible uses your mark, er, client could use them for. My quick glance into the apartment, which was not noticed by the young man as he was peering at the card, was what saved the sale. He was looking pretty non-committed to being sold anything by some runty kid with a box full of generic candy. But! Then then I finished mentioning the Chocolate-Peanut-Caramel-Turtles, and came to my final offering. Sponges. The guy had that same surprised look on his face as others in the past and was jolted out of the monotony. Sponges?

I went on, "...which you could use for cleaning up around the home, washing your car, or even gently scrubbing down your pet, cat, dog or..." this was it... (Do you feel the anticipation?) "... your ferret, or..." I deliberately started to mention another possible animal just for effect, but he never let me continue. Which is good because I think I was about to say parakeets.

"Ferrets? Did you just say ferrets?"

"Huh?" play it off, boy. "Yeah, they're kinda like weasel but a lot smarter and easier domesticated. Ferrets are closely related to ermines, which change color in Winter..."

"Oh, I know all about ferrets!" He was mine. "I have a couple ferrets as pets."

I still wanted to solidify my hold on him with my knowledge. "Really? They allow you to have them as pets around here? It's illegal to have them back in Seattle, or else I'd have one..."

"It's okay to have ferrets here, they're not considered pests down here. It's really just a misunderstanding..."

Needed to take back control, "Cool! so, anyways do you think you want any sponges?"

He took both of the sponge packs I had, and three boxes of candy. Ferrets are so rad.

I was the young Willy Loman before he lost it. If you put the 13 year old me into Glengarry Glen Ross and made the competition for selling candy & sponges instead of real estate, I would have won that set of fucking steak knives. I wouldn't have wanted the Cadillac anyways... I was 13 and wouldn't be able to drive it anyhoo.

That first run I sold most of what was in my courier, and before they could accuse me of making the goods disappear down my gullet, I yank out a wad of cash and hold it under Rich's nose. Rich had only picked up one of the newer kids and neither of them could say anything for a couple heart beats.

Then Rich said, "Well, it looks like we're going to have to fill you back up before I drop you off again, aren't I?"

"I suppose that would be a good idea."

I made $32 that day, and the most anyone else made as $14 which was by Rich's son, whom we'll just call Rich Jr. from now on, who was the most experienced. Thus began the ire they had for me. My youth, which seemed at least 3 or more years less than my real age as I always looked younger than I really was, was an edge I had on the others. Again I was the outcast, although it only fed my desire to succeed and do better than the rest.

My snuggly cuteness wasn't the only tool in my arsenal. Although at times it worked against me; one old lady figured I had to be no older than nine and threatened to call Child Protective Services if I didn't get going out of her neighborhood. I also knew how to play whatever angle I needed while going from one home to the next. I was extra friendly and always tried to find some little thing to bond with each person even though I'd only be knowing them for about 3-5 minutes.

And I learned not to waste time on some people as soon as I saw that look in their eyes. I'd stop the schpeel right then, if I had even started, and just say, "No." It wasn't a question, it was just a verbal confirmation that I understood them right then and there. Those people would normally just shake their heads No in response and shut the door. Sometimes they said, "Thank you," since I decided not to further waste their time with any rambling. We understood each other. I had to schlep this box around, and they just had to grunt their way out of their La-Z-Boy and miss some of their TV to answer the damn door.

Now, let's just say goodbye Ay-Sap so you can get back to the chair, and I can get the hell out of your yard. No dropping the card on these ones, that would just be insulting their intelligence. Next. My not wasting my time on these people let me move on and focus on the real clientèle.

My out performing everyone became a regular thing. Although every now and then I'd get stuck with a bad route, normally because few people were home, and when I wasn't in the top three performers, it was cause for celebration for some of the crew. Rich Jr. was always the one to lead such verbal festivities. We didn't like one another very much. I knocked him down a few pegs, and while it wasn't deliberate on my part I managed it nonetheless. Did I feel guilty about it? Nope.

We didn't go out with Rich every day. It was mostly the weekends and occasionally a Wednesday or Friday which seemed to work best for week days. As the Summer rolled on, more people joined and we'd get about six to twelve people working a weekend. We even had a couple of girls join us after a while; I developed a crush on the blond. She was sweet with me, actually took my offered advice and did better with it and we got along. It was nice, but not meant to be. Sad face here.

Now and then, Rich would make a deal with the group. If we sold a certain amount by 2 pm, he'd take us all over to the big mall so we could see a movie, which we'd have to pay for with our own earnings of course.

So, Jason and I are making money while our mom was still looking for work and collecting food stamps and food bank staples. Which happened now and then throughout our Seattle area life with mother. I still remember the taste of the squared logs of American Cheese sealed in red plastic packed in thin brown card boxes. Ah, the bitter sweet memory of food bank cheese.

So, not wanting to make long trips to the food bank, my mother asked Jason and I to pony up for groceries out of our candy-sponge wages. I was normally the one to give more since I brought more home. I even started to set twenty dollars aside after each outing for a BMX fund, but mom would raid it when things got tight. I never bought that BMX while living in Burien.

She didn't demand it all, so Jason and I were free to spend a good deal of it on ourselves. He and I played a lot of Super Mario Bros. over at the arcade, and at the mini-mart across the street from our apartment we played a lot of Ice Climber. I hated that effing polar bear in Ice Climber and took every opportunity to club it with the hammer. If you play(ed) Ice Climber, you'd know what I mean. Those dumb ass bermuda-shorts and sunglasses...
We must have put a minimum of $80 into each machine by the end of the Summer.

Summer came to an end and we had to go back to school, so Rich and his son went back to wherever they went and had some other job to keep them busy until next year.

With all this, and the Ice Climber frustrations, our little band was tense. Besides "Labyrinth" coming out and my new fantasy of making Jennifer Connelly my bestest friend and future bride (Oh, shut Up. Like you didn't want one or both of the two either, you hypocrite.), there wasn't too much to keep myself cheerful. The daydreams of Jennifer and I escaping from David Bowie's magic castle to return home to our own happy cottage in the woods so we could tickle each other and neck on the polar bear rug just wasn't enough some days.

Then one day out of the tinny mono speaker of the clock radio I had in my bedroom I heard this song:



For whatever reason, the music flipped a switch in my brain. Gone was the morass of the unified depression in our home. I was in the best mood I'd known for a long time. I was jumping up and down on my bed in time to the music. Paul Simon rawked.

Life wasn't so bad after all and I had found more of that pure optimism again. It's not my most favorite song ever, I have a few of those which changes depending on my mood. But this one shuddered me at a time I really needed it.

Whether you just sneezed or not: Bless you, Paul Simon. Bless you.