Fun at the Car Lot

In the late 1950’s we spent a lot of time thinking about cars.  In fact, people were identified not by name but by what they drove. Driving through the Lone Star Drive Inn Restaurant with the windows down was the 1950’s equivalent of the modern singles’s bar.  For recreation, we went shopping at car lots, even though we had no intention or capability of buying anything.  I  read about how unscrupulous dealers would run back odometers to make it appear that a vehicle had fewer miles.  They suggested that a buyer look inside the door for a forgotten lubrication sticker to confirm whether the mileage shown was accurate.  One time I was in a lot and saw a sticker that indicated the car had at least 20,000 more miles than the odometer showed.  I innocently asked the salesman about the contradiction.  He replied “Sir, I just sell ‘em.  I don’t know anything about ‘em.”  I went back a few days later and saw that the lubrication sticker had been removed.  Another time I was in another car lot, and had drawn in ink a cross on my hand between the thumb and first finger, a sign of the “Pachuco” gang.  The salesman saw the sign and thought it was real.  He said “We don’t want any trouble.  We’re just a used car lot here.”  It felt kind of neat to have the “power” that comes from having people afraid of you.  I tried to get in the Sabers auto club, part of the TCMAA (Tarrant County Modified Automobile Association).  I had a ‘57 Powerpack Chevrolet, but sadly the thing had a Powerglide (automatic) transmission.  An automatic was the kiss of death in those days.   I never knew what auto clubs did  since I only went to one meeting,  but I was told that the cops would sometimes give a break to club members if they got stopped.   

Coffee Pot

This is a true story.  One night I came back to our office, where our “manager” was working late.  When I walked in,  I looked in the men’s bathroom, and our manager was standing there washing the coffee pot in the toilet.  He was flushing repeatedly, in a very natural (to him) motion to clean the inside of the pot.  I had to sit down for a moment to gather my thoughts.  When I partially recovered,  I went in and told him that we always wash out the coffee pot in the SINK!  He looked at me as if to say “What’s the matter with you?  I do this all the time at home.”  I really was not sure how to handle this matter.  Do I add a statement in the employee manual that coffee pots must not be washed in the toilet?  That happened in the mid 1980’s, and I never had another cup of coffee in the office again.  We went through a lot of new coffee pots, but the horror of that night stayed with me.

Big Words

In a writing assignment in high school English, we were supposed to write about anything we wanted as long as it was 500 words or more.  I found these assignments boring, since I knew that they were an excuse for the teacher’s not having to talk.  To amuse myself,  I decided that I was going to write a narrative that consisted of as many big words as possible.  I got out my dictionary and looked for the most obscure words I could, then tried to weave a story around those words.   Unfortunately, the words I chose forced me to take the narrative in directions that I neither wanted nor knew how to manage.  As a result, the essay bounced from point to point like an unguided ping-pong ball.   I did finish, and got a “C” on the paper.  The teacher’s only comment was “Do you know what these words mean?”  I don’t think she ever caught on to what I was doing.

Caveness

My high school English teacher, Frances Caveness, and I did not get along.  When she gave me a “C”  for one six week’s grading period when I knew I had a “B,” I confronted her and pointed out her math error.  Her response was “Well, your daily work wasn’t up to par, and that was the reason for the grade.”  I knew this was hogwash, and went to the vice-principal to file a complaint.  On the day of the conference,  Caveness and I were left alone in the vice-principal’s office for several minutes (obviously to work things out).  I remember that Caveness stared ahead the whole time without saying a word.  When the vice-principal finally did come in,  I was determined to state my case politely, so that I would not give her any ammunition.  At the end of the meeting the principal praised me for my courtesy, but said he could not do anything about the grade.  After Caveness left,  I told him that under those circumstances I had to transfer to another class.  I explained that she is probably going through menopause, but that I could not stand her emotional outbursts.  When I said “menopause” I remember he said “Well, I don’t know anything about that,” and looked uncomfortable.  He added that if I could find another teacher who would allow the switch he would approve it.  I did find another teacher, and never had any more trouble after that.  Several years later when I was home from college for the Christmas holidays,  I saw the vice-principal in a barber shop.  I said “Is Caveness still teaching there?”  He said “Yes, but she has improved a lot.”  I felt a little vindicated by that.  I had heard that subsequent generations of students had made complaints about her.

Hydrogen Sulfide

One day before class started in English  in high school,  Terry  Gibbons came in with a vial of hydrogen sulfide and put some of it on the window sill.  The rotten egg smell was overpowering.  When the teacher came in, she accused me (we did not get along).  I denied guilt, but would not tell who did it.  She called the principal, who called me outside.  I would not tell him what I knew either. He told me that whenever he gets in a confrontation with a student  he “always wins.”  I said something like “fine,” and we went our separate ways.  That was the beginning of the end of my relationship with that English teacher.  (See Caveness for more.)

Defenestration

During the final exam in my high school history class my senior year,  I noticed one student, who happened to be the teacher’s pet,  with a stack of notes under her desk.  When she got up to sharpen her pencil,  I got up for the same purpose and snatched her notes as I walked by.  At the pencil sharpener, which was next to an open window,  I pitched out all her papers.    She came back and felt under the desk, then put her head down.  The teacher, a substitute turned full-time peasant looking woman with big lips,  never knew any of this was going on under her nose.  The student suspected that I was the one who had snatched the papers, but was unable to prove it, and certainly could not mention it.  Ironically, she later went to the same university I did (Tulane).  We hardly ever spoke to each other in college.   I didn’t care, since she was just a Pi Phi, a  snooty “second-tier” sorority in my opinion.  The Kappas were generally  better looking, though probably equally snooty. I finally found a Kappa for myself, a plain but  (generally) agreeable one from rural West Texas. 

Tattoos

Got returned from a wedding in Pasadena, California.  Most of the 20 to 30 somethings there had tattoos.   These were not little flowers or anchors on the forearm, but big tattoos all across the back.  Coupled with strapless dresses,  this made for a disconcerting  “We’re not in Kansas anymore”  kind of feeling.  From a distance I saw a shoulder to shoulder tattoo across the back of one particularly chunky female  attendee that I could have sworn said “Impeach Earl Warren.”  On closer examination, however, it said something else, but I am not sure what.

Letdown

Our youngest son was a Spanish teacher in Pittsburgh several years ago.  When he called and indicated that he was sharing an apartment with two airline employees,  I imagined vicariously the excitement of living with a couple of “hot” flight attendants.  Unfortunately,  I learned later that they were not flight attendants but baggage handlers.

Aim for Excellence

When I worked at IBM, there was a contest to come up with a slogan that would reflect the goals of the company.  The winner came up with “Aim for Excellence.”  For the contest the next year,  I submitted “Aim for continued excellence.”  I thought it was pretty good, but the manager said I needed to be more creative.

Real Happiness

In the early days of our music business, I called a school that was hosting a teacher in-service meeting to see if we could exhibit during the session.  I reached a secretary who seemed to have quite a bit of sales resistance.  When I explained that we could bring an array of new products, she said “Our teachers aren’t interested in things like that.  They are happy with what they have.”