I've had several serious "fork in the road" moments in my life but this is perhaps the most intense of all. I guess 99 or maybe more out of 100 people will probably think I'm insane if they read this. They could be right and when I look back on this I wonder myself sometimes...but not for very long.
Actually this ties in to another such moment in that the forks involved choices about money...one a very considerable income and the other an almost unlimited income. Once I was offered the drum chair in a band that's been on the scene for a very long time and are doing quite well.
Their drummer was basically the weak link in the chain and they wanted me. After a gig opening up for them a couple of the guys took me aside and offered me the gig right there on the spot but I said no immediately. I didn't know their drummer from Adam but I wasn't about to see him get blindsided and kicked out of his own damn band and have his heart broken, no matter the benefits for me, just because there were better drummers around. There are always going to be better drummers around. Again most people would say I was nuts and that it's just business and I get it, but that's not right. Plus I knew he'd get better and be okay and he did and he was.
I heard them a couple years later and he'd knuckled-down and practiced and he'd gotten much better and he continued to improve. He has at least one solo CD out if I'm not mistaken. It goes beyond Karma...even though that shit WILL come back to you, and some might not screw someone over from that regard...it was the wrong thing to do to
him in the first place; forget what might come back on me. I'd basically be looking him in the eye and saying "Sorry, drummer-dude...I'm taking your gig and your friendships and your income and maybe your girlfriend too, not to mention your dream...just because your buds think I'm a 'better' drummer...but hey, it's nothing personal. Have a nice day and good luck." No can do.
Even though the band I was in at the time was a better band all-around besides just the drummer, alcohol abuse was starting to rear its ugly head and I had a funny feeling about our future, while I knew the other band at least didn't get shitfaced on gigs like two of us were doing. It wasn't me BTW. I might have a cocktail waiting under my floor tom for after the last cymbal crash but I never touched it before or during a gig. When I realized that the guys were serious about offering me the gig, my potential life in that band literally flashed before my eyes.
I knew they'd be working for a long time, and well beyond the bar/frat-party scene we were both doing at the time, and touring beyond the US, which they've done. I knew my life would change overnight, and for the better as far as money was concerned. I could picture myself as a part of that thing. They'd been around several years longer than we'd been and they had a bigger following although we were catching them. Our biggest crowd in that band was opening up for them at an auditorium that was packed to the rafters. That was said gig where I was offered the drum chair. I declined further negotiations and took a young lady named Jennifer out to give her a tour of the van instead.
Anyway the other fork here was about money...lots of money. When I was 18 I got a job with a unique company called Voight-England. They started out repairing smaller, fancy industrial motors, but they managed to swing a deal with DuPont (they never would tell me how they did it) for exclusive worldwide distribution rights for a new and revolutionary product called "heat-tracing strip." It was flat wire in maybe 25-30 different gauges and configurations, and it was used to wrap around pipes to keep them from freezing.
Instead of having to heat an entire building to warm pipes they could heat them directly. It saved millions of dollars. It was brilliant at the time. It came in on huge spools and I cut it to order and sent it all over the US and around the world, along with whatever fittings and other parts they needed. My job title was "shipping clerk" although I did everything from answering the phone to cutting the grass and even cooking lunch if the large, sweet black woman who usually came in to make lunch was sick. That was a nice perk. The office was in an old house. They'd kept the kitchen, a bedroom or two and a living room/den intact, with state-of-the-art stuff. The big stuff was outside and my area where orders were boxed, with bins of parts and stuff on the walls, was inside, along with several offices. It was half-business/half-home.
They paid me very well and I loved the job. I was just getting into playing music around town, and I knew I could still play on the weekends at least and make good money during the day. I never thought about it as a career, although it could've been. I enjoyed the homey atmosphere, not to mention a home-cooked lunch every day. On a rare slow day I might run errands or make a mid-morning snack and we'd shoot the shit over coffee. Whenever I cooked there was always a fridge stocked with the finest ingredients. If I made lunch I'd have veggies from the farmer's market and whatever else I wanted to cook- fish, pot roast or "veggie plate" day. It was awesome.
Where the money thing came in was when we sat down for a talk about my possible future with the company. The two guys who owned it were rich. One drove a BMW and the other a Mercedes. Not only were they flagship models but they were outfitted with upgraded wheels, spoilers and other body mods and every engine and horsepower tweak that could be done and still have the car more or less remain stock. They were good guys but they were 100% about the money. I noticed from day 1 that they spent a huge amount of time on the phone with lawyers and accountants; constantly worrying about where to move this or that money where, to avoid taxes as much as possible, and how making more money meant more taxes and such. It was as if there was a stack of dollar bills above their heads; controlling them like puppets on a string and making them dance to the money tune. It was intense and a bit scary, but again I saw it as their problem, not mine.
Bill was tall and lanky and wore bolo ties. He looked like a cowboy straight out of the movies. Herb was shorter and had hornrims and a regulation flattop haircut. Bill was a southern boy and was slow and easygoing and quick with a joke. Herb was imported from somewhere up north and he was way more serious and faster-moving. He'd smile at a good joke occasionally and my mission was always to try to get him to laugh because he was what we used to call "a little uptight." When the issue of money came up however it was like a switch being flipped. Their whole expressions changed. It was clear to see that money was at the core of their being. It was remarkable. It sounds simplistic but if you want to illustrate the idea that money doesn't buy happiness, you could use Bill and Herb as examples. When they got off the phone talking to their attorneys and accountants about money they weren't smiling. They were frowning. Always.
I can't remember the secretary's name but it was probably Vivian or something. She was a trip- she had a huge, silver-white B-52 hairdo. It was textbook and never changed a curl the whole time I knew her. She smoked Virginia Slims cigarettes and maybe she played Bingo or went to church socials or bowling-alley bars on her off time. I liked her. When she answered the phone she'd take-on sort of an upper-crust Bostonian accent or something and she'd say the company name in a slow, exaggerated, elitist and hilarious way. I got so good at imitating her that it even cracked her up. Once I answered the phone and totally by accident I mimicked her. Herb happened to walk by and it caused a big frown on his face. I was like "Oh, shit" because I was totally busted even though I did it by mistake, and I was probably talking to some guy in Japan or wherever, who totally thought I was Viv. When he asked for the shipping department and I pretended to have myself transferred to myself and answered in my normal voice, Herb was not pleased, but later over a scotch he had a grin about it. Gotcha, Herb!
I have to mention here that it was one of only a few jobs that I absolutely couldn't do high on weed. One thing about good reefer back in the day was that if you got really stoned and were going for a walk in the woods it was no problem to be baked, but if you were in a situation where being high on good weed was contraindicated, it only magnified the situation and made you feel way higher than you actually were. Most jobs, even those requiring intense concentration or memory skills, are more fun when you have a bit of a buzz, but at that job it was impossible.
I don't really know why but I'd turn into a complete feeb. It was almost like being really drunk on top of being stoned. About the third week I figured that like any job it'd be more fun stoned, so one day I had a few puffs on the way to work. I thought it'd be fun.
Wrong. I just sort of stood there with my mouth hanging open, wondering what to do next. It was almost like not quite knowing where I was or why I was there. "What's all
this shit?" It's funny because sometimes if you're really high in a public place you can get a bit paranoid and think that everyone in the place knows you're high, even though it's all in your head and they have no idea you're stoned, and aren't even paying attention to begin with. But at that job, somehow they
knew something was wrong with me, and it caught me off guard. "Are you feeling okay?" "Ummm..." I was fried.
I carried around what my friend Leon called my "De-reeko Kit." It had Visine, Hall's Mentholyptus and alcohol preps or moist towelettes, which back then was a fantastic and fragrant blend of alcohol, lanolin and real lemon juice. Even with the Visine my eyes were still red. I'm sure the thought crossed their minds that I might be high but they were cool about it if so and I managed to get through the day okay. Of course my dumb ass thought that had been a fluke and I was smarter and bigger than the issue so I did it again several weeks later.
Wrong.
Same results...red eyes despite the Visine...feeling a million times higher than I really was..."Are you okay?"...feeling like I'd been transported to a strange place that was somehow familiar and yet totally alien, and knowing I was there for a reason...if only I knew what it was.
"Is this an office or have I wandered into someone's home by mistake? Is that LUNCH I smell? Where am I?" I felt like a dipshit and I was. I had to tell them that I'd taken some cold medicine and they let me cut out early. I don't know if they suspected I was high but again they were cool about it if they did. They were just concerned. To me it was a shocker to feel completely vegged-out on weed and having to rack my brain to figure out the simplest shit. Most days I'd have a doobie in the glove box and I'd fire it up before I got off the gravel road that led to the place, but it was like, "Note to self: Don't smoke grass before work here, dumbass."
It was a great job and I enjoyed it, as long as I didn't get stoned. If I wasn't busy I'd help Tom change a seal or grind an impeller blade or whatever and I enjoyed that. I remember a few slow, rainy days making an extra breakfast or maybe helping fix lunch, imitating Viv answering the phone, making cheese toast by the panful and even playing them tapes of some of my music, and stuff like Emerson, Lake & Palmer, which they enjoyed. Work was work but the atmosphere was very relaxed and very conducive to productivity. Everything went well until it was almost time for my trip.
I'd planned a month-long trip to California in a few months and I told them first thing when I applied. Things weren't as busy as they'd soon get, and Tom, who told me about the job, mostly worked on expensive impellers and whatnot but he was always free to pop over and pack stuff up if needed, so they said it'd be no problem. I know it's unusual to take a long vacation before you've worked a job less than six months, but I was clear up front and they were okay with it at first. I can't remember how long it was before I was to leave, but I was well-integrated into the gig by then.
About two weeks before I was to leave they sent in a guy for me to train, and the next day they sent in another guy. They felt they needed two people to do what I was doing, especially for a month. I felt good about that arrangement because things were getting busier in a hurry. I was showing the guys the ropes and they were doing fine. But about a week before I left there was grumbling that they didn't want me to leave, even with two guys taking my place. To be fair they also noticed my extracurricular activities, like music and such. They even came out a couple of times to see my bands and had a good time and all but they didn't have time for many hobbies. Their gig was money.
They sat me down one day to talk about things and tell me they'd rather I didn't leave. They also brought up the issue of my "other interests," although not in a negative way really; just as taking time away from what they saw more than I did as a chance for a great career. I'd planned the trip for a while and needless to say I was psyched to the roof about going. There was also love involved...I was in love; my first love, technically, at least that I thought was reciprocal anyway. Turns out she was gender-similar in her love interests, although I didn't know it (and maybe she didn't either quite yet) at the time. I
had to go. It was "CALIFORNIA OR BUST."
Finally this is where it got spooky, at least to me, and also what would make 99 out of 100 people say I'd lost it. I remember discussing the situation and Herb saying "Look, in five years you can name your salary, what car you want to drive, where you want to live." He then proceeded to tell me that it wan on the condition that I basically give up everything else up, at least for the time being. Fair enough. I knew it was a lucrative company and that I could do well but I hadn't thought about it on those terms. Five years is no time and if I hadn't gotten to know them and their lifestyle I wouldn't have believed it, but as it was I did. They never joked about money. They said their bit and more or less sat waiting for my reply, and something creepy happened. I was probably just tripping but if so or not it hit me like a bolt of lightning.
I know it may sound nuts but it was as if their faces changed right before my eyes. They were looking at me and sort of went blank as they thought about money. It would make people laugh to say that it was almost like an evil presence entered the room, but it was. I saw their god. Not to judge, but I saw how they'd sold their souls as it were, for something that had made them comfortable for sure, but I'm not so sure about happy. It was a sunny day and there was a big Oak tree outside the window and there may have been a bird or two singing but the room seemed to get a bit darker. I knew this was a big deal. It was a turning point.
Again my possible life flashed before my eyes, and this time both versions...the "executive" me who went to work all week and maybe on the weekends too, and maybe the wife and kids, and not that there's necessarily anything at all wrong with that scenario, especially with the wife and kids, and maybe it says that I'd already lost my mind by then, but it told me to run, and run fast and far away. All this happened while they were sitting there looking at me. It was like they turned into evil cartoon characters with dollar-bill signs in their eyes. The dollar-bill signs transformed into topless Hula girls, whose provocative S-curves were enticing me to sell my soul to the Almighty Dollar.
I was tempted but then the Hula girls, which had been dancing dollar-bill signs, had now transformed into dancing flames, and I was now on my way to Hell. In my mind I saw cartoon me flee in terror. Well, it maybe wasn't quite that graphic but it was absolutely heavy. I did see a change in their expressions. They were baring their souls to me, and they were green. I thought about a five-year plan where I'd make a bunch of money and then retire and pick up my drum sticks and stuff and go back to business as usual, with a chunk of change, but I knew I couldn't do that. By then it'd be in my veins. I could buy all the drums I wanted but I couldn't play them. I could have the nice house, which would be okay but I'd just get "Stuffitis" and I'd have to have the latest shit, thinking it'd make me happy. I'd be driving the latest BMW but I'd be a douchebag.
Then I saw myself playing music and whatnot. Whereas before the face in my mind's eye had a serious look, now it had a smile. I wish it hadn't been so cut and dried but they were looking for someone to make their company their top priority and I get it but they forced my hand. I continued to go back and forth in my mind in the few seconds they were looking at me. As hard as I tried to come up with a scenario where it could work for five or ten years and then I could get out of it, it literally scared me to death, and surprisingly so. I saw myself becoming them. "I'm going to California" I said.
They looked at each other and then me in disappointment but their faces returned to normal. The room seemed to brighten-up again. I'd come to a big-ass fork in the road and I'd picked a side and I was happy about it. I didn't know if I should thinking about or wanting a job there much longer and the feeling was mutual I guess. A couple of days later they called me into an office. There were some boxes I'd packed a few days earlier and they were opened. Supposedly I'd gotten a couple of orders wrong, and sure enough the packing slip which I'd initialed didn't match a few items.
It's not an utter impossibility I could've made a mistake but I doubt it. I knew it was going a long way away and they couldn't just get a forgotten part overnight. I triple-checked everything, at least. I certainly was never in an altered state of mind on the job and I've always been careful about things like that. It's doubtful but certainly possible I could have made those mistakes, or it could've just been rigged as an excuse to fire me, although if I did make a shipping error or even two it shouldn't have been grounds for dismissal in the first place, but either way it doesn't matter. I went to California. I played music. I had some true adventures. I'm a poor schmuck but at least I'm not a rich asshole. Cheers.
