THE REAL WORLD (PARTS I and II)

PART I

I worked at a key warehouse as big as Home Depot. But just keys.  The  warehouse supervisor drove a golf cart.

I packed car keys.  This was a summer job.

My dad worked in the front office.

My shift was about seven hours too long.  I rested on my cart for massive breaks. Sarge, the warehouse supervisor, threatened to fire me, but he had a problem — my dad (aka the front office).

I told my father I wanted out of the job; I didn’t want any more money; I didn’t want a car; I didn’t want a UAW card. I had several thousand dollars from my bar mitzvah money.  Let me go.  I could be in Barcelona in a minute.

But I was stuck in the warehouse.  Big presses stamped out car keys.  Kaboom.

A band instrument factory was right next door.  Why couldn’t my dad work there? King Musical Instruments.   King had an employee who stood at the end of the assembly line and blew saxes all day.

Next time around, work at King, Dad.

PART II

The taxicab supervisor, smoking a stogie, asked, “Where’s Charity Hospital?”

“I don’t know, ” I said.

“Where’s the Federal Building?”

“Ninth Street.”

“The Pick-Carter Hotel?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Hollenden House?”

“Downtown — St. Clair.”

“People want to know where their hotel is,” he said.

Fair enough.

But hired me.  Yellow Cab.

I drove welfare recipients with vouchers to hospitals, and workers to Republic Steel Works #4.  I didn’t drive many rich people; I thought I was going to drive rich people, but it was poor people.

I picked up a fare downtown.  The customer said, “Severance Hall.”

“Are you Claudio Abbado?” I asked.

“How do you know!” he said.

I knew because I had seen hi’s picture in the morning paper.

I stopped at my neighbor, John, afterward, and told him I had just driven a famous person.  I said, “He’s a conductor from Italy.”

“Why did he come here?” John said. John’s favorite expression was “Cleveland is the armpit of the nation. ”  Put that slogan on your cab door.  This was 1970.

Taxi driving ultimately didn’t agree with me. A cabbie told me to carry a bat.  He said, “A bat isn’t a concealed weapon. It’s legal.” 

I had a low batting average.

My cab stalled at Fairmount Circle.  The engine smoked.  I left the cab and hitched back to the Noble Road garage.

The supervisor said, “You mean you left your cab, son?”

“I knew I could get back here. ”

“You mean you left your cab unattended?”

“Yes.”