The question of how to keep fed, pay rent, and buy movie tickets while not overburdening my parents caused me some anxiety briefly, but it was resolved by me taking a job.
The job I took showed up as an opportunity offered by a classmate, a fellow composer. He was on a flyby of our pad, since he was writing a piece that involved flute and Yoshi was his man with the pucker. He heard me say that I was in need of a good part time job.
"Come on down to the Westland Garage. We're looking for people at the moment."
"Seriously?"
I didn't want false hopes.
"Seriously. Talk to Lamont Dixon. He's the big dude with the pipe. Don't wait until the Symphony rush."
It didn't even occur to me to ask what kind of a job this was. I'm that obtuse, not of this world, from a different planet. Later that afternoon, having gotten my gumption up, I made my way down Westland Ave to the big old garage next to the Stop and Shop grocery. The big doors were open, as always. The new neon sign said "Car Wash" in big letters. The word "garage" was spelled out in rusting white enamel on a fading red background; this was an old sign, lit by an overhead bulb under a battered green hat shaped shade. Inside, the car wash was roaring. An elderly, stately, handsome African American man was barking orders. As soon as the booming voice quit yelling, the pipe came back up to the lips.
"Mr. Dixon?"
The most withering, quizzical gaze peered down at me.
"Who wants to know?"
This response blew my whole prepared speech out of my head.
"I'm Cal."
"Glad to meet you, Cal, I'm busy."
"My friend, Steve, said you were looking for people."
"Stevie sent you?"
"That's right."
His big brown eyes with their yellowed whites narrowed at me, surely making an attempt to size me up.
"Can you drive?"
"I can drive."
"Come back down at six. HEY! HEY! GET the FUCK away from those pumps!!"
Dixon was yelling past me, at the bums out in the glare of the street. Interview over. I had a job.
I floated back to my apartment. I had about an hour to kill. I was antsy. This clearly wasn't just any job, but a parking garage job. Lamont never said anything about the car wash. Didn't matter. I figured he'd start me out with the soapy wand, and work me in to parking cars. I figured, even at that, I'd be parking cars at a relaxed, sedate clip for old ladies that were too rich or infirm to park 'em themselves. These were (to use the term I later came to use) the regulars. Never in my foolish young life did I think that in less than two hours, I'd be thrown headlong into the full Dean Moriarty. There! That was the romance of it! I was going to be a fucking parking lot attendant, slinging around old Chevies and crisp new Buicks like my hero straight out of "On the Road!" Eventually. I wandered over to Charlies, and splurged on a slice. Soon I'd have money and could buy real food. (Shit. Did I have to tell them down at the welfare office where I'd been picking up my food stamps? That, by the way, had been the idea of Tennant's wife. Lucy had told me to go get on the dole. I did, and it had saved my ass. But you still needed money. My parents' income made that the fact in the eyes of Uncle Sam.) My hour was about up by now. I made my way into the garage via the Burbank Street entrance and found Dixon.
"Cal, is that it? You're name is Cal?"
"Yes, sir."
He had a way of clicking his tongue in his mouth.
"I think numb nuts is still up front. Go tell him you're starting and get yourself a time card."
Numb Nuts turned out to be the owner. He'll need a name, because Lamont Dixon called so many people 'numb nuts' it could confuse an ordinary narrative. Context alone kept us straightened out.
So I sauntered up to Charles Winston the Third's office (shades of Huntington Munroe!) and told him what I'd been told.
"That fucker hired another damn kid?"
"Sir. Apparently he did."
"I see you kids come and go so fast, I can't keep track of who's on my own damned payroll. Nancy, get the kid an application, get his social security, and give 'im a time sheet. For Christ's sake, I'm late. Betsy's gonna kill me."
In due process, I was back out on the floor having put my name, rank, and serial number on some xeroxed form. I was waving a crisp new time card. Lamont (we really never called him Dixon, except maybe at his funeral) took the card and jammed it in the clock, which went 'caCHUNK.'
"See that? You gotta punch in, and punch OUT if you wanna get paid."
"Got it."
Now a few more car jocks had gathered. A whole new cast of characters:
Alpo, from Dorchester, never pronounced his 'r's.
"Boss, who's da new guy?"
"Alpo, Cal; Cal, Alpo."
"Alpo?"
"My name's Albert (he said Albet), but the boss thinks I'm some sort of dog
food."
In from the street comes my benefactor, the composer Steve Harrison.
"I believe you know Stevie."
"Hey, Stevedor."
Joined by Jones. Jason Jones. A real skinny kid with a shock of hair that stood straight up like he'd had a shock. Seen a ghost. What the hell. We bantered pointlessly, listening to Alpo's story about his sexual conquest of his delicious Dorchester (Dawchestah) babe. About 6:30, the cars for that evening's concert at Symphony Hall, next door (!), started arriving at the open door. Stevie'd put out a sign on his way in that was a sandwich board affair that just said "Park."
The routine went like this:
Lamont had a fistful of tickets. When a car came in, he'd say:
"Parking for the evening?" (Or just 'Park?')
Then, assuming he got a nod or some sort of affirmation, he'd rip the ticket while saying:
"Two bucks." (Or 'two dollah.')
Then, while the customer fidgeted for money, he'd put one half of the ticket under the windshield wiper blade, and be holding the other half out to the customer, waiting for the money. In every transaction, there's a moment when the money changes hands. That is a vulnerable moment, and Lamont tried by sleight of hand to make it painless. He handed the customer a ticket, and the customer handed him folding money. If it was the exact two dollars, the deal was done. If it was a case where change needed to be made, Lamont rocked back, away from the car window and took from a capacious pocket in his eternal jump suit a wad of bills and counted it out quickly, efficiently, and accurately. I never saw him make a mistake. Customers "made mistakes," they changed their minds and tried to back out (impossible - or very nearly, and when this happened Lamont would guide the traffic with his basso profundo in full bellow), or discover themselves short, or have a huge bill only, whatever... Lamont made it seem easy. It wasn't. The movement of his hands alone, always in motion, was like watching an expert, a card shark. The routine always ended with:
"Don't lose your ticket. You'll need it to get your car back!"
I watched this happen that first time, awestruck. Equally awe inspiring was what happened next. The moment the customer was out of the car, even if the passengers were not all out, the car jock, hovering while Lamont did his thing, was in the driver's seat, preparing to drive it. The attendant (my composer friend, Alpo, then Jones, working in a casual rotation) had to adjust the seat, find the break and release it if necessary, start the engine if it was not still running, depress the clutch if necessary, put the car in drive, (or put the car in first, be it stick, three on the column, or some other non-standard arrangement), and somehow, some way, get going, the subtlety being to try to not alarm the customer by peeling out. Then, it was like this: you pulled forward, making a sharp right turn between to cement pillars that were just forward of the car wash. Next, you sighted the opening of one of two freight elevators in the rear view mirror, and backed the vehicle up into it. You hopped out and grabbed the handle that operated the lift, and took the car to the desired floor. Lamont had called out the floor as you got in, or you knew what the situation was and you went for it. The garage had (has) six floors. Once you lined the elevator up at the floor you were aiming for (and there was no automatic stop, you had to do this by eye-hand coordination), you hopped back into the still running auto, and now, you could just peel out and park it in the first open slot.
I watched, and listened, as the cars peeled out above our heads. I saw the number of jocks on the floor rapidly dwindle as they hopped in a car and then disappeared into an elevator bay. My turn, I realized, was very rapidly coming. I'd said that I knew how to drive, but not like this. I did not really have the time to develop stage fright, this all went at such a rapid clip. The last thing I heard was "four." The bent old fellow whose Chrysler I had to park was a long time getting out the door. I held the door open for him as I had seen done. I got in and my knees hit the steering wheel. Short dude! I had to find the seat release on a car I'd never driven. Bar in front? Lever on side? I fumbled. I heard Lamont's basso saying,
"Let's go!"
I found the bar in front.
"C'mon, let's go! You're costing Mr. Winston money!"
It was, thank God, an automatic. I couldn't tell if it was running or not. I turned the ignition key. Loud chatter, as the starter engaged the running engine. Lamont, his rhythm broken, is leaning into the open driver's side window.
"Son, I thought you knew how to drive."
"I do. I do. Just let me..."
By now, Alpo is back on the floor.
"C'mon, Alpo. Bail the rookie out!"
Alpo opened the car door and with a jerk of his thumb, indicated that I should get out. Out I got. The huge Chrysler was in the elevator and I was sidelined. I watched the team of Alpo, Stevie, and Jones put the stream of cars away in a running, rhythmic dance. It was fantastic to watch, but my ears were red and I was tempted to just walk out. Then I heard that voice of Lamont's in my head saying 'punch out if you want to get paid.' I was not going to not get paid, and the clock was way down at the other end of the floor, in the way of the manic driving. It would have been suicide to try to make a run for it! At last the traffic thinned, and the pace slowed. There was a breather. As soon as that was the situation, Lamont sidled up to Stevie.
"Why don't you show numb nuts here how to run the elevator."
He meant me, and 'numb nuts' fit me perfectly.
"Sure."
I was ushered to one of the two elevators and Steve showed me how to work the handle. When, eventually, the rush was completely over, and the BSO had begun its serenade across the street while we stood around baby sitting the cars of players, conductor, and audience, Lamont walked over to my still comically poised for action self and made a bit of a speech. It was similar to the one I heard upon flunking flute, but it was a bit more homespun.
"I thought, I could have SWORN, I heard you say you knew how to drive."
"I do know how to drive, sir."
"I didn't get a lick of driving out of you tonight."
I still had a time card, and it was punched in, not out. I called his bluff.
"You didn't give me much of a chance."
"You had a chance, and you froze."
"I said I could drive, but I have to learn how to park."
This was the truth, and the truth cannot be blinked away.
"I guess then I asked you the wrong question this afternoon. But this is a parking garage..."
"...and car wash."
"Oh. Are you saying you want to work the car wash?"
"No."
Now Lamont looked down at the cement floor, besmirched as it was with ground in oil, grease, and tire marks, years of punishment, years of grime. Do the crime, do the the time. I could see him struggle with what he was about to say. I reckoned, rightly, that he'd been down this road before, taken a chance on some stray art student that couldn't park a car, not like that, and had to cut him loose. I could see that the responsibility weighed on him. Even though I was about to loose the job I'd had for what?, all of two hours, I felt a surge of sympathy for Lamont Dixon.
"I'm not sure that I can use you."
"I understand. It's just a bitches brew. I'll go punch out."
I headed, dejectedly, towards the rack of cards and the time clock.
"What was that you said?"
"I said," I said turning back to him, "I'll punch out. I might have made a few bucks anyway."
"No, you said 'bitches brew.'"
"Yes. Miles Davis."
"You like Miles Davis?"
"Of course! I live that shit."
This was a lie. I barely knew what I was talking about. My remark about 'bitches brew' was an example of my tendency to get a phrase stuck in my head like people get a tune stuck in mind. (Sorry, Gilbert. I mean my 'wherever I think that.') This tendency was to become even more pronounced as the use of psychedelics altered my (and our) vocabulary. At the instant Lamont picked up on the phrase, I saw my opening and I went for it. I tried for a super hip response. It worked. Lamont now looked again at the filthy floor. This was a sign, usually, of serious thought on his part.
"Well, fuck me. Once again, I'm too softhearted to fire another incompetent youngster. Anybody that listens to Miles has got to have something going on upstairs."
I didn't dare start in on Ryle with Lamont, no matter how many stairs he wanted to climb to get to the alleged location of my ignorance about Miles Davis. I simply stopped in my tracks, the tracks that led to the time clock. I was about to open my mouth to say something lame by way of thanks for giving me a second (or first) chance. I was cut off mid-thought.
"I can't say I can keep you on for long. Let's see how long it takes, or even if, you can catch on."
Then, he turned, shifting his girth and height like the Titanic, hard right rudder, all ahead full, and went in the direction of the office. He had chores. All of that cash must be counted. I found myself out on the floor noticing my audience for the first time. My fellow parking lot attendants were all just around the table that was just aft of the time clock. They had stayed out of sight during my near-dismissal, but not out of ear shot. Alpo, the motor mouth, spoke up first.
"Nice. I can't believe he didn't shit-can ya."
Steve (my friend, now feeling more like an acquaintance):
"I can, Alpo. He kept you when you were a rookie."
Jones, from whom I had heard not a peep, was slow of speech but sharp as a tack:
"I think we'd better take this guy up to six, grab one of these clunkers, and give this guy a parking tutorial."
"Won't Lamont kill us?"
"It takes him fifteen, twenty minutes to count the cash. In that time, we can get up and get Cal in and out of a few slots just for shits and grins. Besides...he can't fire all of us. Alpo, you take the floor."
So it was, that with my education firmly in hand, I began to learn how to park cars. I did, eventually 'catch on.' It was not without a few setbacks. Not all of the setbacks were my fault. The customers themselves could do quite a bit of damage. In fact, on nights when we worked a light event ourselves, since Steve knew the drill with tickets, he'd sometimes open the car door on a balky, skittery customer and say:
"Do you want us to wreck it, or did you want to wreck it yourself?"
This practice came after one customer, realizing too late that he'd gotten into a valet situation, hopped out of his car and tried to secure his CB antenna. It was crazy. The antenna, a truly worthless piece of hardware, was in no danger. It would have cleared the tall bays with several feet to spare. What happened happened fast. The customer, trying to get the antenna in the back of his hatchback while being scolded by Lamont, made the mistake of turning to respond to the badgering while slamming the hatch. The antenna was about two feet beyond the lip, and it snapped clean in two.
"Shit!"
"There you go, sir. We'll handle it from here."
Out the customer went, cursing and looking every which way to see how much his foolishness was cause for general derision, mostly back over his shoulder as I jumped in the hatchback and lurched forward towards the space between the pillars. The clutch was good and stiff, but I didn't pop it. There would be secure, smooth driving on this one. I was racking up points. Our laughter was strictly suppressed until break, when we let it fly.
"Do you want to wreck it yourself?" Lamont himself provided this immortal line. He used it himself from time to time, and it always made him snicker.
One occasion for a setback that both added and subtracted points for me was, again, the customer's fault. I got in a very nice BMW after the nattily attired male had exited. While Lamont was making change, I found myself in the driver's seat next to a perfumed woman in a stunning gown, blonde hair streaming down onto a major cleavage situation. The glint of jewelry in the florescent glare was suggestive of a lush life (jazz title) I couldn't begin to imagine. I waited for her to get out, but she sat there looking at me. It was very rare for this to happen. It was unheard of to be actually spoken to, but I was still rookie and was taking things in stride.
"My husband is a perfect ass."
Yow! I'm in the middle of a domestic dispute, with my ass in his still warm seat!
"I can't say, m'am, but I think you'll want to join him. I have to put this car up on five."
"You can put me up on five anytime."
She put a warm hand on my thigh. Yikes, shit fuck, Christ almighty. I'm going to pop a rod while popping a wheely. She almost got her wish, because with Lamont glaring at the delay, my almost reflexive reaction to her touch was to tense my leg. The BMW is a fine, sensitive driving machine. It's response to any pressure on its throttle was immediate action. I'd already put the car in gear. That's how fast we had to work. The car moved forward quickly taking the arc that began the three point turn. I braked in the nick of time. Lamont had caught up to me and was pounding on the Beemer's fender.
"Let the lady get out of the car, for Pete's sake!"
Startled by her short ride with me, she instantly complied. Lamont, wad of tickets in right hand, guided her out of the building with his left. Her ass of an husband was nowhere to be seen. In the break, this story became part of the legend of the Westland Garage. Lamont listened to the recounting shaking his head.
"You're a piece of work, Mr. Hunter. I'm surprised that you didn't keep right on going."
"What, out the back door in the Beemer?"
Laughter all around at this.
"At least into the bay."
"Take her up to five, anytime!"
"You'd have killed me, Lamont."
"Yes, but you'd have died happy."
Alpo:
"True. A babe like that comes around once in a lifetime."
In the beginning, there was a week of doing things slowly. Then came the acceleration of pace. Soon, in the second nature phase, I was up to speed with my peers. This was followed by a long period of plateaued competence with occasional, and sometimes spectacular fuck ups that were caused by the following factors: a), being too stoned, b), lack of sleep, c), preoccupation with school and worry over school, d), misjudging the timing of a dose of acid (separate from the haze of marijuana), e), mechanical failure of the customer's vehicle, f), pure and simple unaccountable fuck up (foot slipped off the brake pedal variety). There might be a 'g,' (on then to 'r'), but one factor was never involved: I never got bored parking cars. It has proved a durable, maybe even lifesaving skill. I can turn on a dime, I can drive anything with wheels, and I can will a car to enter a billowing arpeture with the power of my mind. At times like these, having slipped the bonds of time and space, I think of old Dean Moriarty, the father I never had. I channeled Dean, not Cassady. Though fiction be autobiographical, it distills out the essential oils and leaves only essence. The essence of Dean Moriarty was effortless competence behind the wheel of an automobile. Jack asks, "wither goest thou America in thy shiny car in the night?" I answer, 'straight down the road to hell.' The lessons I learned from slinging cars around in tight spaces were the lessons of teamwork and eye-hand coordination. I never really mastered the business side. I was a failure at making change down to the end, as you will read. I concentrated on those facets that made me a better musician. Teamwork and coordination, sitting next to someone playing the "Grand Duo" (Schubert) is essential oil. Otherwise, the banter was grist for the mill. The job itself outlasted my entire conservatory education.
