I compressed my lips and shook my head gravely. “Well, unfortunately, my instincts had been right on target. As soon as the applause died down, the dean put the mike to his lips and said, ‘I want to let you all in on a little secret: The golden age of dentistry is over.’ He nodded his head a single time. ‘If you're here simply because you're looking to make a lot of money, you're in the wrong place. So take my advice and leave right now, and never come back. There are better ways in the world to get rich; save yourself the heartache.’ Then he said a few more things, which blew right past me, because I was too busy looking for a fire exit. Then he twisted the knife in deeper. ‘Remember, your goal is to practice preventive dentistry. So if you practice your profession well, you'll be seeing less and less of your patients.’ And he started nodding his head, as if he'd just let out a major pearl of wisdom. Then he started talking again, although I was done listening. In fact, I was doing a bit of talking myself at that point, saying, ‘Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me…’ as I walked out of the auditorium right in the middle of his speech. I remember getting some funny looks from everyone, and I also remember not giving a shit about them.” I paused for effect. “That's how I became a dental-school dropout my first day. It was all the dean's fault. The only question was how to break the news to my mother.”
“That's terrible!” exclaimed the Witch. “She must've been devastated!” The Witch compressed her thin lips and stared at me menacingly.
Well, well, well! I thought. The Witch had a soft spot for my mother, after all! Apparently, my mother's goodness was irresistible. I said, “Yes, Michele, my mother would have been very upset if I had told her, which, of course, I didn't.” I shrugged my good son's shrug. “I mean, I loved her way too much to be honest with her. Besides, she was my mother, and I'd been lying to her since I was five.” I flashed the Witch an impish smile. “So why tell her the truth now, right, Michele?”
The Witch responded with no words, just two twitches of her nose.
Christ! I shook my head quickly, trying to rid myself of her spell. “Anyway,” I said, with a bit of a quiver in my tone, “I told my mother that dental school was going great, and then I hid down in Maryland for four months and worked out all day and laid in the sun. Baltimore's pretty nice that time of year, so the time passed quickly. I still had beach money left over from the summer, so I was living pretty well. In the end, I auctioned off my dental equipment to supplement things. All the drills and drill bits, the scalers, the gauze pads—they made us buy all this shit before we got started, so now I was stuck with it.”
Scratching his head, OCD said, “You really auctioned off your dental equipment? Seriously?”
I nodded. “You bet I did! In fact, I posted signs all over campus so I'd draw a good crowd.” I smiled proudly. “You see, Greg? I was aware of the importance of supply and demand even then. I knew that if I wanted to have a successful auction I'd need to have lots of bidders. So I advertised.” I shrugged another capitalist's shrug. “Anyway, you should've seen the auction; it was a real hoot. I held it in the dental lab, surrounded by beakers and Bunsen burners. Fifty or sixty kids showed up, most of them in their white dental smocks. I wore one of those blue plastic visors, like a bookie.
“In the beginning, they were all a bit gun-shy, so I played up the theatrics a bit. I started speaking really fast, like a true auctioneer would, and then things started to roll. ‘Okay, okay,’ I said quickly, ‘I got a beautiful high-speed hand piece, manufactured by our good friends over at Star Dental Labs. She's stainless steel, self-cooling, and spins at twenty thousand rpms a minute. She comes straight from the box, with a lifetime warranty. Just look at her— she's a real beaut!’ And I held up the drill for public inspection. ‘She's an absolute must,’ I said. ‘A must for any dentist who's serious about providing his patients with first-class dental care. Brand-new, she'll set you back nine hundred fifty dollars. Do I have an opening bid of two hundred dollars… Do I have two hundred… I'm looking for two hundred
“And some kid with a ferocious mop of red hair and horn-rimmed glasses raised his hand and said, ‘I'll take it for two hundred!’ to which I said, ‘Excellent! We have an opening bid of two hundred dollars from the very smart man in the white smock and horn-rimmed glasses. Do I have a bid of two-fifty now… I'm looking for two-fifty… Does anybody have two-fifty? Sweet Jesus! Come on, everyone! She's a steal down here! Remember, this drill is self-cooling and sprays out a jet of water to prevent heat buildup. It's state of the art all the way…’ And then some Asian girl with flawless skin and the body of a fire hydrant raised her hand and said in an eager voice, ‘I'll pay two-fifty!’ to which I said, Ahhh, we have a two-hundred-fifty-dollar bid from the lovely lady in white, who knows a bargain when she sees one. Good for you, young lady!’ And I went on and on until I had the whole room in a frenzy.”
I paused, catching my breath. Then, with great pride, I said, “I netted over three thousand dollars that day. And it was the first time in my life I felt like a true salesman. And I was good at it. My auctioneer's rap came pouring out of my mouth as if there was no tomorrow.” I smiled at the memory. “Toward the end of the auction, the dean came walking into the room, and he just stood there, staring at me. After a minute, he shook his head and walked away, too dumbfounded to comment. I'm sure it was the first auction at the Baltimore College of Dental Surgery, and I'm also sure it was the last. And it was a grand success, I might add.”
By now everyone in the room was chuckling, even the Witch and the Bastard. It was a good sign, I thought, so I decided to jump right into the insanity of the meat-and-seafood business: “What I failed to mention, though, was what inspired me to hold the auction that day.”
“You said you were running low on funds,” said OCD.
I shrugged noncommittally. “That had something to do with it, but it wasn't what was really driving me. What happened was that, a few days before, I received a phone call from Elliot, the Penguin. I was home at the time, lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, wondering what the f**k I was gonna do with the rest of my life. I was living in a tiny studio apartment, just outside Baltimore, and it had two pieces of furniture in it: the bed and a rotting tweed couch. The Penguin was living in Queens, and when he called me, he was in a very agitated state, almost out of breath. He said, ‘I found a way to make beach money all year ‘round. I'm working as a salesman for a meat-and-seafood company, and I'm clearing two-fifty a day in cash. They even gave me a company vehicle.’ I think it was the last part that shocked me most. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘They gave you a car? Jesus, that's amazing.’
“ ‘Yeah, it is,’ he answered. ‘And I can get you a job there if you want.’”
I thought back on the Penguin's words. “In retrospect, I should've realized that something wasn't on the up-and-up. Remember, Elliot didn't actually say they'd given him a company car. He said, ‘company vehicle,’ which is kind of an odd way to put it, you know? I mean, if you went to work at IBM and they gave you a car, you wouldn't refer to it as a company vehicle: You would say, ‘IBM gave me a company car!’ Still, the thought of making beach money all year ‘round was so enticing that I chose not to read too much into things. Before I hung up, I asked, ‘Are you sure they're gonna hire me, Elliot? I don't have any real sales experience.’”
I began chuckling. “You have no idea how ironic that question was.” I started shaking my head.
“What's so ironic?” the Bastard asked tonelessly. “I don't get it.”
“Well, companies like Great American Meat and Seafood— which was the name of Elliot's company—are always looking for salesmen. The same goes for companies like Stratton Oakmont or Monroe Parker or Kirby vacuum cleaners or any other company that employs fast-talking commission-based salesmen.” I paused and took a moment to think back. Then I said, “At Stratton, we used to give our job applicants the mirror test—meaning, we would stick a mirror under their noses and wait for it to fog up. If it did, we hired them; if it didn't, it meant they were dead, which was the only reason we wouldn't hire them—unless, of course, they were already licensed stockbrokers. Then we definitely wouldn't hire them, because they knew too much. We wanted our brokers young and naive, hungry and stupid.” I shrugged. “Give me someone like that, and I'll make them rich, with no problem. But give me someone with brains and imagination—well, that's a bit more difficult.
“But, to get back to the story, I spent a few more minutes on the phone with the Penguin, listening to him chirp about how wonderful the meat-and-seafood business was. ‘It's all restaurant-quality food,’ he assured me. ‘Nothing but the best.’
“I mean, the whole thing sounded too good to be true, but I'd never known Elliot to be a liar. He was a bit gullible, maybe, but he definitely wasn't a liar. So I put aside my skepticism, packed up my 1973 Mercury Cougar, and drove up to New York to drop the bomb on my parents. It was February 1985. I was twenty-two at the time. I had my whole life in front of me.”
CHAPTER 7
THE BIRTH OF A SALESMAN
o you just picked up and left,” said the Witch, shaking her head back and forth.
“Yeah,” I said casually, “that's just what I did. And I had all my worldly possessions with me, which amounted to a suitcase full of dirty clothes and the shirt on my back. And, of course, I had the three thousand dollars I'd cleared from my auction.
“In retrospect, it still amazes me how easy it was to pick up and leave Baltimore. My studio was on a month-to-month lease, I had no furniture to speak of, and my financial obligations were basically zero. The only bummer was that I'd be living at home with my parents again, which I can assure you is no picnic. They were still living in the same two-bedroom apartment I grew up in, which was the same apartment I swore I'd leave after I struck it rich.”
I paused and scratched my chin thoughtfully. “In fact, they're still living in the same apartment today, in spite of all the money my father made at Stratton.” I shook my head in amazement. “Can you imagine? I mean, I even offered to buy them a house when things were rolling, but they didn't want to move. I guess you could say they're the ultimate creatures of habit.”
“So how'd you break the news to them?” the Bastard asked impatiently.
“Well, I figured it would be easier if they digested things in small chunks, so, before I left Baltimore, all I told them was that I'd dropped out of dental school; I didn't say that I landed a job as a meat-and-seafood salesman.
“I dropped that bomb on them in the living room, which was where all important conversations took place. My father was sitting in his favorite chair, and my mother was sitting on the couch, reading a book. For some reason, I still remember what book it was— On Death and Dying.” I shrugged. “I don't know; my mother always liked those morbid books. My father, meanwhile, was busy watching his latest cop show and chain-smoking his lungs into complete oblivion.
“I took a seat across from my father and said, ‘I need to talk to you guys for a few minutes.’
“My father looked at my mom, and he said in a slightly annoyed tone, ‘Lee, will you turn down T.J. Hooker for a minute?’ At that, my mother dropped her book and nearly ran over to the wall unit and turned down the Trinitron. That was the relationship between my parents, Mad Max and Saint Leah. The latter spent the better part of her day trying to keep the former from blowing an emotional gasket.
“I said to them, ‘Dentistry is not for me, guys. I gave it a full semester, and I know for sure now that I could never be happy as a dentist.’ That was a lie, of course, although I figured that if I told them that I'd dropped out the first day then they'd really be pissed. Either way, my mother was having none of it.
“ ‘I didn't think you'd be a dentist forever,’ she said. ‘I thought you'd open up a chain of dental clinics one day, or discover a new type of dental procedure. It's still not too late.’
“‘No, Mom; it is too late. I'm not going back,’ and then I looked at my father for support. He was actually better in these situations. He loved a good crisis; they seem to calm him down somehow, even to this day. It was the small stuff that drove him crazy. I said to him, ‘Listen, Dad: I don't want to be a dentist. I want to be a salesman. That's what I'm cut out for, to sell things—’ And my mother popped off the couch and screamed, ‘Oh, my God, Max! Not a salesman! Anything but that!’ Then she turned to me and said, ‘Look what you've done to me already,’ and she lowered her head and pointed to a small patch of gray hair. ‘This is from when you cut tenth grade and smoked marijuana all day with that awful Richard Kushner.’ Then she pointed to a wrinkle on her forehead and added, ‘And this is from when you grew marijuana in the closet and said it was a science project! And now you're dropping out of dental school to become a salesman!’
“I was slowly losing patience with her. With a bit of edge in my tone, I said, ‘I'm not going to dental school, Mom, and that's final!’
“ ‘No, it's not final!’
“ ‘Yes, it is final!’
“And back and forth we went, until, finally, Mad Max stepped in. ‘Will you two stop it!’ he screamed. ‘I mean, Jesus!’ And he shook his head in disbelief. Then he looked at my mother and said, ‘He's not going to dental school, Leah. What's the use?’ And then he looked at me and smiled warmly. With a hint of a British accent, he asked, ‘What type of salesman would you like to be, son? What do you see yourself selling?’”
“Your father's British?” asked OCD. “I didn't know that.” OCD's tone dripped with surprise, as if someone had given him some very bad information.
“No, he's not actually British,” I replied. “He just speaks with a British accent when he's trying to act reasonable. That's my father's other persona: Sir Max. It's his lovable alter ego. See, when Mad Max becomes Sir Max, he puckers up his lips and speaks with a hint of British aristocracy. It's pretty remarkable, actually, considering he's never even visited England.” I turned the corners of my mouth down and shrugged, as if to say, “Some things simply defy logic and aren't worth pondering.” Then I said, “But Sir Max is the best. He never loses his temper. He's totally reasonable in all situations.”
“So what did you tell Sir Max?” asked the Bastard.
“Well, at first I hemmed and hawed a bit—talking about the possibility of selling medical supplies or dental supplies, something that would fit in with my degree. Then, as if it were an afterthought, I brought up the subject of Elliot Loewenstern and meat and seafood. My mother, of course, immediately began torturing me, using her own brand of Jewish guilt, which is your run-of-the-mill Jewish guilt mixed with passive-aggressiveness and sarcasm.
“‘My son, the meat salesman!’ she started muttering. ‘That's just wonderful! He drops out of dental school to peddle meat. A mother should only be so lucky.’ She added a few more choice words, and then the phone started ringing and Sir Max morphed back into Mad Max, and started cursing, ‘That motherf**king goddamn piece-a-shit phone! Who the hell has the gall to call this house on a goddamn Tuesday afternoon? Inconsiderate bastard! The f**king gall!’ And my mother jumped off the couch and ran to the phone like Jesse Owens, as she pled with my father: ‘Calm down, Max! Calm down! I'm getting it—I'm getting it!’ But Mad Max was still mumbling curses under his breath: ‘That rat bastard! Who calls the house on a goddamn Tuesday afternoon?’”
With mock seriousness, I said, “My father really hated it when that phone rang! I'm telling you: Nothing drove him crazier.”
“Why?” asked OCD.
I shrugged. “For the most part, it had to do with my father being resistant to change. He hates it in any shape or form. In fact, for the last thirty-six years he's had the same address, the same phone number, the same dry cleaner, the same auto mechanic—he even has the same Chinese laundry service! And he knows all the owners on a first-name basis, so he'll say things like, ‘Pepe1* over at the dry cleaner said this, or Wing2* at the Chinese laundry said that, or Jimmy* over at the Sunoco station said something else.’ It's totally unbelievable.” I shook my head back and forth, emphasizing the point. “When the phone rings, it brings an unwanted stimulus into his environment, creating the potential for change. Whether the call brings good news or bad news doesn't matter to him; he flips out either way.” I shrugged again, as if this was just another expected happening at Chez Belfort. Then I said, “Now, under normal circumstances, the worst thing my mother can say after she picks up the phone is, ‘Max! It's for you!’ But once Mad Max picks up the phone, he'll become Sir Max again, using his British accent. ‘Oh, how may I help you? Righty-o, then! Cheerio, my friend!’ And he'll stay Sir Max until he hangs up the phone, at which point he'll turn right back into Mad Max again and curse his way back to his chair, then fire up another Merit.
“Anyway, when my mother answered the phone that day, it wasn't for my father. It was for me, and, of all people, it was the Penguin. So my father started muttering, ‘That cocksucking phone! It's always the same with it. And this f**king Penguin character! What rock did he crawl out from underneath? That stupid Penguin, waddling fool
By now we were all in hysterics. The Bastard recovered first. “So did Mad Max go ballistic about the meat business?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “The moment I hung up, I told them I'd landed a job as a meat-and-seafood salesman, which caused Saint Leah to start flipping out, which then caused Sir Max to reemerge.” I paused for a moment, then said, “No, my problems didn't start until the next morning, when the Penguin pulled up in front of my building in his company vehicle, which turned out to be a Toyota pickup truck. ‘What the f**k is that?’ I snapped. ‘Don't tell me this is the company vehicle you were talking about!’
“ ‘Yeah, ain't she a beaut?’ he replied, and then he popped out of the truck, dressed in jeans and sneakers, and he waddled over and put his arm on my shoulder. Then he stared at the truck and said, ‘Whaddaya think?’