The Front of the House

By Dillon Wilson

I was first inspired to write this book after reading some of Anthony Bourdains books, particularly Kitchen Confidential. I decided that I could write a story about the underbelly of the world of fine dining from my own perspective as a dining room manager, sommelier, and service professional. It is an autobiographic account of my own experiences, starting with when I was a teenager in high school and then detailing my first encounters in the workplace. Through trial and error, I find my true calling as a restaurateur.

It is an odyssey, which describes in my own words the internal and external factors that shaped my career in the food and beverage industry. It covers four decades. During that time, there are subplots involving my friends and acquaintances, which revolve around the main theme of this book. Many social, political, and technological changes occurred, which had a direct and indirect impact on the course of this story and its ultimate conclusion.

This book appeals to its readers on four different levels. It is a historical portrayal of how fashion, art, and music changed through the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties, and into the next century. It also describes some of our nations most memorable events and tragedies as they relate to this book.

It identifies with anyone who has ever held a job in the service industry or has ever wondered what it was really like. It has its share of romance and work politics, just like most jobs do.

It is an informative guide for anyone interested in gastronomy and the world of eclectic beverages, in addition to exploring the wonders of the wine country from the perspective of a sommelier and service professional.

Lastly, it has a moral element. It is a warning to all of the potential dangers and pitfalls of a demanding, high-pressure lifestyle surrounded by temptation, risk, and vulnerability. It is not for people with thin skins or inherent weaknesses.

I have tried my best to combine all the things, which makes a book truly engaging as well as entertaining. There is humor, irony, fate, and hopefully, some valuable information for everyone to enjoy. Most of all, its a good story!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496955784

Dillon Wilson

First time author Dillon Wilson was born in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan, where he grew up and spent most of his life. His poor eyesight and lack of education led him to pursue a career in the restaurant industry. This book provides a behind- the-scene look at what it was like to grow up in the world of eclectic tastes and fine dining. During his years as a restaurant manager, he received extensive training as a service professional, attending seminars and conferences around the country. He is certified as a sommelier and has completed several highly accredited spirits programs and wine courses. He is responsible for achieving twelve awards from Wine Spectator magazine at three different restaurants. He has also served as a judge for various local fund-raising and tasting events including the International Wine Experience, the Blue Water Chef’s Association food and wine event, and the Food and Wine Extravaganza. He also was a board member of the Detroit Wine Organization. Dillon has contributed his talent toward creating wine programs and designing wine lists for well-known restaurants and service establishments throughout the Detroit area. He has appraised both private and professional wine cellars and has worked in retail as well as being a restaurateur. His passion for education is exemplified by his experience training and developing his restaurant staff by conducting regular wine and spirits classes. He has presided over many public tastings as well. Dillon still lives in the Detroit area and works as an independent wine and spirits consultant. He is happily married and continues to write about his love for food and wine.

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© 2014 DILLON WILSON. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  12/05/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5579-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5580-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5578-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921202

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1 My Ill Spent Youth

Chapter 2 Caddie Shack

Chapter 3 The Rise of the Suffragettes

Chapter 4 Mon Amour du Vin

Chapter 5 Sink or Swim

Chapter 6 Doctor, My Eyes…

Chapter 7 To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before

Chapter 8 The Gaza Strip

Chapter 9 Fear and Loathing in West Bloomfield

Chapter 10 Unforgiven

About The Author

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, whose love and support made it possible for me to write this story. Her unwavering faith in my talents and abilities gave me the strength and confidence to believe in myself, and the courage to compose this account of my life in the service industry.

If I were to name one person, who above all others, suffered through the hardest of times with me, and who also took great pleasure and pride in sharing the most meaningful accomplishments of my life, I can only think of her. She has endured my hardships and disappointments with the grace and dignity befitting a queen, and her generous and caring nature has been an eternal source of inspiration for me and for all those who know her.

Her selfless effort and aspiration towards the pursuit of a better life, and her devotion to my somewhat demanding physical and emotional needs, has met a criterion that is far beyond anything that could possibly be expected.

She has embraced my family with all their idiosyncrasies, as a loving aunt, daughter-in-law, and sister-in-law.

I sincerely hope that someday, I can show my appreciation for these gifts which she has so graciously bestowed upon me, and shower her with the kind of admiration and adoration she truly deserves.

It is my intent and purpose, that this acknowledgement shows proof of my undying love and respect that I have for her. She is my angel from heaven, and I thank God every day for blessing me with her company. I hope that I make her proud.

Preface

Of all the dreams that I had when I was a child, the influences of my friends and family, the experiences I had in school when I was growing up, of all the passions and pursuits of my wild and untamed youth, what was it that led me to a career in the restaurant business? That is a question I ask myself from time to time, but deep inside I know the truth.

I could say it was the only path that a young man with poor eyesight could take if he wanted to make a decent living without a college degree or a job working in the auto industry punching a press.

Or, I could say it was my love for the spotlight, the attention I received, and the interesting people I met, which contributed to my decision to be a restaurant manager.

Or, I could say it was my obsession with food & wine, the lifestyle associated with it, and the notoriety it brought that ultimately pushed me into the world of Chefs, Gourmands, and Sommeliers.

But, the truth is I was good at it. I was born to it. It was my gift from God. I was given the natural ability to excel at this challenging and rewarding profession. But it wasn’t easy. Like any other goal in life, it required an insurmountable degree of dedication, effort, concentration and sacrifice. Emotionally, mentally and eventually physically it exacted its toll. But, if I had the chance to do it all again, I would – only better.

The lessons learned as a result of my experiences in the food and beverage industry are far greater than I could have realized when I started this odyssey. It tested my faith in myself and in other people. It taught me finesse, style, grace, etiquette, manners, and the importance of confidence and conviction, as well as humility. I learned to be careful about how I approached each situation, weighing all the variables in order to reach the best possible outcome.

To become a true authority on service and dining requires more than knowing a lot about food and wine. It’s more than just name dropping, or subscribing to a trade publication (you know who you are), or reading what the critics say in the local newspaper.

Ultimately, you have to live it. To do that you must become a well-rounded individual. You must educate yourself about culture, art, language, history, geology, geography, philosophy, cuisine, oenology, viticulture, viniculture, ampelography, and evolution to name just a few.

I was invited to apply for a sommelier’s position at a destination restaurant renowned for its gourmet cuisine. It was French inspired but the emphasis was on using local produce and meats – a unique concept which later caught on as dining establishments became more organically food-conscious.

The owner was a chef who had done a tour working in fine dining establishments and bistros during a two year residence in France. He told me how he had made a good living working as an engineer for one of the big auto companies here in the states. But, he became interested in gastronomy, and it led him on a quest for self-fulfillment. He came back to America and worked his way up to sous chef at a very well-known restaurant not far from where he opened his own place. When the time was right, he bought a property with a mansion that he converted into a paradise of great food and eclectic beverages. The wine list was well represented with many French selections of Burgundies and Bordeaux in addition to other lesser-known appellations.

It was my dream job, but a newly ordained master sommelier got the prize. His credentials outshined mine. I knew him and I had to admit, that if I had to lose to an adversary, he was a worthy opponent.

The reason that I think about this anecdote, is that it illustrates what I mean when I say, you have to live it. You have to smell it, taste it, eat and drink it. It must be an all-consuming obsession. It must take over your life like a virus. It is only when you totally give yourself to this addiction to knowledge that you will succeed as a restaurateur.

The way I chose to tell this story, was to take the reader on a trip through time. In the first person, I begin my narration with some reference points starting with my ill spent youth. This best describes the internal and external factors which contributed to my penchant for restaurant work, particularly in the front of the house, as we call it.

Then, I move quickly to the next chapter in my life. The 14 years I spent working at one of golf’s most prestigious Country Clubs, Oakmont Hills. As one of the few white, male servers hired to work at an institution which was still hanging on to the traditions of the early twentieth century, I got to witness the painful changes that ultimately reached the doors of the Men’s Grill, one of the last private bastions trying to preserve its archaic ritualism during an era of controversy surrounding women’s rights, and racial equality.

As this story develops, I try to pay close attention not only to what was happening in my life, but to all the social, political and historical events that were going on, without getting too involved, or reflecting any of my own bias. To that end, I hope to give a broad perception of how it felt to live during those times, and how it affected my decisions in and out of the work place. Music, art, and fashion also play a key role in providing a vivid background for this saga, which is part drama, comedy, documentary, and commentary.

One aspect of this book that can’t be ignored is my love affair with wine. My fascination began at an early age. I was amazed at how this simple beverage could be so intrinsic to our society and others before us. Its connection to historical events, religion, and mysticism intrigued me, and I found myself reading more and more on the subject as I got older.

As a young man, I realized that if I wanted to make the kind of money that a professional waiter made in the upscale restaurants of New York and Chicago, I would have to be knowledgeable about wine and spirits. With perseverance and a little luck, I was able to develop my skills as a wine professional by meeting the right people at the right time. By doing this, I was given some unique opportunities, which I exploited to my benefit.

When I was finally given first management job, I made all the mistakes that someone makes when given a position of authority and trust. Fortunately for me, I had a good, if not slightly flawed mentor, to counsel me through my failures, and eventually turn me into a respectable member of the restaurant community. Though, he couldn’t always save me from myself, he was a good friend and someone I still admire. It was through him that I met an ophthalmologist who changed my life for the better.

After my cataract surgery, I realized I had the chance to significantly improve the quality of my life, professionally and otherwise. I devoured as much information about wine and other artisanal beverages as I could. I set my sights on being certified as a sommelier in order to qualify myself as an expert in the field. I went to Las Vegas for my first exam. I went to the wine country. I participated in fund raising events and judged competitions. I did anything I could think of to promote my abilities. For the first time in my life, I had finally found a career I could truly be proud of.

But, even though I had matured and learned from my previous embarrassments, it didn’t deter me from engaging in some risky behaviors outside of work. I still had my close brushes with the law, fueled by a blatant disregard for authority. This continued to be a constant source of frustration for me, and for those who cared about me.

In chapter seven, my world gets turned upside down again when I learn that I’ve been transferred to a new restaurant. More pay and less responsibility were not enough to keep me happy. A bad marriage, heavy drinking, and a hostile political climate made work less than tolerable. The country had been attacked, and the times were changing. I needed a change as well.

What happens next is the essence of this novel. It is the struggle against temptation, desire, and corruption. My personal and professional life are plagued with moral dilemmas, and my health takes a turn for the worse. All the while, I try to maintain the façade of an entertainer who tries to be everything to everyone. Only one thing can save me.

I placed an important emphasis on the characters in this saga, and how their personalities contribute to the energy and vivacity of this story. They are the colors I use to paint this chronology of anecdotes, incidents, and experiences. They represent real people in my life. Their names have been altered to protect the innocent (or the guilty), but they are all caricatures of themselves, made up of a complex combination of individual traits and idiosyncrasies.

In addition to all the aliases which are used in this book, I was compelled by my editors to also change the names of all the restaurants, bars, businesses and any other organizations that have been mentioned within, in order to protect myself from any liability associated with this story. They represent actual places and events that really happened as they pertain to this account of my life in the restaurant business.

There are a lot of people who play a greater or lesser role in this novel. I try to prioritize them in order of importance as they relate to this portrayal of fine dining in America. As these characters develop through each chapter, they grow and change with the plot as I do. I think you can recognize or relate to some of them. They may remind you of people you know or have known in your life. If this is true, then I have been successful in my attempt to connect with my audience.

People have always been very important to me. I believe the ability to empathize makes you a better communicator and a better person. These are the traits that you need to be a good restaurateur. Maybe, that’s why I chose this field. It was the perfect arena for me to play out my role in the greater scheme of things. But, I digress.

If someone were to ask me, What do you hope to accomplish by writing this book? I would answer by saying everyone should write a book about their life. It’s an accounting, a way of explaining to yourself the reasons why you did the things you did. It is a way of taking inventory, so you can look back and weigh your accomplishments against your failures. It will give you a different perspective on how you look at yourself, and how you affected other people.

I believe this is a good story. It’s a testament to all the people who have worked in the service industry at one time or another, particularly in the front of the house. It’s a tribute to their hard work, knowledge, and expertise. It speaks to those who know the ups and downs of surviving in a highly stressful and competitive environment. I take my hat off to them.

There are life lessons to be learned in this business. Honor and reputation ultimately prevail, hard work pays off, you get out of it what you put into it-and don’t shit where you eat.

For all those who haven’t considered this line of work. You will get a look into the past of someone who lived the life of a service professional during the turbulent times of the 80’s and 90’s and the beginning of next century.

There are many great memories to reflect upon. When things were bad, they were pretty bad. But, when things were good, they were absolutely great! The world was much more relaxed and unencumbered by threats of mass shootings in public places, or privacy invasions, and computer hacking. Big brother was just an older sibling. We worked hard, but we played harder.

In some respects I feel extremely vulnerable revealing my whole life to the world like this. It’s as though I’ve exposed myself to anybody who cares to take a voyeuristic look into the embarrassing and sometimes painful events of my life. It reminds me of the movie Being John Malkovich where a total stranger can just crawl through a portal and be transported into my mind and live vicariously through my experiences.

I want the reader to feel as though something was learned, or some itch was scratched when they close the cover of this book. Whether it’s a curious glimpse at the successes and blunders of a food and wine fanatic, or how things really work behind the scenes at a trattoria or bistro, or what really goes on beyond the closed doors of a private club. Whatever it is, I hope it’s informing, enlightening, entertaining, or at the very least amusing. Bonaventure!

Chapter 1

My Ill Spent Youth

Someone said youth is wasted on the young. If that were a slogan for a charity, I could’ve been the poster child. But I wasn’t all bad. I was just trying to find my niche. I liked being the center of attention and if that meant negative attention, it was better than no attention at all.

Growing up as a young boy in the early sixties, was like being at a party where everyone was speaking a different language. I was surrounded by international, political, and social change but I wasn’t quite sure what was going on or how to interpret it.

John F. Kennedy was president, and the cold war was reaching a boiling point. I wasn’t even aware of the fact that the world barely escaped nuclear annihilation as a result of the Cuban missile crisis. In 1963, the president went to Germany and gave his Ich bin ein Berliner speech which symbolized his commitment to promoting democracy and freedom for all nations. The same year he was assassinated.

There were riots in Detroit and all over the country. Social unrest and prejudice created an atmosphere of rebellion which was reflected in the art and music of those turbulent times. Hallucinogenic drugs and psychedelic fashions provided a surreal backdrop to a tumultuous decade.

In the midst of all this drama, I was blissfully unaware of the precarious events that surrounded me. I was just trying to compete in the cruel and ruthless arena of grade school.

I was born with cataracts. In those days, that didn’t mean a whole lot to anybody. People used to think it only afflicted the elderly, and that’s why they wore bifocals. Beyond that, nobody knew anything about them. My cataracts were congenital. It’s like a birth defect. It was hard to diagnose for that reason. The best they could do for me was to give me a pair of ultra-thick glasses that looked like Coke bottle bottoms. They made things look bigger, but they didn’t help me read very well.

Because of this, people thought I was a little slow. I sucked at any kind of sport that involved catching a ball, or swinging a bat, or throwing. That limited my chances of being an athlete. My teachers insisted that I sit in the back of the classroom, even though they knew I couldn’t see the blackboard. This was because they were obsessed with arranging the seating order alphabetically. It must have been some mandatory rule they were taught in teacher school. My last name began with a W, so I absolutely had to be seated in the last row. By doing this they planted the seeds that turned me into a social outcast.

To make things worse, I started school at an early age. I was always the youngest student in my class. This was compounded by the fact that I was a late bloomer. I matured much slower than most of the kids my age, so I was always the smallest, skinniest, puniest kid among my peers. I was constantly the subject of ridicule and the teasing was relentless. I got my ass kicked a few times, but I refused to be bitter.

Being the progeny of two teachers gave me an advantage. I lived in a neighborhood which was mostly inhabited by what might be called middle class, blue collar. These were people who worked in jobs connected with the auto industry all their life. Some of them were second generation immigrants. They put their nose to the grindstone, stuck it out, and gained positions as foremen and supervisors which paid very well and offered handsome benefits. However, very few of them had any formal education beyond high school. Their children would adopt the same ideals. They would graduate with a 12th grade education, get a job in a factory, get married, have children, and retire with a generous pension. That was the American dream. At least it was in those days.

I however, had a different background. I was the son of educated parents who both had Masters Degrees from the University of Michigan. They were teachers in the neighboring school district. They had two passions, learning and teaching. Whether I paid attention to them or not, their knowledge infected me. My sisters also absorbed the endless, non-stop flow of information which seemed to swirl around the house day and night. As if by osmosis, we couldn’t help but pick up on their vocabulary and speech patterns. It was like the Pygmalion effect. The result was that what I lacked in study habits, I made up for with my ability to assimilate information.

I put this to good use in school. I was intelligent enough to understand what was happening in class, without doing a whole lot of homework. This allowed me to graduate in the upper half of my class, which wasn’t saying much, if you took into consideration that the average IQ of my fellow alumni was about the same as a houseplant.

Since maintaining a straight A report card was of no interest to me, I focused on my social life. This included weekly sessions with the school counselor, one way trips to the principal’s office, and endless detentions in the band room. My skills as class clown were finely honed, and judging by the response I got from my adoring fans, I thought I was destined for a career in show business.

Since I didn’t fit in very well with the jock crowd, and the book worms were afraid of me, I felt like an outcast. In my school there was a word for outcasts. They were called The Freaks.

The Freaks were an organized collection of druggies and alcoholics who wore specific clothing and hairstyles to accentuate their individuality. This seemed like the perfect crew for me to be in. They respected my intelligence and wit, and they would stand up for me if I was being bullied by the Jocks and Greasers.

A typical day in my life would go something like this: In the morning, before class, we would meet in the woods, in a clearing next to the South House wing of the high school. You could always count on someone to bring a GIQ of malt liquor, or a couple of beers. We’d stand around in a group, and pass a bowl of weed around, while wetting our whistles with a few suds.

We’d walk into class, always late, smelling like pot and beer. No one would say anything, because nobody wanted to go down that road. That gave us a feeling of power. When the bell rang, we’d duck into South House john to grab a quick smoke. There would always be a few guys selling acid or mescaline. If you could bum four quarters in the hallway, you could buy a hit and trip for the rest of the day. I’d buy some mesc and skip the next class.

I could always get a hall pass from Mr. Bayler, the art teacher. He knew what we did with our spare time, but rather than try to discourage us, he would redirect our angst towards more creative endeavors. I suppose it was no coincidence that I was enthralled with works of Max Ernst and Rene Magritte. I used to paint surrealist portraits and landscapes which were probably somewhat bizarre, even by their standards.

The next class was band. By now, I would be trippin’ my ass off. I’d sit in my little plastic chair, with my trombone in my hand, and watch the notes dance off the page. Oddly enough, this is how I got my letter in high school. I played by ear and became 1st chair in the marching band. I spent a lot of time in that room after school, as punishment for my frequent disruptions and outbursts during practice.

Then, the bell rang. It was lunch hour. We’d pile out into the parking lot behind West House as if someone had pulled the fire alarm. You could hear the car stereos blaring, and girls laughing, and the sound of tires screeching against the asphalt.

Most of the cars were Mustangs. They were the ride of choice among my peers and a highly regarded status symbol. I didn’t get to drive until I was a senior. My dad let me use the family car. It was a Dodge Dart. It was spray painted green with bright red wheel wells. It reminded me of a rolling Christmas tree with headlights. Needless to say, I didn’t do very well with the girls, but I could always find my car in a crowded lot.

My father had a unique way of looking at restoration. He would often find pieces of furniture and household accessories in the trash and restore them which actually meant spray painting. Dad had a huge assortment of aerosol cans lining the shelves of his workroom. He spray painted everything – bed frames, cupboards, and yes, cars. I remember we used to have a Dodge Lancer station wagon that we lovingly referred to as The Silver Bullet, because it had been coated with gray, metallic spray paint.

The next half hour would be spent drinking beer, and rolling joints, and planning our evenings with pocket change. Led Zeppelin would be blaring on the radio, and the windows would be completely steamed up as a result of our copious smoking and coughing. It must have seemed odd to the parking lot attendant, that all the cars were full of vapor so thick, you couldn’t see inside.

After that, we’d go back to class. Of course, we were incapable of doing any work, so we just sat around until the bell rang. By then, I was seeing some pretty cool tracks. The mescaline was working its magic on my juvenile brain.

I remember a lot of my friends were taking THC. Everybody thought that it was Tetrahydrocannabinol, the active ingredient in marijuana. In reality it was PCP (Phencyclidine), a street drug used at the race track as an anesthetic for horses. It slows down the brain’s motor skills and higher functions, causing psychotic hallucinations, delusions, and in rare cases, seizures. So it’s like being an epileptic drunk on LSD with Parkinson’s disease. Pretty cool, huh? You could drop it, snort it, or sprinkle it in a joint and call it Angel Dust. In the same respect, what was sold as mescaline or mesc, was just weak acid.

After school we would go to the Universal Mall. It was the state of the art shopping Mecca of its time. We’d hang out at the record store and buy the latest Cheech and Chong album. Then, we’d go to Spencer Gifts, a novelty shop known for its selection of counter cultural paraphernalia, adult books and pop art. One of my favorite things to do, was to check out the black light section in the back of the store. I was mesmerized by all the fluorescent posters hanging on the walls and ceiling. I could stare at them for hours. Then maybe, I’d buy a copy of Zap Comics. It was an underground magazine which featured cartons like The Furry Freak Brothers and Mr. Natural, along with fake beer ads promoting Boy Howdy beer.

My internal alarm alerted me that my presence would be required at the dinner table eminently soon. Supper was always served promptly at six o’clock and it was mandatory that I be there on time. The consequences would be severe if I dared to arrive even a few minutes late. We’d say grace and commence with our daily ritual.

Although, it was very important to my parents for us all to be together at the table for dinner, my father had a strict rule which was heavily enforced (besides no elbows on the table). No one was allowed to speak during the six o’clock news. The Vietnam War was on TV, so we’d watch in silence as Walter Cronkite went on and on about how many Americans were dead verses the Viet Cong, and how many were wounded, and what’s going on with the Ho Chi Min Trail, ad nauseam. This might seem trivial by today’s standards, but it was the first time in history that you could watch a war on television in the comfort of your own dining room.

We were, however, allowed to speak during the commercials, which is when I would provoke a roaring argument with my father. This was much to the amusement of my sisters and the dismay of my mother, who would usually have to step in at some point to break it up.

In retrospect, I regret my abusive verbal assaults on my father, whom I tormented mercilessly. After a long day of dealing with teenagers just like me hour after hour, he would have to come home and face the personification of all his worst students. To make things worse, I made a mockery of everything that was important to him, sometimes, just to get a laugh out of my sisters. When I flunked history, I think that hurt him more than I will ever know. It was his favorite subject.

After dinner I would go over to my buddy Kevin’s house. He was kind of a loner. He owned his own car. It was a 1972 Grand Prix with a black, vinyl top, chrome wheels, and a big set of Firestones on the back. It was sky blue, with a metal flake finish and a 455 under the hood. Kevin looked sort of like a cross between a Greaser and a Freak. He had long, slicked back, greasy hair and a mustache, and he wore a black leather jacket with flare jeans and pointy toed black boots. You could say he had his own look.

We’d get a 12 pack, and drive around smokin’ bowls and drinkin’ cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sometimes, the boys in blue would pull us over, but they just made us empty our booze, dump our weed, and throw away our pipes and papers. Then, they’d tell us to get the hell out of there and never come back.

Once in a while, we would run into some of our compatriots. Like Dan Kristen, or Gerry Spinoza from Bitter Sweet Alley, a locally known band from the neighborhood. They had just pulled a lawn job over at Tracy Burrito’s house. Tracy was a self-proclaimed groupie, who alleged that she’d slept with David Bowie and dressed just like him. Her house was a constant target for vandalism. I don’t know if it was jealousy, contempt, or just something to do, but everybody wanted a piece of her.

At the end of the night, Kevin would drop me off at my house. I had to be real quiet, so that I didn’t wake my parents. I was already two hours past my curfew and if my sisters heard me, they’d turn me in the next day as if there was a $1000.00 reward.

Anyway, that was my world as pre-adolescent teenager during my formative years as a high school derelict. I drove around the neighborhood at night smoking pot and drinking beer. I skipped out of school whenever I could to hitchhike to the beach. I hustled newspapers and drugs to raise money for tickets to rock concerts, and I stole booze from liquor stores when I was supposed to be in catechism. In other words, I was every mother’s nightmare. I couldn’t imagine a life beyond this. I was a marijuana smoking, pill popping, beer guzzling, acid head, with absolutely no ambition in life. And those were my good points.

My sister Mary is the oldest of my younger siblings. Growing up, she and I were very close. In some ways we were alike, and in others we were quite different from each other. She is extremely intelligent and it was evident at an early age, that she would pursue a noble path towards a career related to her scholastic abilities. Like me, she had a hard time fitting in with the other kids in the neighborhood, because our interests were quite different than theirs. This was the basis for our camaraderie as we were growing up. We both drew and painted a lot, and we shared a common fascination with astronomy, geology, and the life sciences while other children were more interested in playing catch and hop scotch.

Ann, who is second in the order of my younger sisters, is very motivated. She always knew what she wanted, and would always figure out a way to reach her goals, even as a child. She has a strong sense of propriety and purpose. Her ability to visualize and organize has served her well in life. Being the third born in our family instilled a healthy competitiveness in her, which she has used to her advantage.

Sue is the youngest of my three sisters. I used to think of her as my baby sister. I recall her sitting on the handlebars of my bike, as I rode up the street to the Quik Pik party store to get some jaw breakers or a Frozen Coke. I’d share some candy with her, and tell her stories about the trouble I got into at school as long as she didn’t tell mom or dad.

My sisters and I were quite a handful for my parents. I was curious, and I had a propensity for getting into trouble. This was compounded by a rebellious streak that manifested itself more and more as I got older.

My mom is the quintessential matriarch. She is the beating heart of our family. She got us up in the darkness of morning, and fed us before school. She packed our lunches at night, and maintained an impeccably clean house. She nurtured us, and cared for us, and always made sure we had clean sheets.

For all of her strong points, there was one area that she struggled with. Because she had to feed a family of six on one teacher’s salary, our meals were prepared with canned or frozen foods. Mom would spend hours searching for coupons in local magazines and newspapers. She saved a lot of money, and we were able to thrive because of it. But, I never dreamed that eating could be an enjoyable experience. It was something you had to do to stay alive. It got in the way of having fun. It was a necessary evil.

My worst fears would come to haunt me on Fridays. In those days, Catholics weren’t allowed to eat meat on Fridays, so we were forced to consume fish sticks and canned asparagus. I would eat just about anything you put in front of me, but these two things were indigestible. When I tried to wash them down with milk, the stringy strands of asparagus would gag me, and I would run to the bathroom and vomit. The frozen fish filets gave me headaches and nausea, and I would spend hours just staring at my dinner until my mother finally took my plate away in disgust. I never understood how this could be considered food.

If this were the worst thing a child could endure, I’d say I had a pretty charmed life. My mother did love us with all of her heart.

My father was a complicated man. He had suffered a brutal childhood at the hands of an alcoholic father, whom he never talked about. As a result, he and his brothers all had anger issues which they struggled with all their lives. They could never live up to the unrealistic standards of a tyrannical hypocrite, who raised them with the back of his hand.

I know my dad had promised himself he would never be like his father. To his credit, he never struck us out of anger, or cursed at us. He was not afraid to show us affection, or tell us how much he loved us. He would never argue with our mother in front of us, and he treated her with respect and dignity. However, he was often a slave to his temper, and would yell and roar at us in a rage, if he felt like there was no other way to get his point across. I am ashamed to say, I did much to raise his ire and his blood pressure.

He was also a smoker. During the sixties everybody smoked. It was glamorized in the movies, and in all the fashion magazines. People smoked at work, in restaurants, at home, and in all public places inside or out. Although, there were a few random studies conducted, which revealed that smoking might lead to serious health problems, most everyone ignored the latest findings and dismissed them as being inconclusive.

My father smoked for most of his life. In the years following his death, my mother would regret that she didn’t force him to quit sooner than she did.

Other than smoking, my dad didn’t have any bad habits. He would drink socially on occasion, but never to the point of obnoxiousness or embarrassment. He was a creature of habit. He would come home every day around 4:00. Then he’d sit down on the couch and enjoy his favorite show, George Perot. With a can of Charles Chips between his legs, and a can of Hamm’s beer on the coffee table in front of him, he didn’t require much to be happy, except the comfort of his home and the love of his family.

When I was fourteen, it was time to get a job. My parents said I was too old to receive an allowance anymore, and suggested that I should seek work as a paperboy. So I got a paper route. I made enough money to buy records (and cigarettes) and go to movies, but it wasn’t enough to save up for a car. A year later, I decided to get an hourly job at a restaurant in the Mall called The Apple Core. This was my first experience with the world of dining.

The Apple Core was a family diner inside the Universal Mall that served a Coney Island style menu for lunch and dinner. I worked as a dishwasher in the back of the house. It was a lowly position, but it paid more than the newspaper business which I continued to do on the side. My boss was an Indian guy from New Delhi named Faraz.

Faraz was short and stocky. He wore thick, dark framed glasses, and spoke with a heavy accent. He was strict but fair, and a hard worker. He wasn’t afraid to jump in the kitchen and start cooking if it got real busy. He was always on my case, because I took a lot of cigarette breaks when I should’ve been scrubbing pans, or running dishes out to the side stands in the dining room.

I can still hear him saying, Look at you. You are smoking anoder cigalette! Dare is no coffee cups for de vaitresses and de vodor glasses are all duhtee!

There were many times when I felt ignored and underappreciated. I would watch the waitresses count their tips, as they giggled and gossiped. I knew they made a lot more money than I did, and I was a little jealous. I thought they were making fun of me behind my back.

I’d candidly say to myself under my breath, They’re not that much older than me, and they’re not any smarter. Why do they get to make all the cash, while I slave in the back, washing dishes and getting covered with rotting food and grease?

Once in a while I got a little sympathy from Jane, the hostess. She was a kind, sweet lady, who had a son in school the same age as me. I probably would have quit a lot sooner than I did, if it wasn’t for her words of encouragement from time to time.

But, I finally did quit. Working a part-time job and going to school proved to be more than I cared to deal with, so I hung up my apron and concentrated on graduating.

I remember graduation night as being a giant disappointment. It was pathetically depressing. Because of my lack of popularity and female companionship, I didn’t go to the prom. There were a lot of graduation parties planned after commencement, but I only went to a few.

Unfortunately, it rained all night. It was cold and the thunder and lightning were relentless. When Kevin came to pick me up, my friend Jim was already in the car. We drove around for a while, trying to figure out where to go and what to do, while it poured cats and dogs. We ended up going to a few dull, boring, house parties that were dick farms full of drunks and degenerates. I got home at about five AM. I was dejected, and my spirits were as damp as my jeans.

Is this it? I asked myself piteously, Is this all there is?

I felt like I was staring into a gaping abyss which had opened up like a giant crack in the earth ready to swallow me up. What do I do now? My entire social life had revolved around school. Now, there were no reference points, no places to meet, no girls to talk to, or things to talk about. To make things worse, a rumor of terrible consequence from the previous night began to spread. Phones started ringing all over the neighborhood. Then it hit the news.

Four boys died in a deadly car accident in Rochester Hills last night. The young men were between the ages of 17 and 18 years of age, and were believed to have been celebrating their last day at school, when the driver of the 1975 Trans Am they were riding in, lost control of the vehicle while trying to navigate a blind curve on Rochester Road, just south of 32 Mile. Police say the car left the road at an estimated seventy-five miles an hour, before coming to rest at the bottom of a deep ravine. Three bodies were recovered from the trees in the surrounding area, while the driver was found still trapped behind the wheel of his car. Neighbors say the brand new Trans Am was a graduation present from the boy’s mother and father. Authorities on the scene reported they found empty beer cans in the car. It is believed that alcohol played a role in this devastating tragedy.

And that was that. I guess I could say I knew them as schoolmates. We went to the same classes, and I talked to them while standing in line at the cafeteria, but I wasn’t really close to them. It was just the fact that one day they were here, and the next they were gone. It reminded me of my own mortality and how vulnerable I was in this fragile world we live in.

I never went to any of my class reunions, never went to any alumni parties, or even bought a yearbook. I lost touch with all the people that I had thought were my best friends. It’s funny how life is sometimes.

After the shock wore off, I began to plan my future. I was out of high school now, and I would have to start thinking about becoming more independent. I needed my own car, and more spending money to support my increasingly expensive habits, and I had to start thinking about moving out of the house.

My parents were already dropping hints about leaving the nest. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they could no longer tolerate my reckless lifestyle. I had to explore my options.

Although, I had entertained the thought of going to college, I knew it was an unrealistic goal for someone with my eyesight. In those days, computers didn’t exist the way that we know them today. There were no lap tops, just those giant IBM machines, with the big reels that slowly turned ’round and ’round, like little electronic windmills. You’d see them in science fiction movies. They had hundreds of blinking lights, and switches, and knobs, and they looked really complicated.

There wasn’t Microsoft Word or Excel. All homework had to be written, or typed on a typewriter. If you had to do a research paper, you went to the library. You had to find your information in books, and study in silence. There was no Internet, or websites, or flash drives.

The reading requirements were substantial. I couldn’t read a book with small print for more than ten minutes without suffering from acute eye strain, and I had a hard time with typing for the same reason. The demands that higher education would place upon me were more than I could reasonably be expected to cope with.

I was already having troubles with my ability to drive a car. Because of my vision, I’d already gotten into a few fender benders. This would be a problem that would continue to plague me for many years to come. The old Dart was starting to show signs of premature aging as a result of my sight, or lack of it.

That left me with few options. I realized that without skills or training, I would have to find a job that would allow me to accrue benefits and seniority over time. Hopefully, it would be enough to translate into a meaningful retirement package for my later years. They would have to have a union, to insure that I received regular pay increases over the term of my employment, in order to offset the cost of living, and reward my loyalty to the company. These would all be mandatory requirements. I would follow the model of my fellow graduates, who in turn, would follow the example of the previous generation, to secure their prosperity for the future.

It was 1975 and work was easy enough to find. I took a job at Coreck Manufacturing. Not exactly an industrial giant, but one of the largest stamping plants in the area servicing the Big Three. It was a union shop, and it seemed like a good place to start.

I hired in as a press operator. It paid $3.75 an hour. That was a lot more than the $10.00-$15.00 a week I was making as a paperboy. It was a forty hour schedule. Eight hours a day, with two fifteen minute breaks and a half hour for lunch. We got weekends off, with paid holidays and sick days. That was a $150.00 a week before taxes.

It seemed like there was plenty of room for advancement. Maybe, if I worked there long enough, I could be making twelve dollars an hour as a fork lift driver, or a foreman. I could work overtime and double-time, and make a whole bunch of money!

I figured this was a good deal. It was close to home, and all I had to do was get up at six in the morning and get to work by seven. Everything looked so easy. I thought I had it made.

I showed up for my first day of work at seven o’clock sharp. I punched my card, and filled out the necessary paperwork in the supervisor’s office. Then, Bob the foreman, gave me a pair of work gloves and protective glasses, and assigned me to a press. There was a bar on a stand with two buttons on it. A red one, and a green one.

This here green button starts the cycle for the press, Bob said, this red one stops the press. You push that one in case of an emergency.

What kind of an emergency? I asked.

Like, if someone gets their arms or legs caught in there, he said, with a dry smile. You’ll be needin’ to put this thing on, he said, handing me a hair net. That’s so that your hair don’t get caught in a lathe, or a drill press. You don’t wan’na know what can happen because of that. It’ll rip your face off or worse. That was the extent of my formal training.

I conjured up an image too horrible to describe, as I pushed my shoulder length hair up underneath the black web. I’ve always had some sort of a mane growing down my neck as long as I can remember. I started wearing it that way in junior high school. It was real thick, and wavy, and hard to tame. I wished I had long, shiny, straight hair like Gregg Allman, or Edgar Winter. But instead, I looked more like Joe Cocker. In spite of my bushy appearance, I would keep my ponytail until I was well into my thirties.

On the other side of the press was an older lady in her early to mid-thirties. It was hard to tell her age because she looked a little tired, like she’d suffered from a hard life.

This is Sherry. You’ll be workin’ with her today. Now Sherry, You take it easy on ‘ol Keith here. He’s just a pup and it’s his first day on the job. With that being said, he walked away and left us to the task at hand.

You do the unloading and I’ll feed the press, she said. Don’t work too fast. We only need to do 60 pieces an hour. That’s our union quota. If we make too many, they might up it 70. We don’t want that. She was almost screaming over the sound of a big Cleveland punch press. This mechanical behemoth was slamming out quarter panels like they were made out of tin foil.

The noise level was deafening. Everyone was yelling all the time. Even during lunch, after the presses stopped, people still kept hollering at each other as if the machines were still pounding away.

You ever work in a union house before? She asked.

No, I said, Why?

Just askin’. You better stick with me until you know your way around here a little better, she offered. There’s a few things you ought ‘a know.

Sherry was a little on the skinny side, but still curvy. She stood about five foot six in tennis shoes, and she kept her black, greasy hair in a bob. She always wore tight, bell bottom jeans, and a tie-died T-shirt with a leather belt. Once in a while, she’d wear a baseball cap. Her teeth were conspicuously crooked, and she had a little overbite. She had thin lips, and a small nose, and she wore eye liner every day. It might be said that she lacked polish and refinement, but she kept a good heart inside her. I heard her say she had a couple of kids and a husband, though she never talked about them. I guess you could say, in terms of reference points, she was the best looking girl on the shop floor. Unfortunately, that wasn’t saying much.

All the foxes were in the front offices. Those were Mr. Coreck’s girls and they were off limits. Once in a while you’d see one pop her head out the door to give someone an invoice, or get a signature or something, but they wouldn’t give us the time of day. We were factory rats.

When the horn sounded for first break, Sherry and I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. She gave me a quick rundown of who’s who, and what to look out for.

That’s Jack, he’s the shop steward. He’s the guy you talk to if you got any problems with management. And that’s Bill, she continued. He’s the super. He’s the one you got’ta look out for. He’s always sneakin’ around, lookin’ to catch someone breakin’ the rules. He’s got such a hard on for the union, and then she laughed. "One time he caught Bob takin’ a piss outside the back door, and he suspended his bathroom privileges for the rest of the year. The poor guy