I Swear Its True

By Gerry Shaltz

I Swear Its True

by Gerry Shaltz

I Love It!!! I Absolutely Love It!!!

Entertaining.... A Surprise in Every Section!!!

Aaron Klein

You should read this book! Its Rare! Its Real! Its Rich with real-life experiences from a great story teller. Ive known Gerry for 30+ years, and I can also ....Swear it is True!

Mike West

I Swear Its True, is Positively Riveting! Who knew expert businessman and entrepreneur, Gerry Shaltz could demand, claim and capture our attention with such unabashed, electrifying and candid work of literature!? These pages reveal some delightful and unexpected secrets about Gerrys life.

Whether in Africa, Hollywood or Baker, California, these remarkable episodes of Gerrys fascinating experiences Lure from brawls and bullies, to prom night and Paul Newman. They Teach from wealth and ruin, to gambling addiction and victorious recovery. They Enlighten As elephants model the importance of community and team-work. They Encourage As a defiant young warthog fights to live, despite defeat. Whether cleverly intentional or genius overflow, Gerry clearly coaches us in the arts of Loving, Learning, Growing, Thriving, Forgiving, Accepting and Releasing.

From its explosive start, to the heart-wrenching final pages, some may wonder in awe, Is it REALLY TRUE? But all who dare take this ride will cherish a seat on his courageous, insightful and passionate journey of self-exploration. Still others will simply surrender and ask, Where to next, Gerry?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496920645

Gerry Shaltz

Gerry Shaltz introduces his first book, The DNA of Selling, to share the wealth of knowledge he has gained over many years. His experience in sales, managing, training, and lecturing has earned him much deserved respect in the business community. Gerry is an entrepreneur and multi-faceted businessman. He has a refreshing awareness and uncommon wisdom that he has shared in lectures and workshops with graduating MBAs at major universities, companies, and business organizations. In addition to his keen understanding of selling and managing salespeople, he has been highly successful working with start-up companies. He is the co-founder and an officer of Seismic Warning Systems, Inc., a company that has developed the world’s leading technology for early warning earthquake systems. He also served on the board of a Beta Group company, Beta Frames, LLC. The author’s success evidences his ability to use his proven methods, instincts, skills, and gifts to build lasting relationships with clients while doing what he truly loves. Mr. Shaltz has never wavered in his passion for selling and for teaching others how to succeed at selling. To contact Gerry Shaltz: [e-mail] To purchase additional copies: [e-mail]

Book preview

THE EARLY YEARS

1

Enter Joe

I Was Nine Years Old when I began watching the mechanic’s Garage for my stepfather, Joe, while he had dinner in our makeshift Living quarters. A car suddenly entered the garage from the highway and came to an abrupt stop half way into the work area. Two men got out. The driver immediately jumped back into the car and started backing up. His passenger ran around to the driver’s side and smashed his fist into the window (safety glass wasn’t available then). The car stopped abruptly, the driver slid out, and picked up a tire iron. The passenger, his right hand dripping with blood, grabbed a large wrench as they began slowly circling each other around the car.

I couldn’t move. Fear had me frozen in place. It must have been the instinct for survival that finally jolted me out the back door. I ran as fast as I could across the highway yelling hysterically for Joe. He came outside and met me steps from our front door. Out of breath and scared as hell, I told him what was happening. He rushed back into the house and out again seconds later. He was holding his baseball cap in his right hand. We ran back across the highway to the garage. They were still circling each other as we arrived.

I hadn’t noticed the pistol in Joe’s left hand until he placed his cap, holding it by the bill, in front of the gun with his right hand. The gun was hidden from their view behind the cap. I was one step behind him and slightly to his left. I saw the entire scene from a position of safety. Taking full command, he said, I have a gun here. I want you both to get into the car and leave right now, or I’ll blow your fucking heads off. Both men were motionless as their eyes darted from the cap to Joe’s face and back again, considering their options, measuring the veracity of his words.

I’m certain that they never knew if he was really holding a gun. It was a .32 revolver, loaded and cocked. I said now! he commanded in a louder tone. They quickly got into the car, backed out, and were gone.

Awestruck, I had just witnessed a real, live scene that will stay with me for the remainder of my life. The Lone Ranger couldn’t have done better. I asked Joe why he hid the gun behind his cap.

He said that he didn’t want them to know in which direction he was pointing the barrel. They were standing about eight feet apart. He had stripped them of any edge to rush him. Months later, I asked him if he would have shot them if they had refused to leave when he commanded. He didn’t answer. It was whispered within the family that he had once shot a man and did time in prison for it.

The year was 1947; the place, Baker, California. Not to be confused with Bakersfield, it sits in the Mojave Desert, ninety-two miles west of Las Vegas, sixty-four miles east of Barstow, the turnoff to Death Valley. Population: 735 as of 2010. Highway 91 intersected the little town then. It is now Baker Boulevard and runs parallel to Interstate 95, the route from Southern California to the Sin City.

The Baker Inn stood on the East side of town, north of historic Highway 91. It consisted of a mechanics garage, a four pump Texaco gas station, a twelve unit motel, and a restaurant that Joe built with his own hands and without architectural plans. Flagstone pillars separated large glass windows. It was known as The Baker Inn and no longer exists. Bob’s Big Boy currently occupies the foot print of the old Baker Inn.

Our family of four lived in a make-shift house converted from three adjoining motel rooms. Four additional motel rental units were separated by a small building that contained men and women’s outside restrooms, not much more than an upgraded outhouse.

It provided a shower for the convenience of the guests and our family. These units didn’t have individual bathrooms. The four-unit motel across the highway was the deluxe upgrade, each room had a bathroom and shower. Each room had a water cooled, air conditioner unit. Baker is still a quick stop to and from Las Vegas.

Joe was a small man with square shoulders, a deep voice and dark, piercing, pistol-like eyes. He had a steely and commanding presence developed at a young age; his defense against school bullies. Joe rarely smiled or took a backward step. He did things his own way, usually by himself. He was also a bigot, a bully, and my stepfather. I was deathly afraid of him. My childhood was like walking a high-wire without a net.

2

Enter Sammy

J oe Ostrenger and Samuel Shaltz were best friends . They met in Palm Springs around 1936 (before I was born) and worked together on construction projects. Sammy was outgoing, happy-go-lucky and playful.

Joe was inward, industrious and serious. Each had personality characteristics that the other lacked, a good match for two single guys. Joe was a loner. He was a hard worker with gifted hands and a genius for building homes and various commercial structures. He had a sixth grade education, yet, he earned a great deal of money in those days developing local building projects in and around Palm Springs.

He carried a fat roll of cash in his shirt pocket and was generous with his friend, Sammy Shaltz, who rarely had more than a few coins jingling in his pockets.

Sammy, five feet two inches, good looking, bold and spontaneous, was a natural comedian; a virtual magnet for the ladies. Joe was shy, yet smart enough to string along with Sammy who provided plenty of female introductions; they had fun and partied hard.

3

Enter Rachel

M y Mother-To-Be, Rachel (Rae) Shedlo , was a New Yorker who lived through the Great Depression of the Twenties. She met Sammy during a trip to California to visit her father, Harry Shedlo, who owned a small, retail radio and bicycle store in Santa Monica. She became bored after a few days hanging around with her father and decided to attend a dance being held on the Santa Monica Pier.

Petite and attractive at exactly five feet, she quickly caught Sammy’s eye and he asked her to dance. She had studied ballet as a teenager and was a beautiful, graceful dancer. Sammy was a natural. The two glided flawlessly across the floor as one, moving together in unison as if they had been practicing for years. The crowd began to part, making room for the couple who quickly took command of the entire dance floor. These were the magical moments; the beginning of a hot romance between the two young lovers.

They married in 1937. I was born a year later. I have a few wonderful memories of him when I was around the age of three. He would make me laugh with his silly, slapstick humor. An affectionate father, he’d frequently hug and kiss me. I adored him.

He preferred to work out with the muscle guys at Santa Monica beach while my mother, Rae, waited on tables to keep the wolf from their door. She finally convinced him to take a sales job with National Cash Register and he quickly became the number one hitter on the sales team. Prospects were looking good until he threw his boss through a plate glass window during a heated argument. Mom told me that my father’s supervisor spat out several hateful, ethnic slurs before my father launched him through the glass and onto the sidewalk. Sammy was a fun-loving guy with an explosive dark side.

Their cupboards were bare; they were two months behind on the rent. Joe came to the rescue with bags of groceries, money for rent, and some extra cash for survival. My mother was more than impressed. An affair between them ensued; Sammy was out and on his way back to the East Coast where he had a large family. Joe and my mother soon married after she got a quickie divorce in Reno.

I never saw or heard from my father again with the exception of one letter he sent me. His letter contained words that deeply touched me as a child of seven years. It read that he was sending his love to me each day on a cloud; Just look upward at the sky and you’ll see the one carrying my love. I remember frequently gazing at the clouds and wondering which one was carrying his love.

He died in Philadelphia in 1950 when I was twelve years old. I didn’t fully realize the huge impact that being abandoned by my father had on my life until I reached my twenties. I had a veritable mountain of hurt and anger harbored inside me, of which I had no conscious awareness. It finally erupted like an exploding volcano during a therapy session.

Joe was cold, stern and distant; he was incapable of replacing the warmth and affection of my father. I can’t remember Joe ever touching me except for a hard slap in the face for a minor infraction. He never referred to me by my name; I was the kid. Joe died in his own arms in 1998 in a Las Vegas hospital. In retrospect, Sammy was a flake. He rarely sent the promised child support, (twenty dollars a month) and made no other efforts to see or to contact me. Out of sight, out of mind; he was a child who never grew up. I forgave him when I came to realize that resentment is useless. I’m certain that he’d had his own share of battles to fight.

BACK IN BAKER

4

Enter Barney

B arney Was A Monkey. Mr. and Mrs. Curtis owned the Death Valley Inn on the west side of town. Barney was their pet. He had free reign of their entire property which consisted of a gas station, a café and their home that was situated in back of the business. Mrs. Curtis was a kindly person.

I would ride my bike to their café every school day for lunch. It only took five or six minutes to make the trip. My regular hamburger, piece of apricot pie and a glass of milk were always waiting for me when I entered the café.

Barney knew I was coming before he could see me. He would be swinging on the drapes in the front window of their house in anticipation as I approached. Mrs. Curtis would open the front door for him. Barney, darting out, would scoop up a handful of meal from the pie tin sitting on the front step and place it into his mouth. He would climb up my bike onto my right shoulder in one fluid motion and we were off for his favorite ride. All around the property we would go as he held clumps of my hair tightly in each little hand. He’d start nibbling on my right ear when the ride was over. I always gave my little friend a few extra minutes. He was off and running before I could get the kick stand down.

He was constantly in motion, getting into trouble. He knew few boundaries. Barney would follow guests into the café. There was a shuffleboard inside and sometimes he’d take a flying run at it, jump onto the board sliding on his little butt from one end to the other. To the amusement of the patrons, he’d repeat this over and over again like a kid enthralled by his own