Editor’s Note: This is Part II of Phil’s three-part sequel to his previous Work-Bites series centering on his dangerous days scratching out a living as a New York City cabbie. Read Part I of the sequel here.  

Part II – Still Desperate for Work

I resumed aggressively searching help wanted sections in newspapers for an employer not likely to require background checks, and finally found an ad for a job soliciting magazine subscriptions by phone, located on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. I called and was told to report for work that afternoon at 4 p.m.

I exited the subway at DeKalb Avenue, entered a four-story building, rode the elevator to the top floor and entered a rectangular office with ten people sitting in a row of cubicles with phones. The owner handed me a stack of cold-call documents, a list of magazines offered, and sales pitch guidelines.

“How much do I get paid?” I asked.

“You only get a commission when you sell. Take that seat over there and get to work.”

I sat down and began making calls, feeling embarrassed to disturb housewives busy preparing or serving dinner. After two frustrating hours I’d earned no money and remembered I had a call scheduled with my editor.  I explained my prior commitment to the owner and asked if I could briefly use my phone for this purpose.

“Absolutely not!” he growled. “These phones are for work only!”

“I respect that,” I said, remaining calm, “but I’m gonna have to go outside and find a pay phone. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“No one leaves their desk during working hours!” he said with irritation. “This job has got to be the most important thing in your life! Now, get back to making calls.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I told him. “Publishing in a magazine is a hell of a lot more important to me than selling them. I need to make this call.”

“How many times do I have to make it clear: No one leaves this office or uses their phone for personal business!!”

“I understand perfectly,” I said, rising from my chair and gathering my work materials. I slowly walked toward the door, casually scattering the papers to either side as the owner screamed, “Get back here now and pick those up! Get back here, I say!” My pace didn’t quicken and I exited with piles of documents strewn on both sides of the aisle. The man continued ranting as I stood waiting for the elevator.

I awoke the next morning feeling satisfied at having put another arrogant moron in his place—but no more prosperous. I had a close friend named Frank who I’d met when he was eighteen and recently released from several years in reform school. He was an interesting example of thug turned hipster; very much a ladies’ man, but when wounded in love, reverted back to prison sexuality and became involved with transvestites.

Frank was working as a dish washer in a club beneath the notorious Broadway Central Hotel, located where Broadway curves to the east half a mile south of the Village. The building was ten stories tall with hundreds of rooms, occupied by drug addicts, small-time criminals, hookers and pimps. An unsuspecting person wandering the hallways could easily get their throat cut. But the club, which offered dinner, drinks and live music had a separate entrance and maintained a discreet distance from the world above. Employees were paid in cash and they needed a dish washer on weekends.

Within several days I was standing at a sink filled with pots and dishes, as terrible music blared through the wall. But while the workflow was steady there was little supervision and compensation included a free dinner from the menu.

With sixteen weekly hours of regular employment added to my meager cash flow, I was able to further embellish my diet of rice and lentils with several street vendor hot dogs per week, plus all you could eat spaghetti lunches for a dollar. This might sound like little cause for celebration, but everything is relative. Sleeping under a roof and eating daily is a dream millions of people dare not hope for.

However, my return to culinary fulfillment continued to evolve. I received a call from my editor informing me of a new venue hosting monthly performances by up-and-coming recording artists seeking media exposure. All reporters from the New York press were invited, and as a magazine contributor, that included me. I had my name added to the guest list and while I had no interest in writing music reviews, it seemed like a good opportunity to make connections.

A week later, I entered a large, nicely decorated auditorium, surrounded on two sides by an elaborate buffet, in the company of impeccably dressed writers from Rolling Stone and the Village Voice, exuding the snobbish confidence of having made it. Standing among them in my torn jeans and faded army jacket, I was clearly a fish out of water. My thoughts quickly shifted from networking to feasting. I overfilled my plate with shrimp cocktail, corned beef, and the first decent salad I’d eaten for a year. As my well-fed colleagues nibbled and chatted, I emptied my plate and returned for seconds. Rather than compromise my welcome to future banquets, I then sat through an hour of loud music with terrible lyrics.

I was relaxing in the hotel’s communal area one afternoon, talking with friends and watching the small television attached to the wall, when the owners stopped by. After a few minutes, Morris asked me to step into the hallway.

“Al isn’t working out for us as manager,” he told me. “He’s lazy, forgets things, and frankly doesn’t cut a very good image. We’d like you to take his place.”

I was so caught off guard that it took me a moment to gather my wits. “I very much appreciate the offer, but if you don’t mind my asking, why me?”

“You’re smart, sober, and we think trustworthy. Most of our transactions are in cash and we’d need you to keep the books and give us an honest accounting.”

This was starting to feel real. I looked him in the eye and replied, “Call me quaint and old fashioned, but when I give my word, I always keep it.”

We shook hands and the deal was made. I’d start the following Monday, earning $200 per week along with free rent. The best double room, located on the second floor, had recently become available and it was mine to live in.

I relocated the next day, which wasn’t much of a chore as all I owned was a guitar, typewriter, and small knapsack of clothing. The room contained a large wooden loft with wide mattresses on the top and bottom, built by some long-forgotten guest. The larger open space was carpeted and included the unimagined amenities of a small refrigerator, sink, and a window actually looking out at the world.

Several months earlier, I’d dated a Canadian girl named Soozie who was in New York visiting relatives. We’d developed a close bond and often spoke on the phone. This didn’t constitute the financial burden one might imagine during the days when AT&T charged exorbitant long distance rates. Every year the phone monopoly issued subscribers a new credit card number for expensive calls that would show up on their next bill. As this was the pre-computer age, every number was constructed with a convoluted code, allowing operators to identify callers trying to game the system.

But people seriously plugged into the street could obtain the yearly code and construct their own fake number. All one had to do was call the operator and say in a dignified voice, “I’d like to place a credit card call please,” and soon be talking for free. Soozie was eighteen and like some girls who’ve grown up in the narrow world of upper-middle class comfort, she was fascinated and enamored by tales of street life.

I suddenly had a large enough room and decent income. “Wanna come down here and live with me?” I asked on impulse.

“How soon?”

“Give me a couple of weeks to get settled into my new job.”

I felt bad for Rosalie who was about to be discarded in favor of someone new. I figured the best way to handle it was to talk to her beforehand. She took it in stride, like the veteran player she was.

“Wanna do it one more time,” she asked, tilting her head with a smile.

“Sure, why not.”

Part III - Managing a Cheap Hotel