I didn't start buying my own clothes until I was 19 years old. By then, I had my first job, I had a couple of bucks in my pocket, and I bought my first pair of Levi jeans: seven and a half dollars.
My mother graciously gave me $750 to make the trip cross country from Pennsylvania to California. I think she figured I would run out of money quickly and come home with my tail between my legs, begging for her help. It did not work out that way.
My first job in California -- I was a salesman at Bob Gamble’s Camera Store on Melrose Ave. in Hollywood. They had an excellent reputation among the local camera stores and provided supplies for many of the local high schools and colleges. Their salespeople were somewhat refined and of a class definitely, most definitely, above me.
My hair down to my shoulders did not go over very well with the staff, but because I had such an excellent background in photography they were able to look the other way. I had to fill in some blanks in my wardrobe -- it was required that I wear a tie Monday through Thursday. At that point in my life I didn't own one so I took a ride up to Hollywood Blvd. and found a really sleazy little store to shop in. My father had been out of the picture for several years and was overseas during my stint in high school, so the things that a father would teach his son (like shaving and tying a tie) were absent from my curriculum.
Since that was the case, i bought a clip on tie, which Klaus, my boss spotted right away. He yanked it off my neck and waved it around in the air so that all of the other employees could see. Embarrassed and humiliated, I just stood there and said nothing. I went out that evening, bought a real tie, and figured out how to maneuver it in and out and roundabout so that it looked proper around my neck.
Klaus was 40, I was 24, and he did his best to continue to embarrass and humiliate me at every opportunity. His diminutive five-foot-four-inch height probably played a part in the drama -- but I was not a psychologist, yet.
There were two gay guys working in the shipping department in the rear of the store. I found them to be friendly and kind. They knew that I was heterosexual; and never made a move on me. That bought a lot of respect from my neck of the woods.
One of them invited me over to his apartment for dinner one evening. He made magnificent spaghetti and meatballs which I heartily enjoyed. The next day of course, the buzz around the shop was about our dinner together, and what we supposedly had for dessert, if you get my drift.
By now the embarrassment had begun to morph into anger, but I could not say anything because Klaus was my boss. My only means of transportation at the time was my Honda 305, which was towed behind Phyllis' Camaro for the trip West. I even rode the motorcycle to work in the rain, more to emphasize my manhood than anything else. Unfortunately, coming into work sopping wet did not speak well to my manliness.
If I purchased anything during lunch hour, I would return with a bag that I would leave in the back on one of the counters. Klaus thought nothing of rummaging through my personal items. I suspect he wanted to make sure I wasn't stealing anything from the store. Again, this was his way to put me in my place so that I understood who was running the show.
One day I realized that I needed some socks so I headed back up to the seedy little store on Hollywood Blvd. to do a little shopping after lunch. The only thing they had there was an unusual form of footwear called “tube socks.” The image that this conjures up is accurate. The socks looked like a long white tube, formless and shapeless, not resembling a normal sock at all. When Klaus found the socks in my shopping bag he pulled them out and brought them to the front of the store for everyone to see.
He asked me if I followed the instructions on the package. I was stumped. What kind of instructions would a pair of socks have? Yet, to my surprise, and chagrin, there in big bold letters it said:
ROTATE ONE QUARTER TURN WITH EACH DAY’S USE
We all doubled over with laughter. The absurd thought of wearing the same pair of socks for four days, with a 90-degree rotation each morning gave me the same sensation as if my hot dog had slipped out of the bun and hit the ground. Even if I didn’t violate the ‘three second’ rule, I would not be sliding the dog back into the bun and continuing my lunch.
“No”, I said to Klaus vehemently, “I don’t wear my socks more than one day.”
Eventually, he calmed down. When he saw my photography, when he saw how serious and dedicated I was to what I was doing, he developed some respect, which I was very grateful for. The tube socks didn't last long. They were uncomfortable to wear, but they had a positive effect on me. I upped my game, I went to shop at better stores, and I took more seriously the task of finding a decent pair of socks.
Even the smallest headaches in life can turn into valuable lessons. To this day, I get a chuckle when I think about the instructions on those tube socks.
I would have liked to meet people that took those instructions seriously, that followed them to the letter.
I would have liked to party with those people…
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