Going Public

There are guys sit there in the middle of Lincoln Financial Field, during a game, and not care one bit…there they would be, in all their glory, cheering on the team, happy to have such a great seat, right on the field and did not have to miss any part of the action!

I am not one of these guys! 

I am much more private in regard to these personal matters, and have never been a fan of using public facilities to participate in more focused activities. I think they are nasty, and I don’t enjoy over-sharing with others, like strangers and co-workers. This includes my family and my Significant Other – some things need to remain mysterious, even in a long-term relationship!

If it’s a routine trip, where I can remain standing, I am okay with using a public restroom. However, if it requires me to take a seat, I am less than enthusiastic. If possible, I usually wait until I get home, or at least at a more suitable location.

This has tended to be problematic, especially when on a long road-trip, like when driving out to South Dakota or down to Florida. I got exposed to many gas station restrooms during these trips, and one that was still segregated in 1971…where I drank out of the ‘wrong’ water fountain because I was a kid and it was lower to the ground.

The water tasted just fine.

This quirk of mine was also a problem at Summer Camp, where the facilities were cleaned by High School and College students making some summer cash, and more interested in hanging out with their friends once work was done! With dirty cement floors, half-cleaned utilities, and open to insects, the worst part was having the other kids know exactly what was going on in the stalls! This is why I did my best to find some alone time!

At camp our time was structured, and to have the bathroom all to myself, I’d have to sneak off during free-time, when everyone else was playing softball or exploring the woods. I would hope that no one else had the same idea, and that it was relatively clean…although there were weeks when these opportunities only presented themselves once or twice, and I only found relief when I made it home!

When I went camping with my family, if there was one available, I could sneak over to the bath-house later in the evening, or early in the morning, and would usually have the place to myself, though it was still gross, at least I was alone.

However, when we went camping in the Maine woods, I was presented with another challenge: having to use an outhouse!

I have often thought that I would not have lived long if I had been born 100 years earlier, because outhouses are really disgusting: the smell, the dirt, the bugs…and did I mention the smell?

During that week in Maine there was no other choice! I was reluctant to use the outhouse to begin with, and then my brother Pete warned me to be careful because that the pit might have raccoons living in it. When he saw that this scared me (I was 7) he added that it was probably okay, because the snakes might have eaten them all!

I became very close to nature that week, and am still surprised that I didn’t wind up with a case of poison ivy!

However, there was one outhouse that I was okay with…because I helped to build it!

Some friends had a place in Massachusetts, it was basically half of an old house. The previous owner was going to add an addition, but for some reason the project was abandoned. This left the house without adequate bathroom facilities (if it ever had them) so on our first visit, I got to help dig the hole and build the privy out of logs! I did not mind using that one…at least when it was new!

While I am not sure where my aversion to public toilets came from, a contributing factor could be trauma suffered as a young child.

When I was very little (preschool age) my friends and I would tag along with our mothers on their shopping trips. We’d often get lunch out of the deal, and get to play on the coin operated rides outside of the Acme, as well as just generally get into trouble.

After drinking lots of soda, the inevitable would occur, and we’d have to visit the facilities. Stores like Korevettes or Two Guys had pay toilets, so our mothers would give us each a dime; however, since we wanted to keep the money for candy, we would usually slide underneath the stall doors!

We thought we were so clever, and we got away with it, we were little kids, so no one really cared. This plane worked out just fine…until it did not!

The one time that this plan did not work out so well led to some ‘unfortunate’ consequences and it was the last time I ever tried defraud the pay-toilet industry.

I am sure that this incident had a negative impact on my opinion of public restrooms, but this is not the only reason, there were other unpleasant events that I have encountered during my time here on earth.

In fact, there are some bathrooms I would not even use in a dire emergency.

The facilities at the Staten Island Ferry terminals and the Port Authority are atrocious. People actually live in some of the stalls! And then there were the bar bathrooms that were equally horrific! Most of these were unisex and only had room for one person and the cockroaches, but this did not stop me from using the back of the tank to do lines of cocaine!

One of the worst bar bathrooms I ever encounter was at Studio 54. I went there for a work event, the club was a shadow of what it used to be, and on its last legs! The signs denoting gender were largely ignored, which was understandable because the bathrooms no longer had any doors, and neither did the stalls! Everything was sticky, and there were all sorts of inappropriate activities going on in there!

Unfortunately, there are very few public facilities in New York City, this along with being under the influence of drugs and alcohol led to some choices that were not very well thought out.

The fact that this is no longer an issue is another gift of Sobriety, it is amazing how that solved so many of life’s nuisances.

However, there are some nicer public restrooms in the city, like the big one in Times Square (my has THAT area changed) and two spots with very nice facilities are in 30 Rockefeller Center  and the Empire State Building (although these can be hard to find), and the higher-priced mid-town hotels have even nicer facilities…these are actually tolerable!

And before you ask: I have never used the facilities in Trump Tower, although I was once briefly in the lobby, and thought I saw a bad comb-over through the crowd, but I may have been mistaken.

Train stations, museums, shopping malls, and retail stores usually have tolerable facilities; however, I am sure that many of these now have cameras in them, for security reasons. This assumption is based on anecdotal evidence provided by certain associates who have availed themselves of the restrooms at Walmart, only to have been confronted by store security upon exiting, and then invited to chat with representatives of local law enforcement.

The acceptability of work bathrooms can be a toss-up.

Most are fairly well maintained, but I have been in some where the sinks turned into fountains, and the floor was always wet with trash on the floors. There were stalls were coated with filth and graffiti, and many that were clean in the morning, but a disaster by noon.

Once, when I worked in an old office building in Lower Manhattan, one of the ‘units’ in the Men’s Room had a plumbing issue that lasted for months, unfortunately, its integrity had been ‘compromised’ prior to being closed off. The stall was sealed with tape and plastic, but the oblivious (or curious) found their way inside, and the conditions found inside were very troubling. The bathroom also smelled terrible and there were flies but it seemed that the roaches and rats were too grossed out and stayed away.

Fortunately, I had networked my way into the ‘executive’ facilities on the next floor up. These were not all that much nicer, but they were cleaner and did not stink as much. Our Men’s room remained unusable for several months, until a VP walked into it, and walked right out, that a cleaning crew and a plumber were called in.

Speaking of which, it is important that we recognize those brave people who are tasked with keeping these bathrooms clean.

To this day, although I am a Middle-Aged man, with many years Sober, who has been married, divorced, raised a child, held many jobs and earned two degrees, I am still reluctant to take full advantage of public facilities…and while it can be problematic at times (and silly), I can live with it. I still find them gross, and still feel that somethings just don’t need to be shared with the world (which makes it writing this essay a bit of a contradiction).

However, this is one thing that all people have in common, no matter who we are, what our political or spiritual beliefs are, or where we are from, we all need clean water to drink, food to eat, and, at some point, we all will need use the bathroom, and often these are public facilities!

These are the great common denominators in our humanity: what Maslow referred to as the Hierarchy of Needs:

As humans we also share one more thing: that we all have our quirks, yet we are still loved, which meets the important need of companionship…for most of all, we need each other!

The fact that we can find love and acceptance in spite of ourselves says something about the people in our lives. For they put up with our quirks, and more annoying tendencies, but they still care for us!

And this is what really matters: for while I know that using a public restroom will most likely not be the end of me, losing these people that I care for, and who care for me very well could be.

 

Uncovering Ghosts

 

I have been scraping a lot of paint recently…very old paint!

My house is about 109 years old, a townhouse, with thick plaster walls. My kitchen has needed painting for a long time now (actually it needs a whole remodel, but I am not well-to-do). I kept putting it off due to a lack of financial security and procrastination! However, after a leaky pipe in the bathroom caused part of the ceiling to fall onto the floor, I decided that I should take care of some previous water damage, from when the hot-water heating system failed.

So, after fixing the ceiling, I began to scrape away at the peeling paint in order to repair the walls prior to putting a nice new coat of paint on my old kitchen.

As I scraped the paint started coming off in sheets! At first, I thought that it might have been ancient wall paper, which had been covered up, but as I looked at the debris, I saw it was all paint. Then, I realized that because the house was so old, that I might be dealing with lead paint!

I put on my mask and gloves and continued to scrape away, and as I did, I could see traces of every coat of paint that had ever been on those old plaster walls. Although it was yellow when I bought the house, and I painted it blue, the evidence tells me that the kitchen has been some shade of green throughout much of its history!

Some were lighter shades, others were more avocado (maybe from the 70’s?), one shade was very pale, and one of the oldest layers, deeply embedded in the cracks, appears to have been a very dark green! As it is a rowhome, with limited light, I can imagine that this made the kitchen seem very dark when the house was nearly new!

As I worked, I found that there had been vent hole cut into one of the walls, as if there was a stove or a dryer in the corner, opposite from where the gas oven is now. The circle has been filled in with plaster and I never would have seen it if I was not doing the prep-work! It is another piece of the story.

The bare plaster walls tell that story in a way that drywall never could, as it is so impermanent, so easily replaceable. The plaster is a part of the house, going back to the time before anyone lived there, when it was still wet, the wood unpainted, the floors still oozing sap, and sawdust hung in the air!

At that time, having indoor plumbing would have been a novelty, in fact one neighbor’s privy is still standing (although it is no longer used – thank God). The huge Maple that is now in the backyard was probably just a sapling (if it existed at all), the air was cleaner (or maybe not as coal was the main source of heat, and horses the main form of transportation), the world wars were in the future and the Titanic was still under construction in Ireland.

This is why I like living in an old house, not only does it have a history, but it has lived through history!

It is a place filled with ghosts. Not necessarily the ephemeral spirits of the departed (though sometimes…) but reminders of the lives that have been lived within its walls since 1910, like the old paint, the cracked plaster, and signs of old stove pipes and water leaks…this is what gives the house character and warmth.

And makes it haunted.

With each scrape, I uncover more ghosts of the past, more parts of the story of my home! What I am discovering makes me curious about the people who have lived (and probably died) in the house, the challenges they faced in their lives, as well as the drama that is always present when people live together!

Like most, my house is a time traveler, and within these stained and cracked walls many lives have been lived! These walls have seen joy and pain, new life, illness and death. There has been despair and sorrow, but also faith and hope! They have witnessed brokenness and new beginnings, but above all else (I hope) there has been love shared and treasured as people have lived there lives here!

It is the memory of that love that I wish to keep fresh within our walls, these are the ghosts I want haunting my house as my family and I continue to make new chapters.

And…I am wondering if a nice shade of green would work, when I finally get around to painting the kitchen.

Orange Head & Pink Hair

We moved into the big house in East Orange in July of 1969, right around the time of the moon landing. It was a beautiful house, on a tree-lined street of well-kept homes, and much larger than our old house in West Orange.

I had left behind my old school, my neighborhood friends, and moved to a new town. Although it was not a great distance, the move changed everything. The new neighborhood looked nice, and it was close to where my dad worked as a College Professor, but there weren’t a lot of kids my age, and the once who were there did not want to make friends. The folks already living there were well off, and we were not (though we were not poor either) and they came off as somewhat snobby.

In addition, about the time we were moving in, many of the neighbors were making plans to move out!

It was less than two years after the Newark Riots, and ‘White Flight’ was underway. It did not help that the riots took place only a few miles away. One kid told me about watching the National Guard trucks going up Park Avenue (at the end of our street) on their way to the riots.

This is probably why we got our house at such a good price, the family who lived there before us were among the many who were getting out of town. Within the next two years the ‘demographic’ of the neighborhood changed, as the old residents moved away! All of the new families were African-American, and much nicer than those who left…and I actually made a few friends.

When I started first grade in the fall of 1970, I found that I was one of a few white kids in the school, and the only one with bright red hair and blue eyes! This proved to be problematic for me, although most of the kids were fine, a few (like in any other school) enjoyed teasing and bullying me!

Before long, even my friends were calling me “Orange Head”; which was not as bad as getting threatened and chased (with intent to injure) because I looked different from anyone else. This made me a frequent target, and on more than one occasion, the kids who were my friends, helped me to get out of the back door of the school, telling me to hit the ground running…because the bullies were waiting for me at the front door!

This was not the first time being a red-head caused me problems, and while it was an extreme case, it would not be the last time in my life that having red hair caused me problems.

All my life, people have been reminding me of my hair color!

I was adopted by my family after having come as a foster child. As I was the only one in my family who was not biological, it was clear that I did not quite fit in with everyone else! They all had dark blond or brunette hair (except for my dad, who really was mostly bald) and I did not.

Of course, people were not shy about pointing this out! Often, when I was out and about with my family, people would point out “You have red hair!”

Of course, I knew I had red hair, it would be hard not to know that, and if I forgot, there were plenty of people to remind me of that fact!

Then, this initial revelation was usually followed up by the question “Where did you get that from?” to which I would happily answer “Because I was adopted!” Which seemed like a solid reasoning to me…it is true, I was the only one with red hair because I was adopted!

The old ladies at church would comment on how amazing my hair was, and tell me that “…the girls are going to LOVE you!” This made me blush at first, but as I got closer to my teens, I began to wonder when this might happen. While I might have been disappointed, at least they weren’t teasing me…they actually thought my hair was nice.

However, there were plenty of adults who did tease. Although they were good natured about it, I was still bothered. At the Chicken Delight where my brothers worked (and where I had my first job), the boss, Ritchie, took to saying that I had “pink hair”! Something he continued to tease me with until he passed away, and then came back when I wound up working with some of the Chicken Delight people at The Town Pub in 1983!

They called me “Jimmy Olsen” because I was interning with a newspaper, until Frank reminded me that I had “pink hair”! I got teased a lot, but it was a guy thing…and meant that I was now a part of the team (or so I like to tell myself).

Even when I went to a new school halfway through third grade, where my class was more diverse, the red hair made me stand out. Even through college, and entering the workforce, I was always reminded that I had an “orange head” and “pink hair”….that I was different!

No wonder I have often struggled to ‘find my place’ in the world, between being an adoptee and a red head, not to mention that I have never been very good at sports (and generally klutzy). However, I do not believe I was every treated like I did not belong in my family, quite the opposite! As for my lack of skill (or interest) in sports, this has freed me up for other pursuits, like my (attempt at) writing, love of movies and books…as well as hiking, and other activities.

My red hair has caused me to stand out. It has gotten me a lot of attention, both good and bad, and it has led me to become less self-centered (a work in progress), and think more about the feelings of others, giving me empathy for those who are facing their own struggles – even (to a point) for the bullies themselves…as they are often very broken people.

The teasing that I got for my hair color (and a few other things) also helped me to grow a thick skin, I had to…if I took all that to heart, I would have never survived. This thick skin has served me well in business, when working with customers, and in my personal life and volunteering, allowing me to face some awful situations without panic…even when I really wanted to!

My life has also taught me how we are all different, but also have so much in common with each other. I have learned the value of acceptance, and respect for each other, because there are no “minorities” when we are all part of the same human family, and being a part of the family doesn’t mean we have to agree on everything, or even always like each other; it does mean that we are all in this together, and the only way we can move forward is together.

Today, while the color has faded, my hair is still reddish, but my main reason for gratitude is that I still have most of it! Red hair has impacted the course of my life, for better and for worse, but I am glad that I was born with it.

I was also nice pass on this trait to my lovely daughter, who has thick bright red hair…which has caused her some embarrassment. She has tried to tone down her hair color by using black dye, but has been only relatively successful, as her natural color cannot be completely hidden away, much like her personality. Today she is the one who is constant reminded “You have red hair” over and over again!

At least it’s not orange or pink!

The Miracle Fiber

It was in the time of Disco, and the miracle fiber, polyester was everywhere: from outlandish clothing, to sheets, blankets, upholstery, you name it!

It was claimed that it could be worn for 68 days straight without having to be washed, it never wrinkled and never needed to be ironed…it could simply be aired out, shaken out and worn again.

Living in those dark days, I was way too familiar with the material. One of my older brothers was heavily into the whole Disco thing (probably because his girlfriend was into it as well) and he had the polyester suits, quinoa shirts (which opened to the third button, and had wide lapels) along with the two-toned platform shoes!

He even used a plastic sheet, spread out on the living room floor to learn how to Hustle…but that’s another story.

The point is that there was no natural fiber involved.

Although I looked up to all of my brothers (and brother in-law for that matter), I did care for Disco, and hated polyester! Regardless, most of my clothes were polyester: my shirts, pants, jackets and Sunday going to church suits. I even had polyester socks…and they were hot!

The worst was the Leisure Suit that my mother bought me for Easter in 1975 or 76!

It was about a week before Easter, my mom wanted to go shopping for my Easter clothes…this was the last thing that I wanted to do! I wanted to stay home and do whatever I did when I was twelve. So, she went on her own, though getting her to relent was not an easy task. However, as it worked out, going along probably would not have made any difference!

A few hours later, when she returned from shopping, she called me down to the TV room (yes, we had one, my dad and brother in law built it themselves – converting an old porch) to show me what I was going to be wearing to church on Easter morning! When I saw it, I knew I was in deep need of God’s Grace!

It was powder-blue, and made of a thick polyester that reminded me of the living room curtains! The buttons were dark blue with a white border, and I was horrified!

My mother was a smart woman, but it wasn’t too hard to tell that I hated the suit, so she showed me what made it extra special: it was reversible! When pulled inside-out, the suit had a blue and white herringbone pattern! For some reason, she thought this would lead me to change my mine!

Or maybe she was just messing with me…I would not put that past her either.

I didn’t want to even touch it, not to mention wear it, but my mother made me, and my dad knew better than to dissent. So, on Easter, my friends had a great opportunity to tease the shit out of me! Although it was 1975 and such outfits were not uncommon, this suit was still beyond the pale!

My brothers also teased me, as I had to wear the thing all the way through our family dinner, although they were a bit nicer about it…they knew my pain.

I wore the suit twice, and then it magically ‘disappeared’ never to be seen or made fun of again! Though given the nature of the material, I assume the suit still survives, buried under 40 years of trash in a forgotten New Jersey landfill.

Even after the leisure suit was gone, I could not escape the clutches of the miracle fabric.

For many years, I served as an acolyte at my church, which meant that I had to dress up in a choir robe every Sunday morning! This too was also made out of the miracle fiber, green with a white cassock over the top. And, because I could not wear jeans to church, I was usually wearing layers of polyester, along with my nice pleather shoes.

During the colder weather it was not too bad, but during the summer these gowns could be horrific! There was no A/C in the church (we’ll come back to this later), and when it was really bad, it was hard to function. On occasion, the pastor gave us all a break by letting us eschew the robes, I guess he decided that wearing our street clothes was better than watching us pass-out from the heat.

Even the cloth that covered the plate of communion wine on the altar was made of polyester! This proved problematic on the morning that my acolyte partner (who was also the pastor’s daughter) was lighting the candles, and the wick from the candle-lighter fell onto the cloth and it burst into flames! She panicked and knocked that plate on the floor, setting the carpeting on fire! The pastor ran over and started stamping out the fire, which made his own polyester robe burst into flames!!

I stood there in a panic, not knowing what to do, but then no one did, except for the elderly sexton! He was crippled with arthritis, which caused him to move slowly on swollen knees. While everyone else was frozen, he grabbed a fire extinguisher, made his way up the center aisle, and calmly put out the fire!

Fortunately, no one was hurt, but the pastor’s Alb was beyond hope! However, he was able to continue the service, once the excitement was over!

It was in that same church, a couple of years later, that one of my other brothers got married.

It was late August, and still no A/C (note, I went back to the church in 2018, and it remains free of air-conditioning)! For some ungodly reason, it was decided that the men in the wedding party were to wear dark brown (rented) tuxedos, made out of that same thick polyester as the leisure suit! The shirt was also polyester, had ruffles, and I wore a clip-on bowtie and a cummerbund!

The church was built in the late 50’s, in that ‘modern’ style which screams out for central air, so there was no cross-ventilation, and this was New Jersey in the summer – so it was stiflingly oppressive inside, and we were all feeling it in our heavy brown tuxedos! My brother felt it the worst, he was so nervous, he would have been sweating had it been the dead of winter. I am actually surprised that he did not actually pass-out that day…but we made it through!

While I could not take off the tux until after the reception, the hall was airconditioned, and it felt great to walk in through those doors and feel the cool air, after the church service and photographs…and to finally take off the jacket!

By the mid-80s polyester had mostly fallen out of favor for most people, but it was still popular for rented tuxedos! The last time I wore one was in 1986 at the marriage of two of my friends. It was another summer wedding, this time outdoors, in upstate New York! While it was not as hot, it was still very humid, and wearing those suits was rough!

This time, we had powder-blue tuxedos that had no natural fiber, and we wore shoes that did not contain a hint of leather, so I was basically encased in plastic! It did not help that the shoes were a size too narrow (I do have very wide feet), or that I had not slept and was very hung-over from partying the night before.

It was an Orthodox Christian service, which was very neat to be a part of, but it also seemed very long, especially while we were standing unsteadily in the Sunlight…sweating!

After the wedding were the photos, taken out on a big terrace, the view was beautiful, but it was still hot! Once the reception started, we wound up going in and out of the air conditioning, and I got drunk all over again, which made me not care as much about being so miserable, and I was able to lose the jacket and loosen my tie, which helped! While it cooled off once the Sun went down, it stayed sticky and uncomfortable; however, the alcohol surely took the edge off! It was another all-nighter, and as the Sun came up, I found myself alone in the woods, still wearing the tuxedo and the tight shoes!

I remember how good it felt when I finally took those shoes off, and dipped my feet in the stream as dawn broke. I also remember looking up and seeing a deer drinking from the same stream, it stopped, lifted its head, and looked at me before moving away; however, I suspect that this part was really from a movie I saw, and not a real memory.

I do know that it was nice to get out of that nasty tux and put on my street clothes again, before climbing into the back of a pickup for the drive back home. I had to keep my head down to avoid being seen by the cops, and wound up falling asleep for most of the ride…which was just fine.

After graduation, I wound up working on “Wall Street” (42 Broadway) where I had to wear a suit every day. This was common work attire in the 80’s, and there were still many of us who still wore polyester…like a guy I knew who would wear the same pair of plaid pants every day (or so I thought, until I found out that he had 6 pairs of the pants, and wore a different one every day).

I wore my polyester suits because I didn’t have much money, and had to wear what I had, which was polyester. No, I did not wear any leisure suits, these were gone, but what I did have was not great! Fortunately, once I had gotten a few paychecks, a friend and his wife (I could not trust my mother and had no girlfriend) took me out to buy some nicer suits, made of more natural fibers.

I was finally done with polyester…or so I thought!

Even into the 90s, my mother insisted on buying me a pairs of dark brown polyester pants for Christmas (almost) every year! I returned many of these for a refund, but kept a couple as ‘emergency’ pants, only wearing them when nothing else was clean…which was great motivation for me to go to the laundromat on a regular basis! When I complained about getting yet another pair, a friend told me to tell my mom that I could not wear them to work because the static electricity generated by the polyester would short out the computers!

I laughed, but actually considered telling her that the crash of ’87 occurred become someone wore polyester to the stock exchange on that Black Monday!

The brown polyester pants finally stopped coming by the time my daughter was born, I am guessing my sister said something to her, as her gifts became more practical. I’ve made plenty of fashion faux pas all by myself in the years since, but the time of polyester had finally ended.

While a visit to the site “People of Walmart” proves that some folks still prefer the ease and colors provided by polyester clothing, most clothes today have a blend of material, are far more comfortable and just plain look better!

However, for he most part the thick, inflexible material that was so common during the time of Disco, has become a thing of the past, and the past is where it needs to stay!

Polyester truly is a miracle fabric, which will never degrade, and has helped our lives better, one of the true miracles is that the thick, brightly colored fabric ever became so popular in the first place.

And even today, there is still a bit of polyester with us all: the shirt I am wearing as I write this, designed to wick away moisture, is…100% polyester!