Thoughts on a Snow Day

'Too autobiographical? 'Too bad.

For the past couple of years, I've held the same part-time job, three days a week and on rare occasions four. "Part-time" is an apt descriptor of most of my working life.

Even during my best earning years, the two decades or so during which I was an itinerant Pitchman (aka "Commercial Showman") demonstrating and selling products like "The Amazing Ginsu Knife" (sometimes billed as "Wonder Knife" or "Miracle Blade") and the product most people now know as "The Incredible Sham-Wow” (also called the "Moisture Magnet" or simply the "Chamee" or, by folks in the Pitch Biz, "The Incredible Sucking Rag") at fairs, shows and expos around the country, I usually worked just Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

[That’s me, but it’s not really “Dutch.”]

Of course, a good part of the rest of my week was devoted to traveling to the shows and setting things up. To pitch the Ginsu Knife I had to arrive a day early and seek out and make arrangements with a produce distributor to buy the boxes of potatoes, tomatoes and oranges that I used in the pitch. It was funny sometimes, when a produce dealer would tell me that he had some tomatoes or oranges or potatoes that were particularly delicious, and I had to inform him that not a single one would ever be consumed; I was interested only in size, shape, color and how they cut or juiced. That's why, in the Pitch Biz, the fruits and vegetables used are called garbage.

It was sort of like when I bought boxes of hammers, and had to explain to the hardware dealer that his hammers would never drive or pull a single nail; instead, in the most dramatic part of the knife pitch, I would saw on the head of the hammer with my knife, producing an impressive pile of metal shavings, and then proceed to cut a tomato in half by dropping it on the blade, and then slice it "so thin, if you worked for McDonald's they'd give you a raise for cutting tomatoes that thin!"

It took a very special, very cheap hammer that was soft enough to perform that way, and while I didn't go through hammers as quickly as I went through garbage, I did cut up enough hammers that I bought them wholesale whenever possible.

I remember how, on occasion while I was sawing on the hammer, someone in my tip (what a Pitchman calls his audience) would call out, "That's just soft steel!" My response to that was one I had learned during my two years on the Boardwalk of Atlantic City (where many believe the Pitch Biz got its start, and where the motto was "Ocean, Emotion, and Constant Promotion"). During those two years on the Boardwalk, my work was anything but part-time; I worked seven days a week, with only a very occasional day off.

I’ve often stated that my two years on the Boardwalk were my “apprenticeship,” but I actually “broke in” to the Pitch Biz in the basement of Macy’s on Herald Square, pitching “The Clean Machine,” a self-wringing mop. By the time I hit the Boardwalk, I was a journeyman, worthy of being a Knife Worker.

On the Boardwalk there was no one to tell us we were “too rough” on the public, and we could be brutal with hecklers. They broke the rhythm of the pitch, which is tantamount to breaking the spell we were weaving, and their antics were seen as having the potential to take money out of our pockets. Because in Atlantic City I was working for National Kitchen Products (run by Ruby Morris, "The King of the Pitchmen," and the premier outfit in the Pitch Biz, operating multiple joints pitching a variety of products; we were the “‘A’ Team” of Pitchmen), we had prats, young guys who kept us supplied with product and with vegetables and who were never far away; in the middle of a pitch I could say "Prat me up some tomatoes" and my prat would quickly see to it that my tomato basket was filled. And if someone in the tip were being especially disruptive, a glance or a signal would cue the prats to sherry the Larry out of there while the Pitchman barely broke his rhythm.

But when the challenge was just someone yelling "That's just soft steel!" I didn't need the prats. I'd just stop and gesture to the heckler as if I were handing him the hammer, and I'd say, "You're absolutely right, Sir! It is just soft steel. In fact, why don't you whack yourself in the head with it a couple of times to show everybody just how very soft it is!" The tip laughed, the heckler looked sheepish, and the pitch continued.

I'm told that I still have a reputation among Boardwalk Pitchmen for having dealt with an especially disruptive heckler by throwing him off the end of the pier. I had warned this knitter (a Carny term for a type of mentally-disturbed person, called that for the knitting motion they seemed to always be making with their hands) that if he interrupted my pitch one more time, by coming into my tip and tapping people on the shoulder and pantomiming for them to give him a cigarette, I would throw him off the end of the pier.

Sure enough, he did it again. And even though I had a nice tight pitch steaming along, I stopped, stepped off the box and strode out of the joint and into the tip and grabbed the knitter by his ear and escorted him to the end of the pier. But this is where my reputation and the truth diverge, because I absolutely did not throw him off the pier; I merely dangled him!

But I'm getting sidetracked here talking about my life as a Boardwalk Pitchman, when I started out talking about my current part-time employment. My current gig is selling health supplements from a sampling table at warehouse stores. Prior to this I had been employed as a staff writer for an online magazine. I worked about four days a week from home and was paid very nicely; I got four pay raises in the year or so that I held the gig. It was about the only time I actually made a living by writing.

Oh, sure, I was the late Barry Farber's personal editor and even sometimes his ghost-writer for more than a decade, and I put a lot of work into beating his weekly World Net Daily column into shape, as well as editing his book of memoirs, "Cocktails with Molotov." But even though Barry sent me a check every month, it was a labor of love. I had grown up listening to Barry on the radio and he was always a hero to me. And after a rather inauspicious first meeting circa 1978, I had met him again in 2004 and we became friends; you can read my remembrance of Barry here

And it was after Barry's death in 2020 (the day after his 90th birthday) that his daughter Bibi recommended me for the magazine staff writer gig. I was interviewed over the phone by the magazine’s creator and publisher and given a test assignment and then hired, and I considered myself a happy and well-appreciated employee until I caught COVID-19 (it was ironic that the pandemic and the various authorities’ dictatorial edicts had been the topic of much of my writing), had to be hospitalized, and because I couldn't execute my writing duties, I was terminated and replaced. "The show must go on" was how my boss explained it.

I looked for other writing gigs for a year. I still get notices of jobs available for writers, editors and proofreaders. Invariably they are adamant about requiring a degree in English, which disqualifies me, but then it turns out that they pay a mere pittance of what I had been earning. For a few months I was paid to write copy for various auto dealerships' websites; it was always about how they were different from every other dealership!

My Substack newsletter was an attempt to get paid to write about stuff I actually wanted to write about. The Substack model is to acquire subscribers and then charge a few dollars a month for subscriptions. Some people have done and are doing quite well at it, with several thousand or more paying subscribers, but for me it has been an abject failure. I can hardly expect any of my 300 or so subscribers to be willing to pay for his or her subscription, when all but a relative handful don't even read it. I consider myself lucky to get a dozen or so "Likes" or "Comments," and most of those are from folks who know me or are friends of my sister. So now, when I write this stuff, I really don’t GAF whether anybody cares to read it or not.

So, having failed to make a dollar via Substack, and having not yet written the story of my life or anything remotely marketable, a couple of years ago I fell back on my other skillset, honed by my years as a Pitchman, of doing demonstrations in stores. I had spent a number of years doing cooking and sampling demos in supermarkets, and thought I would be a natural to do similar work in the big warehouse stores. But I'm not employed by the warehouse stores, and it's always a point of pride when someone remarks that I'm different from all the other demonstrators handing out samples of potato chips or candy, because I actually know about and can answer questions about the products I represent.

But it's still a thankless and frustrating gig, because the average warehouse shopper would much rather buy an industrial-size bag of potato chips or candy or some other chozzerai than anything that might help them live healthier and possibly longer. Very few even have the smidgen of intellectual curiosity to glance at my table; in the Pitch Biz (or selling anything from a booth or table at a show) we called it "the 'What the Hell is it?' factor." Kids still have it, but the adults behave as if they've wearing blinders, taking great pains to not even look in my direction; I sometimes wonder if I’m invisible.

And now it's even more frustrating because I have another new manager (who, like the previous two, I have never met, because they've all been based a thousand miles away); this one is a motivational expert, and so all communication is in motivational terms; the hundreds of demonstrators she manages are addressed as "Amazing Person" and "Warrior," and are told that it's only our lack of discipline and resolve that keep us from meeting our quotas (which, a la ”Catch-22,” keep being raised) and earning impressive bonuses. Even though I'm consistently in the top 20% of producers, it's never quite good enough, and if I think that my loyalty, dependability and punctuality count for anything, I am mistaken, because all that matters are the numbers.

I'm thinking about all this today because this is the first time I have missed a day of work. I have chosen to stay home because our region is in the midst of a blizzard and ice storm, and on TV and radio and on highway signs we are advised "Do Not Travel." When I drove home last night (from a store some twenty miles away) I drove about 30 mph on the freeway and passed a half-dozen or so wrecks, but driving was not nearly as hazardous as walking; when I picked up my old and infirm dog (from my friend who cares for him while I'm at work) I slipped and nearly fell while trying to assist him into my van; at my house I slipped and nearly fell while opening my gate so I could park the van; the street and sidewalk in front of my house were like an ice-skating rink, and overnight it's gotten worse.

I have a Jeep (which I usually drive just for fun) which, although 25 years old, is more than capable of getting me through challenging winter weather and road conditions. But loading my Jeep with my table and other job equipment that I normally carry in my van represents a serious risk in these slick conditions. I'm reminded of a time in the '90s when we had an ice storm and I took one step off my front porch, slipped and fell on the ice and broke my wrist. I have decided it's not worth it to try to get to work, especially in a warehouse store that will probably have sparse attendance, if any.

But I know my manager is not pleased. She's concerned that our company loses money when a demo has to be canceled. I have no idea how many other demonstrators are affected by the same storm system and making the same judgement call. Nor do I have any idea what the people who run the company, and are based in warm, sunny Las Vegas, think about the situation.

She's reminding me of a guy I worked for after my time on the Boardwalk, working as an agent, pitching at various fairs and shows and expos, before I started booking them myself and working independently. He was a guy we called "Mr. Meatball." I'll tell more about my experiences working for "Mr. Meatball" in another installment of this autobiographical saga (in which I'll try to include less sniveling and bellyaching, and thanks for putting up with all that, if you're even still reading).

My current situation reminds me of working for Mr. Meatball because he would send me out to shows he had booked, usually up and down the Eastern Seaboard. And after working a show for two or three days, I was usually holding a good amount of cash, of which 70% percent belonged to Mr. Meatball. I was also usually far too tired to drive back on a Sunday night to Pt. Pleasant, NJ, to deliver the lines (what a Pitchman calls the money taken in) and then proceed an hour or so north to my folks' place in Clifton, where I stayed when I wasn't on the road (I used to joke that I was homeless but I had nice luggage).

I would have preferred to stay in my motel and deliver the lines the next day. But Mr. Meatball insisted that I deliver the lines that night, so I'd be struggling to stay awake as I drove back from Hartford or Baltimore or even as far as Raleigh or points south. One time I worked a boat show in Ft. Lauderdale, and he insisted that I start back the same night, even though I had to spend a night in a motel en route.

One year we met in January to plan what shows and events I would work for him in the coming year. And I insisted that my continuing to work for him was dependent on one condition, that I wasn't going to kill myself driving back to Pt. Pleasant on a Sunday night if I was just too tired. And he agreed.

But sure enough, I found myself on a Sunday night too dragged out for anything but a good night's sleep. And when I called Mr. Meatball to give him the final report on how the show had gone and how much we had made, he said something like, "Well, if you leave now you ought to be here about midnight or 1 a.m." And I said, "Wait a minute! I thought we had agreed that I wasn't going to kill myself trying to drive back the same night." And his response was, "I don’t care if you kill yourself! I need to have those lines in the bank Monday morning!"

That wasn't the only reason for my association with Mr. Meatball coming to an end, but it was a clear indication that things had to change. I'm feeling the same way now about working for someone who expects me to risk life and limb to get to work on a day when nobody with any sense is venturing out on the roads or even out the door.

ST