The Magazine Pimp
S.E. Schaible
In seventh grade I became the first of my friend group to get a job – other than shoveling snow. That didn’t count: every kid over 10 hustled those neighborhood dollars in northern New Jersey, wearing our navy or teal Sears parkas with the faux fur trim around the hood. Friends of the family owned the historic cider mill in Livingston, located about a mile from my house. They pressed fresh cider from October through January and farmed tomatoes, vegetables and flowers on the acreage during the summer. Robert hired me as the pumpkin patch attendant. I was stationed across the parking lot from the market, helping customers pick out the perfect specimen, taking their payment, and carrying the orbs to their cars – earning a 20- or 30-cent tip from the kinder patrons. In 1976, a couple dollars in tips made me giddy on top of my $2.25 hourly wage: I would bike to the mill straight from school and typically worked from 3:30 to 6:00, with longer hours on the weekends.
Halloween fell on a Sunday that year, and I sold more than a dozen pumpkins that day to last-minute shoppers. When I handed in my change-maker belt and wad of bills at 6 o’clock, I was aware that this was likely my final day – since the market for pumpkins was now closed. I was sad to be losing my income source, but more than this I was losing the camaraderie with Robert, his wife Barbara, and an entire cast of characters that I’d come to know and appreciate. I would miss Bigfoot, the cat with extra toes that Robert had found in Vermont; Every day she brought half-dead sparrows or mice to the back door of the market. I would miss the daily belly laughs courtesy of Billy, the Omega of the cider mill wolfpack. One Saturday Billy asked Robert if he could park his Yamaha dirt bike out front to sell it, and later in the day Robert stumbled into the market laughing so hard he couldn’t speak, holding up Billy’s hand-painted sign that read FOUR SAIL $400. I couldn’t be sure if Billy was dimwitted or if he was a natural comedic genius, a skill some boys possessed as a mechanism to be noticed in families with many older siblings. My boss seemingly on the verge of having a stroke, I realized how unique this situation was.
My father grew up directly across Old Short Hills Road from the cider mill in the 1940s and had started working there at a similar age for Herbert, Robert’s father. I went to shake hands with Robert and thank him for the opportunity, but he cut me off. “Listen, I heard a lot of compliments about you out there. Nice work! Would you be interested in working some days here in the market – and maybe even filling cider jugs in the cold room? You could also help me in the greenhouse and outside in the fields during the summer.”
“Yeah, for sure. Sounds great. Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Robert explained one of the regular high school girls made the winter cheer squad and would need to trim her after-school hours, and I started working three afternoons a week. By way of osmosis, I learned which apples made the best pie (Winesap or Northern Spy), apple sauce (McIntosh) and memorized obscure facts like, which apple went well with sharp cheeses (Macoun). I embraced all the knowledge I could absorb on the job, transforming myself from the rookie to a reliable customer resource. When honeydew melons were in season, Herbert taught me the broom straw trick: pull a single strand from a whiskbroom and lay it perpendicular across the equator of a melon – if it rotated back to north-south, it was ripe. He called it ‘witching,’ and even if it was an old wives’ tale learned from an ancestor, I broke out the performance any time I was asked to help select a melon. The only comments I ever heard on a subsequent visit were positive; sometimes the girls I worked with rolled their eyes or feigned gagging when some soccer mom would gush about my honeydew skills.
One day just before quitting time, a burnt orange Chevy Vega pulled into the cider mill. I recognized Rubber Band Man by the Swingers rattling the rivets of the shabby, rusted hatchback. I walked up the driveway to pull the sawhorse across the entrance, the pre-teen car nerd in me pondering how sad that Vega looked parked next to Tommy’s 1969 Z-28 – its gold metallic finish with white stripes gleaming with Turtle Wax. Tommy was a volunteer firefighter and when the whistle would blow late in the day, he would step out of his coveralls and peel out. Rush hour traffic could reveal 20 cars backed up at the intersection; I would watch in awe as he raced the wrong way toward Northfield Road, laying on the horn while working the stick shift like a pro. I walked back to the market just as the guy in the Vega finally turned it off, the engine wheezing and running on with a cartoonish clang. He opened the door and exclaimed, “Hey, buddy! Are you closed?” I told him yes, we closed three minutes ago. The narrator in my head adding, “You know, while you were cranking ridiculously loud tunes through those shredded speakers.”
He said he’d just come back another day, but in the same breath awkwardly asked if he could talk to me for a minute. I told him I needed to clock out, and I came from the side of the building pushing my BMX bike, providing sufficient visual evidence that I was a kid; a backpack full of books, on a school night. I should have quickly pedaled off, but he spotted me and I was trapped. He started into a sales pitch I could scarcely follow, and it was relentless. He started with 20 questions. “What magazines do you read?” Creem. “Oh, are you a musician?” Drummer. “What are you, like 17? I’m 12. “What magazines does your mom subscribe to?” I don’t know, Good Housekeeping maybe? I’m 12. It was getting darker by the minute, and I didn’t have lights on my bike, but I just couldn’t shake the lamprey. From his notes he quoted standard 1-year pricing against what he could offer for two years, throwing in all the flourish of a shyster. “You like saving money, right?” He handed me a sheet of chicken scratch and continued to press: “I can only honor these prices if I get a check tomorrow for $37.50, okay?” He was oblivious to the fact that I was in junior high school, making less than that in a week.
“I don’t know. I’ll ask my dad. He is the one that writes the checks. I need to go.” I pedaled away while he was still speaking, raising his voice behind me as if I were listening. As I cruised downhill, avoiding some potholes from memory and bunny hopping others, I felt ashamed for letting that guy bulldoze me the way he did. What would Robert have done? I had seen enough of Robert in action in a few weeks to imagine how he would have responded. He would have said he was not interested. If the sales pitch persisted, he would raise his voice and say something crude but funny. Not surprisingly, my father gave a hard “No.” He understood the value, but he was not interested. I also think he wanted me to refuse the offer myself so I could get used to it, to inoculate me from this form of parasite. He was preparing me for a lifetime of sales pitch bombardment. I realized years later that I only showed my father the offer because I wanted the guy to go away – and him cutting a check was the path of least resistance to that end. But throwing money after a problem wouldn’t have taught me anything of any long-term value.
The next day I peered out the glass in the market door every few minutes, hoping the schlub realized the obvious – that pitching to a minor was foolish, if not illegal. Just before closing time, I pushed open the door while one of the guys walked toward the sawhorse to block the driveway, and my heart sank. The Vega turned into the driveway going faster than his threadbare tires could handle, skidding to a halt and stalling out. While he tried to get it running again, grinding away on a bad starter, I went behind the counter to grab a quart from the cider window, and went back outside. Just then he got the car started, coughing blue smoke, grinding gears and pulling the smoldering heap into a parking space. He stepped out in a shiny brown leather sport coat from Wilson’s House of Suede and Leather, with his clipboard and tight jeans and porn moustache. He could have been enroute to a casting call for an extra on an episode of Charlie’s Angels, described as “Sabrina’s friend’s sketchy ex-husband [who might be a kidnapper].” I ignored his high-five, just left him hanging. I was in the company of a complete tool. I took a breath and spoke.
“Listen man, my father said no to the subscriptions,” I said. His demeanor switching from his default phony-friendly to de facto pissed off.
“What? What are we doing here, pal? I mean, a deal is a deal! I drove all the way from Roseland for this – who’s going to pay for that gas, paisano?”
“I never said yes. Here’s some fresh apple cider, and I’m sorry for any confusion,” I said, walking back to the market. I tried to play it cool, but his reaction made me nervous. Behind me the hemming and hawing droned on from this con/man/child. A bogus litany of dammit and screw that from someone three times my age. Robert startled me, standing just inside the door when I pulled it open, curious what was going on. I tried not to engage and told him I was putting a dollar in the register for the cider. The magazine pimp was still pacing back and forth outside, I assumed, because Robert had his nose on the window in the door. He was officially concerned. I punched out and he asked again. “Listen, just tell me what’s up.” I gave him a summary while he remained focused on whatever was happening out there. I explained to Robert about the goofy sales pitch and the magazines, and he said to stay there until he came back inside. In a flash the door flew open and he was outside.
Putting my ear against the door I heard Robert going off, only able to make out parts of the back-and-forth that followed. “…He is just a kid…Fucking loser…No…No…Get lost…Kick your fucking teeth in.” He came in with his trademark, mischievous grin and announced with total confidence that we would never see that guy again – then told me to get home. My father had taught me a valuable lesson by not bailing me out with that grifter, and Robert showed me that he had my back, no matter what. Both were lessons I never forgot, from two of the most important men in my life. To this day, if someone tries the hard sell, or I hear something sketchy with my daughters, I remember Robert and how he showed up for me. I worked at the cider mill throughout high school and college. I moved to Colorado in the 90s and somehow, I missed the news of Robert’s passing more than 20 years ago, right after losing my parents. Gone too soon, I will always remember Robert as one of the best mentors I ever had, and among a very short list of the best men I ever knew.
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