I'm not the kind of guy who expects to
drift through life unmolested. Shit happens, even to the best of us.
All things considered, I've danced between the raindrops about as
successfully as anyone I know. Sure, there have been a few bumps in
the road, but mostly these have been annoying rather than life
changing.
For the most part, I have pursued the
course of least resistance, taking one leap of faith after another to
wind up where I am. The only job for which I ever applied that wound
up doing me some good was with the Boca Raton News circa 1985. It
could have just as easily been 1986. All I know is I turned 35 within
my first year or so of working there. My first three or four years
there were absolutely the best years of my working social life. My
seven plus total years there launched me on my path for the next
two-and-a-half decades, bringing me to today. I made friends there
that I remain in contact with still. But, my Boca News days also
altered my career path from reluctant salesman to wide-eyed
journalist.
I joined the News as a
display-advertising rep and popped out the other end as an automotive
writer. It was, without a doubt, the biggest game changer of my life.
Any other job I applied for and managed to somehow land was a
clunker. Usually I was unhappy and my tenure short lived. Even my
five-year sentence at the Palm Beach Post, fulfilling essentially the
same role I did as auto-section editor at the Boca News, was a
soul-squashing exercise in stick-to-it-tiveness that would have made
the Old Testament's Job wince. Never before nor since have I worked
with such a collection of miserable people. I made some good money
there as a 1099 for the first three or four years (The only reason I
hung on for so long.), but, my God, the jerks I had to deal with
sucked every ounce of joy out of the experience.
A fine example of my parade of
applied-for, self-inflicted bad jobs was my brief stay at a West Palm
Beach public-relations firm 11 or 12 years ago. Holy crap, what an
ordeal. Hired as a copywriter, I was elevated to account rep (A job
for which I had no experience.) on my first day. It was the first day
of the longest six weeks of my working life. The maniacal woman who
owned, and still owns, this small company that she ruled with all the
warmth and grace of England's Queen Mary was, perhaps, the most
unpleasant individual I have had the misfortune of working with.
(Although, with American Media's David Pecker in the mix, it's quite
the horse race.) I can't share my nickname for this tyrant in polite
company, but suffice to say, she earned it every waking moment of
every day.
I didn't solicit the position for a few
of the jobs I've held: Either someone came knocking on my door or I
fell into them through some fortune of serendipity. Probably the most
appropriate inscription for my gravestone is “It's not what you
know, but who you know.” (Yes, I know: Who should be whom. But it
doesn't have the same ring.) That was the case with my stint as
managing editor for the car magazines at American Media, as well as
my current post as a contract writer for Autotrader. At the former,
my buddy Terry Jackson gave me the nod when he became editor and
chief of Auto World. A conversation during a shuttle ride from some
long-forgotten airport to an equally unmemorable hotel landed me the
Autotrader gig. Both jobs were exactly what I needed when I needed
them. Autotrader continues to be a terrific client.
Even my health has cooperated with my
rather untethered lifestyle. Turning 65, though, was like running into a wall
at full speed in terms of my physical health. Suddenly after decades
of near-perfect health, things began to unravel. If there were some
sort of frequent-flier plan for hanging out in doctor and hospital
waiting areas, I'd be awash in points. But, even here, I haven't had
to deal with anything life threatening. It's just the old machinery
wearing out. Hell, no one lives forever.
All of this to report that I had to
cough up $210 at the Kona Airport to check my three bags for their
120-mile or so trip from Kona to Honolulu on Hawaiian Air during my trip
home last week. Despite this flight having a Delta flight number, my
Delta Platinum status held no sway. The three bags that flew for free
from Honolulu to Kona, suddenly were an issue when going in the other
direction. Because a call placed at the Hawaiian Air check-in desk to
Delta produced nothing beyond the information that it's against the
U.S. Dept of Transportation regs to charge for bags on a return
flight that weren't charged for on the outbound flight, I had to eat
the $210 fee or cool my heels at the Kona airport for 9 hours while
waiting for the first available official Delta flight out. After two weeks on
the road, all I wanted to do was get home! Was I pissed? You could
say that.
I have yet to battle this injustice. I
will fire the initial volley this coming week by disputing the charge
with American Express and penning a complaint to Delta. I'll keep you
posted.
