Lunch Time

One of the biggest shocks of my leaving education and completely switching careers wasn’t the risk. It was the person taking the risk.

Habit, predictability, routine. These are all words used to describe me. Somehow, these patterns of behavior have become one of my most pronounced character traits.

I would like to base this on all of my scholarly reading on education, which relentlessly comes back to the need for children to have structure and routine in order to feel safe, enabling them to learn to their maximum potential.

In reality, these were built in character traits, which made me a good educator.

The predictability flows right down to my eating habits. I eat chicken everyday for lunch. Boneless, skinless, chicken breasts. On the road though, I cannot always cook my own chicken; not all hotels have a kitchenette.

Since I was staying in one such hotel, I was forced to be flexible. I stopped by a local Walmart and picked-up a rotisserie chicken. Costco’s rotisserie chickens are my preferred brand - they are larger and less expensive - but I did not have the patience to drive an extra 30-minutes for a little extra chicken meat.

These ready-to-serve birds are easy to break-up and put into a ziplock bag for lunch. I stuck to stripping the skin, eating the breast for lunch, and treating myself to the dark meat for dinner.

Sides on the road? Baby carrots for lunch and canned veggies for dinner. Thank goodness for the peel-back cans of vegetables. I am fairly certain TSA frowns upon flying with a can opener these days.

Most of the time, I do not get too hungry during the day, but today was one of those days the hunger seemed relentless. By 11:00 a.m. I was reaching for some baby carrots to hold me over. By 1:00 p.m., it was bye-bye birdie.

Alone in my car, I do not have to worry about common courtesy, or manners, the way I have to when eating in public. I am in my own little bubble. It is just me. I can dive into my food however I want. Sure, the car has windows, but I will never have to speak to those people.

Most of the time, I reach into the ziploc bag and break off pieces of chicken in manageable, bite-size chunks, calmly eating as I drive to my next appointment.

Not today.

Today, I was voracious. The chicken was my enemy, and I meant to put it in its place - my belly.

I tore open the bag, pushed the chicken to the top, past the edge of the bag, like a meat push-pop, and bit off almost half of it at once. I went after it as though it was a gigantic turkey leg from one of those street vendors at festivals. I was more than happy to chew and savor it for however long necessary to get it down.

At this precise moment of sweet reward, when the food finally hit my lips, teeth, and tongue, something terrible happened.

I was overwhelmed by a sour scent and, simultaneously, an extremely sour taste. This chicken, which I bought just two days prior, had turned hard and fast to rotten.

It’s 95 degrees outside, I am driving with my windows up and the air conditioning blasting. One hand is on the steering wheel. The other proudly touts remains of my chicken-bag-push-pop, now turned sour.

I wanted to spit this out immediately, rid myself of this worse-than-sour-milk flavor rapidly spreading across every taste bud in my mouth. My eyes were watering, and I instinctively turned toward my window, just barely stopping myself in time before splattering it up against the inside of my rental car.

There was nowhere to go. Slowly, or at least what felt very slowly, my panicked brain realized I had a bag in my hand. I let the unscathed piece of chicken slide to the bottom and added back the bite that should never have been

The Vet

“You used to work in the school system? Follow me, let me show you why I could never work in a school.”

John and I had been sitting at his kitchen table for some time. When I arrived to his house, he greeted me at his front door, wearing his United States Marine Corps hat (and by hat, of course, I mean barracks cover). This was not a baseball cap bought as a souvenir or to show support of the armed forces. Those are all fine and good, but John’s was his actual USMC issued cover from his days in the service.

I was selling to a 73-year old retired Marine who put in his full term of service. He was a stout man with a solid build. I would not have guessed him a day over 60-years old.

As I followed him - curiously, nervous - but as I was ordered, we approached his guest bedroom.

The second I entered it became obvious John was a Vietnam Veteran. This was no guest room. Sure, it had a bed in it, but this was a War Room. A walk-in trophy case. A museum of history. John’s history.

As I stood admiring his military service and the amount of history surrounding me, I could not help but think there was no sleeping in this room, not with the amount of ghosts haunting its walls.

John had a frame at least three-feet by three-feet filled with medals, honoring his actions in duty over the course of his career - one of which was a Purple Heart.

He had commandeered all kinds of trophies during his time in the service. He joined the Marines when he was court-ordered by a judge at the age of 18. His service started in 1963. He served through the entirety of the Vietnam War.

When we first entered, I was in awe of the amount of history he had covering all four walls of the room. It was so overwhelming, I thought I heard him say one of the framed flags was from when he was captured.

“You were a POW?”

“No.” He laughed. “I’m a marine. We don’t get captured. I captured this flag.”

John also “captured” quite a few other items from enemy soldiers. It was clear, without him saying it aloud, these came at a grave cost to those soldiers. The way John cared for his memorabilia was an honor to both his service and theirs.

I have never served in the military, but my grandfather served in the Marines. He served during World War II and was stationed in the South Pacific. He passed when I was eight-years old. I do not know a lot about his service, but I have a great deal of respect for him, my friends, and anyone else who has served, is serving, or plans to serve our great country. It is an amazing sacrifice soldiers and their families make.

As I followed John back to the kitchen, he continued, “You see all that in there. There is no way I could work in a school. I am a lot calmer now then I was then, but I wouldn’t trust myself to hold back if I had to deal with some of these kids nowadays. I can be calm and patient, but I have a feeling something would eventually cause me to lose my temper.”

“I hear you John. I have not been cursed out by anyone since I stopped working in the school house. It is a nice feeling.”

“Well, it all starts with the parents. I was not a good kid by any means. My father got drunk and beat me. I picked fights all the time with other kids. I was a troublemaker and that is how I ended-up in the marines. The judge told me it was join-up or go to jail, so I joined.

“But, parents today do not seem to want to parent. They want to be friends. They do not want to upset their children, and they let them walk all over them and act terribly.

“The other day, I was in the grocery store and this little nine or ten-year old boy was acting terribly to his mother. The mother just did nothing.

So, I am standing there, trying to get some produce, or whatever it was, and eventually, I said to the woman: ‘Ma’am, if you’d like me to, I’d be glad to take your son and paddle him for you, with your permission, of course.’

“Well, the boy stopped acting like a fool and hid behind his mother until I was gone.”

Shirtless & Boxers

Jimmy-Jo and his 85-year old father live together in coastal Florida. Jimmy-Jo owns a nice piece of property here in Florida and in Virginia, where his wife and kids live. As I rang the doorbell of Jimmy-Jo’s house, I heard a voice coming from around the side of the house.

“Hey man, we’re ‘round here.”

I rounded the corner to meet a 57-year old man in board shorts and no shirt. Not my first topless man sales call, just the first to remain topless.

Jimmy-Jo, by the way, is an awesome guy, genuine and sincere. This is a guy I could drink a beer with. Unfortunately, I was working, so he did the drinking for the both of us.

As we toured the property for the proposed job, an old, scraggly, voice emerged from Jimmy-Jo’s work pick-up truck.

“Don’t give him a heart attack, now.”

“Well, if I do, at least you’ll be here to pick him up.”

“I ain’t picking him up. I can barely pick myself up.”

Jimmy-Jo’s father was working on unloading some wood. This guy looked like the crypt keeper. He had about 7 long strands of gray hair slicked back on his head, was weightless with his skin sagging like wet clothes, and was hauling bundles of molding from a pick-up truck. Well, mostly he was letting them fall off the flat bed.

As I was surveying the job and taking pictures, I heard a little father-son squabbling:

“Dad! Damnit. This is the front yard. You can’t be doing that out here man. Go into the house or your apartment, or the damn backyard.”

I rounded the corner in time to see Pops wrangling his pants back around his waist, struggling to manage his chain wallet and zip-up in time to get his uppity son to stop nagging him.

Apparently, Pops was relieving himself in the front yard in broad daylight. Jimmy-Jo might not put clothes on for company, but he knows bathroom behavior in the front yard is a serious faux pas.

Thankfully, I was done outside and suggested Jimmy-Jo and I go inside to crunch some numbers.

After turning down another offer of a cold beer from, I began plugging numbers into the system to generate his quote. Meanwhile, Jimmy-Jo filled me in on his life status. He lived here in Florida while his wife and kids stayed in Virginia. She couldn’t leave her job until that house was sold, and he was not about to give the house away.

“People do not want to pay for anything anymore. They just want you to give it away. Well, I’m not doing that. I’ll keep the house before I give it away. I just miss my wife and kids.”

The irony of being a salesman and hearing this monologue from a man who would later tell me the price was too high was not lost on me.

I continued to plug away as Jimmy-Jo wandered in and out of the house. The next time he entered, I let him know I was ready to show him the contract. At this point, both he and Pops were in the house.

When I looked up from my tablet to show the contract to him, I suddenly realized Jimmy-Jo had returned in less clothing than he had left. He’d ditched the board shorts and was rocking some grey Tommy-Hilfiger button-(thank you Lord)-fly boxers.

While Jimmy-Jo had lost some personal property, Pops had gained some. He had a plastic bag full of fast food joint napkins he was saving, and what, at first glance, looked like a small toolset.

“I’m glad you found that one Dad. He lost the other two.”

“What is it?” I asked as I simultaneously looked closer at the box to see it clearly labeled Smith & Wesson.

“That’s his 9-mill. He lost his other two guns: a shotgun and a rifle.” Jimmy-Jo and Pops explained the other two guns in detail as they showed me the fully loaded handgun.

“Well, he didn’t exactly lose them. His damn family stole them from him. Not my side. His other side of the family.”

Unlike Jimmy-Jo’s boxers, I was not able to close. But that did not stop him from walking me to my car and enjoying some more small talk together. Apparently using the bathroom in the front yard is off-limits, but walking down your driveway in nothing but your boxer shorts is standard operating procedure. I can see why Pops would be confused.

Why Quit?

Being good at something or successful at something doesn’t mean you find satisfaction in it. This is no secret to most of the world, but it took me years to understand and accept this.

I went to college to be a teacher. I went to graduate school to be an administrator. I made plans, set goals, and achieved them. This is who I am. It is exhausting to tolerate me and my personality. I do not know how my wife does it, but she does. She is a saint.

The goal defined me. I set my path and it wasn’t in me to stray from the plan. The seed for this blueprint was set in my wise adolescent mind at the ingenious age of 15 when I awkwardly tutored a pretty blond girl in Algebra and realized how fun and rewarding it was to teach someone something.

As a teacher, students came back to me to tell me they were making A’s on all of their college papers and thanked me for my work teaching them to write. They trusted me with their problems. They knew I was stern, strict, and held high expectations, but they also knew I treated all of my students this way and wanted them to maximize their potential.

As an administrator students and parents trusted me because they knew I treated them fairly, equally, and did not make decisions based on race, color, creed, or economic status. This did not always make me friends, but it made me dependable.

My mission in education was to act with integrity and honor in pursuit to educating children who would become self-sufficient, independent, contributing members of society. I carried out that mission the best as I could.

Yet, my tenure in the world of public education left me wanting.

The wanting had me chasing fulfillment in promotions and advanced degrees, but the chase had to end. I became a principal. I was in charge of the entire school. I made the rules, changed the rules, improved the policies, guided the students, and lead the faculty and staff. I listened to the needs and improved the school. I made a difference in my students’ lives and the lives of my employees. But, it did not make a difference in me. I felt empty, unchallenged - or not challenged enough.

During my years in education, I passed on several opportunities to leave the profession because I was a coward.

When I first began the profession, I started a landscaping company and paid off all of my debt in 7 months. I could have turned it into my sole profession, I was scared to leave my small, but steady paycheck.

While I was teaching, I became a freelance writer for a weekly newspaper. My editor offered me an opportunity to be hired as a staff writer for a daily paper, but the salary was less than my meager teaching salary, and I would have to move. My simple-minded youthful brain passed on this amazing opportunity because I did not want to make any less money or move from my current town a whopping two-hours away. No risk, no reward.

I considered applying for the FBI, joining the military or the reserves, but I met a girl (not my wife).

The excuses to remain in education continued to stack-up with the years, as did the regrets for not taking the leap.

Fast-forward to 2018: Opportunity knocked yet again. This time in the form of a sales job. I would not allow myself another missed opportunity or thought of what could have been. With the unwavering support of my amazing wife, I took the leap.

It has been 2-months, and the entries here will chronicle the more interesting and humorous visits I make into people’s homes.

First Things First

I am a traveling salesman, driving to homes all day to peddle my goods. But it wasn’t always this way:

In 2008, I was three years into being a high school English teacher. I knew the job wasn’t for me. How can people do this job for 30+ years? I did it for 3 years and it was Ground Hog Day every semester. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. My love for literature and writing being not-so-slowly beaten down by teenage angst and either oppressively hovering or absentee parents.

But that was my problem, not theirs. Teenagers are teenagers and parents are...a little crazy.

Rather than change careers. I played it safe and masked my dissatisfaction with my ambition. I earned advanced certifications, fellowships, internships, and promotions.

Fast forward ten years and there I was: Mr. High School Principal.

I made it.

I had the office.

I climbed the ladder.

I had the name plate - two actually: one from my parents and one from my last boss.

I was running a school for at-risk high school children. Truly making a difference for teenagers who would have otherwise dropped out of school. Graduating more students in one year than the school had ever graduated in its history. I secured a fellowship for a degree in administration for one of my teachers. The teacher of the year for my school became the teacher of the year for the district. I recruited and increased enrollment over and above the expectations of the superintendent, securing  new positions for the following year.

So, I quit.