4/10/23
Newsletter #303
The Crack of Dawn
My dad was a difficult guy under normal circumstances, but very little made him more difficult than trying to borrow money from him. It didn’t matter if you were family, friend or foe, he was going to fuck you. If it wasn’t his greatest joy, it was up there.
I recall calling him from L.A. when I was eighteen years old and asking to borrow a couple of hundred dollars. “Do you want to borrow money,” he asked, “or do you want me to give it to you?” I said, “No, I’d like to borrow it.” “OK,” he said, “to borrow money you have to have collateral. What have you got that’s worth anything?” I said, “My car.” He said, “You can’t afford to lose that. What else?” I was stumped, “That’s it, I guess.” He said, “If you haven’t got collateral you can’t borrow money.” I said, “OK, how about you just give it to me.” My dad said, “I don’t give away money. Anything else?” I said, “No.” He said, “Good talking to you,” and that was that.
So, my dad had a friend named Sam Jannet. Every time I heard his name I thought, “Sam and Jannet evening, you will meet a stranger.” Sam owned a chain of furniture stores named Corey Dinette that had been in the Detroit area for many years. At its peak in the 1970s Sam had thirty-five stores. By 1991 Sam was down to seven stores and was struggling. Then he made his fatal decision; he decided to borrow money from my dad. My dad was perfectly willing to lend Sam some money, but only under the strictest terms imaginable. Sam took the deal, then was late on a payment. My dad cut him no slack at all, immediately foreclosed and took possession of all the stores. Sam was outraged and never spoke to my dad again. Still, Sam had made the deal, and a deal’s a deal. As far as my dad was concerned, friendship was for assholes.
Right then I bailed out on L.A. for the fourth time and moved back to Michigan. Uncharacteristically, my dad offered me a job as a salesman at Corey and I took it. Sam Jannet’s son, Jeff, was still working there, and he was the manager of one of the stores. My father demoted him to salesman. Jeff was so furious that he walked out of the store, got in the company van, then wouldn’t return it. I asked my dad what he was going to do. My dad said, “Fuck him.” I said, “But what about the van?” My dad said, “He can have it. It’s an old piece of shit, and cheaper than retirement benefits.”
Oddly for me, I liked selling furniture and was good at it. Soon I was the best salesman in the store. The manager took me out to lunch, and I thought he was going to commend me and say he was surprised at how well I was doing. Instead, he said, “I’ve got to let you go.” I couldn’t believe it and said, “But I’m the best salesman in the store.” He said, “I know. I’m sorry to lose you. But your dad is closing down two more stores, and that means employees have to go.” I asked, “Does he know you’re firing me?” The manager said, “Yes, he knows.” And that was my experience as a furniture salesman.
I had no idea what I would do next. I sat around for a few days completely confused. I couldn’t even hold on to a job in a store that my father owned. What was left for me? Then my phone rang and it was my old buddy, Craig Peligian, from Detroit. Craig had moved to L.A. several years earlier and was now producing a new TV show called Real Stories of the Highway Patrol. He said they were coming to Michigan to work with the Michigan State Police, and the minute he heard it he thought of me. Was I interested in directing reenactment segments? I said of course I was. He said he’d get back to me. He called the next day and said that there was a delay with the Michigan State Police, so instead he wanted me to fly to Sacramento and work with the California Highway Patrol, which I did. Then I came back to Michigan and worked with the State Police, then I went back to Sacramento. In any case, I was back in the movie/TV biz.
I’m now in a hotel in Newark, NJ, and I fly back to Detroit tomorrow. Because I’m a schnook and missed my flight in Barcelona, I ended up flying to Zurich, Switzerland, then back to Newark.
As my Grandma Olga used to say, “It’s nice to leave, and it’s nice to come home.”