Another Way to Negotiate

Another way to Negotiate

After reviewing a recent video about how to properly negotiate for a house in Israel, I recalled my own negotiations - many years ago when things were a bit different.

I had attended a learning center in the north of Israel with my brother. We didn't speak any Hebrew and, of course, this was necessary to get around, albeit many Israelis had a good working knowledge of English. We studied along with many other immigrants from many different countries, England, Australia, South Aftrica, Ireland, Canada - these were the "Anglo Saxons". Others were the "Orientals" from Morocco. Algeria, Iraq, India - basically North Africa and The Middle East - also Europe and South America. The Orientals spoke French and Arabic and the Middle Eastern people spoke some French, but mostly Arabic and the South Americans spoke Spanish and Portuguese of course and the Europeans all the languages they speak. It was interesting to observe the different customs and ways among the different groups. I befriended many of the Moroccans and learned quite a bit of French while I was studying there as well as Hebrew. They made fun of us Americans - our accents - it was funny to see how others see us.  Arabic is not that different from Hebrew - not as different as English at all. The music in Morocco is very similar to what you'd hear on the radio in Israel. We didn't get the Beatles or Elvis - we got Farid Al Atash and Oumkeltoum. These were like the Beatles all across the Middle Eastern world.

I got fairly close with these people - all the people there, but especially the North Africans. I learned a lot of French and I got an inside track on how to get by in a country that was two thirds North African. I  also learned about living within strict socialist regimes. After all, people get by in most any kind of social system you can imagine. It is vital to know how though!

This is not a story about comparative socio- economics, it is a true story and a funny story about what you'd probably do yourself in a situation like the one I found myself in.   

I was living in a dormitory with my Israeli wife and my first child, my son, Avi, who  had been born and was only a few months old. The one bedroom apartment was very small and not really a good place to live for a student with a family. So I went to the Jewish Agency office and prepared to present my case for a new apartment. According to the Law of Israel, each new immigrant has a right to a home there. What kind of home depends on his needs and his work status as well as his own resources.

I had been prepped for this meeting because, in actual fact, it depended largely on "favors" (bribes) offered to the officials as well as any connections one might have I had been told . This had been explained to me by my Polish friends who were used to this approach in life. My Moroccan friends had offered a completely different slant about getting ahead in Israel. "The rusty hinge gets the oil - "squawk  as loud as you can - jump up and down and threaten as many people as possible, and their families." In America we don't do things this way at all. We are reasonable.

I explained my situation to the agent, how tight the dormitory was and how it was not a good place for a new baby. Also, I had a house coming to me by Law. He smiled a broad "Polish bribe smile" at me, I swear I could see him working this out. "There's nothing wrong with the dormitory - this is your house." He smiled and probably was waiting for me to offer him some kind of "favor" that my Polish friends had warned me about. I didn't know exactly what to do, but each second I was getting hotter and hotter and - finally I started calling him some real classic things that I had learned from my Polish and Moroccan friends - and I still don't know where I got the strength, but I started picking up all the furniture in the office and throwing it out the window - first floor - broke the glass too. He left the office to call the police and I just kept jumping up and down and throwing stuff out the window. I was really mad at the hopeless bureaucracy and frustrated by my own inability to make anything happen.

The police arrived shortly and took me downtown where I waited for the young magistrate to hear my side of the story. Israel is different in more ways than one it turns out. "What happened", he asked me as I explained to him how the response to my very real difficulty had upset me and "what would you have done?" He said "I would have done the same thing", and started to laugh and he kept laughing and added, "Don't do it again, it will be alright." The Moroccans were right. Another Israeli had a friend who was a journalist and advised me to tell him my story which would have been published in an English Language newspaper, but it never got that far.

What do you know, the Jewish Agency decided to award me a beautiful brand new three bedroom apartment about half an hour's drive from the University.

I had learned how to negotiate in the Middle East. It's an art. Don't forget, this was all conducted in the Hebrew Language with a few borrowed curse words from Polish and Arabic. It was a full validation of everything I had learned. I was extremely proud.   

Nine Twenty Two

Nine Twenty Two

"Nine Twenty Two"  was a banquet hall located at 922 North Broad Street in Philadelphia, probably for the better part of a century. It was called "Nine Twenty Two" by those who worked there and most everybody associated with it, including my father and myself. It was around the corner from "Fourteen Hundred", which was another catering hall situated at 1400 West Girard Avenue. My dad was the head waiter at Fourteen Hundred and I started  working there as a "wine waiter" at age seventeen.

It was a wedding and my dad had just finished showing me how to wrap the wine bottle in a cloth napkin and how to properly hold and pour it. There was a commotion at the top of the stairs where the guests entered . The father of the bride had fallen down the steps. He died. The wedding celebration continued. After all, all the guests were just arriving, the food was cooked and ready, the bar and tables were set, the band was there and the music already playing. This is a true story. No one will believe it anyway and I doubt that many will read it. Far too few people read anymore. I have not embellished it in any way.

Fourteen hundred was the seediest place you could imagine. It was leftover from the prohibition era. Someone had stored it in an old trunk in an attic. It was dusty, moldy, and yet somehow, like an old restaurant or resort,  still managed to hold onto a mysterious charm that had become the memories of so many thousands of guests. One of the partners of the catering business that ran Fourteen Hundred as well as Nine Twenty Two and several hotels in town, had owned at least one "speakeasy" back in the thirties I was told. They had bootlegged whiskey, made their own and whatever else they could get away with. When I got out of the army about twenty years later I saw him on South Street and called his name. He must have been ninety at the time. He smiled a broad warm smile and came and gave me a hug. He asked how I was doing. No one did this any more, but he did. No one else greeted me after the army, just him and his partner.  The other partner for whom the business was named had been in the Normandy Invasion. He was a ranger. He gave me a job in a restaurant he had when I got home and needed a job. He was still in the business,  He was a gambler.  The story was that he used to take the money the customer paid  from the "job", and bet it at the track. If he won everyone would get paid. A "job" was what any catered affair was called. A wedding, confirmation, bar - mitzvah, convention or whatever event was being celebrated. There were two unions in Philadelphia, the kosher union and the Italian union. I was in both. You get to know a lot about people when they're drunk. Italians drink beer at their weddings as opposed to hard liquor. I have no idea why. 

They were all crooks and gamblers and everything else that went with that life style. There wasn't one of them that would think twice to risk his life for you. They were all WWII vets. I used to like being part of it, even if it was just as a young "apprentice". I liked the way the call girls at the hotels smiled at me and treated me like crew. We worked a lot of hotels too. I liked the music. I met Red Rodney at Fourteen Hundred. I'll never forget that dusty old stage and Red and his trumpet. My dad told me, "That's Red Rodney." He was a jazz great.  I got to know all the bartenders too, and most of the hotels in downtown Philly. Don't think that's not an advantage. 

One day after I had been teaching in Philly for about five years or so, I passed 922 driving up broad street. The whole block was being razed, including 1400. You could see the stairway that led down to the basement where the food was prepared. There was a little office under the staircase where they used to play cards. You'd see them with their thirty eights in their holsters, smoking cigars just like in the movies. Some very high up city detectives as well. Don't tell anybody. They were always at it down there. Drinking and laughing and playing very serious card games for very serious money.One of the owner's brother's was machine gunned to death in Miami. He owed someone money. Not such a nice guy really. I didn't grieve. May he rest in peace. 

The whole thing was being razed. An entire era was being eaten up and chewed down by a hungry bulldozer. I watched it. It was more than a friend of mine. It was something very special that I can't quite define...

The West Philadelphia Regional Track Meet

This is a totally true story.

It was the Philadelphia Regional Elementary School Track Championships. This was very serious business for us guys. It meant, among other things, that we would be competing against our arch rival. The Mann School. The Mann School was located up the hill in Wynnefield, which, in those days, and probably today as well, was a much more affluent neighborhood than our own in West Philadelphia, which didn't have much of anything, not even a name: perhaps, "down there".  No, our socks didn't match and we smelled kind of funny, but, goodness, we were tough. No one messed with us. OK, we had less, but we played hard. Get the picture? And here we were. Showtime was just around the corner. We'd show them alright!

We decided to train for the event. The heel of my right foot still bears the scars of the training. Gosh. don't ever practice broad jumping on a sidewalk. Never do that! Well, it would heal well enough to compete in the hundred yard dash. Each day at recess and even after school, we'd be there racing and jumping and coaching and offering advice, like a band of young Indian braves whooping and jumping before a raid. It was exciting I tell you! We had strategies. Who ever heard of a strategy for running!?

As the day approached, our enthusiasm mounted. We did not yet know who would win the big race. We had many fast runners. I was among them. The fifth grade Olympics of West Philadelphia was about to happen. Who would get the gold? As I recall, they actually gave out ribbons. We didn't get any, but that's the heart and soul of this story anyway.

As the participants lined up for the big race, you couldn't hear yourself think for all the shouting, as all the kids started cheering out of their minds with excitement. I remember the shouts and the screaming and I remember thinking which of us would win and be the hero of Heston Elementary School. And then it happened. The heats were  timed. The girls' heats began. Out of the blue, mind you, literally from out of nowhere, with the wind itself, shot Beverly. I'm not kidding you. She flew. Beverly was a tall thin black girl whose legs reached up to her neck. She was a gazelle. No one knew, certainly none of us guys, but this was to be her day. I never saw a stride like hers on anybody, not even today, not even the real Olympics. "Wham, swish, whoosh", she swallowed up the school yard, like a hungry wildcat after a rabbit. 

That girl, that long legged girl who owned one dress and wore it every day to school and to the track meet as well. knocked the heck out of all of us. God Bless Beverly!

The Belmont Stakes 2004

    The Belmont Stakes  2004

From;  "The Continuing Adventures of Wooples the Cat"

     It was a terrible day in Philadelphia. It was raining fairly heavily and kind of cold too.  I had been watching the running of the Belmont Stakes with Wooples. Wooples rarely watched television but he would keep me company if I was interested in watching a program. He preferred watching the birds on the front lawn. Hed jump up on the back of the chair by the front window and peer out between the vertical blinds with an intensity that reminded me of documentaries of hunched lions peering at prey through high grasses.  But today was different. We were going to watch Smarty Jones win the triple crown of horse racing and have a Smarty Party.  I had been caught up in the Smarty Jones excitement that had  swept through Philadelphia. Smarty was going to win the triple crown of horse racing and Philadelphia was going to be famous and the whole world would be happy.

     I had explained all this to Wooples during a commercial about Visa credit cards. Wooples assured me that he would help me root for Smarty and that he felt confident that Smarty would win the triple crown of horse racing andPhiladelphia would be famous  and the whole world would be happy.  

      The rest is history. As Smarty got nosed out toward the finish, I turned the TV off. I couldnt bear to see or hear any more. I was thrown back to 1964 when the Phillies lost the national league pennant.  We were 6 0r 7  games ahead toward the end of the season. All we had to do was win one game, one game in ten. We lost them all! Goodbye world series. Goodbye famous Philadelphia. Goodbye happy world. It just wasnt in the cards.

     Wooples was lying on the floor with his chin on the carpet, his eyes nearly closed. He turned and looked up at me. "He ran as fast as he could" he said, and shut his eyes. He shuts his eyes whenever hes sad or sympathetic. Sometimes he shuts his eyes when you scratch his back or pet him but then he purrs too.

"I dont know what happened Wooples"  - I offered, lost for an explanation. "He was supposed to win. Everyone said he was going to win. The odds were 1-5!! for heavens sake."

     We let it go for several hours. Wooples was still brooding. He broods when he doesnt understand something. "He tried as hard as he could" he said. "He ran with all his heart Smarty probably feels real bad now."

     I felt bad too. I imagined a large number of people in Philadelphia who had to cancel their Smarty Parties felt bad as well. No triple crown. No famousPhiladelphia. No happy world. No champagne. Just a big let down. Sometimes you lose Wooples. When you lose, youre supposed to feel bad. "OK", he said, and we brooded together.

Working the System

People that claim that school is a total waste of time are definitely ignorant. Certainly they haven't listened closely to their teachers or watched what was going on because there is a wealth of learning occurring there.
It was only in second grade where I first realized there was a way to beat the system. Legal Loopholes. There're legal loopholes in everything! Anything!
My favorite thing in the second grade was candy. Ask anybody. Candy is the best thing there is without a doubt. Any second grader knows that. There's only one problem - and I'm not talking about ruining teeth or appetites for dinner. The only problem is that it is absolutely forbidden - against the law - forget it - to eat candy, chew gum, display candy of any kind in the classroom. Can't do it.
Unless you're smart. And smart is why we're in school. Many of you might have missed this lesson. so we're going over it again. The key is "Doctor". Doctor is the highest level of address, the highest level of anything there is in education - almost in the world. The only thing higher is "filthy rich"!  So there's the legal loophole. If the doctor says it's OK to eat candy in the classroom, anybody and everybody can eat candy in the classroom - every day - all the time - all over the place -  it's candy day! Get it? Sure - it's coming back. Bring in a note from the doctor. That's all you have to do. All is excused. More of this later.
Now, the Smith Brothers have already set up this loophole. Remember the Smith Brothers? Those two long bearded gents on the box of Smith Bros. Cough Drops? They're still going strong. More power to them.They got away with selling these licorice, anise and sugar candies as medicine and made quite a bit of money at it - bless them - anything works for forty percent of the people - anything - just check this out! Salt over the shoulder works too. This is not the point however. And I like Smith Bros, Cough Drops - especially the wild cherry, the bubble gum, and the roast chicken very much! I like to think that you're getting this.

Private School

A new type of teaching job has come my way recently. A sort of semi-private school, both a live-in, boarding school as well as a locally "drafted from the eighth grade" contingent of students.
The sign business has been slow meanwhile and needs more promoting.
I had a story in mind yesterday, to write for you, but I can't recall it. It would have had to be a true story and, at the same time, entertaining. I can't for the life of me remember any part of it except for birds eating seeds? - possibly an experience I had as a young boy at my friend's family's farm. - we'll see.

How to Work

                                                                            How to Work

As a retired teacher, I can't help but look back at the changes that have occurred over the years.

Certainly, many things change naturally. They keep up with social and technical developments. There's

not much need to drive a horse and wagon loaded with ice through the streets of Philadelphia today. I can recall when men did this. We really liked when the "iceman" would chip off a piece of a block of ice and throw it to us on the steamy July days that seemed to go on forever when we were kids. Hey,  I can remember summers that seemed longer than forever, and they were great summers too! No, there's no icemen around anymore, not around any place I know anyway. This is not particularly bad though. We don't have to hunt deer with bows and arrows or throw spears or rocks either. That's not bad either. The point is that we don't have to teach it in school any longer.

This story is about "work" and its meaning to a ten year old child - me.

The father of one of the students in our fifth grade class died trying to save a little girl from drowning. He had jumped in a lake or some river trying to save her and he drowned. I don't know what happened to the girl, but I felt sorry for the boy in our class. He now had no dad and the reason was that his dad had tried to save a little girl. That was sad. It wasn't right somehow. So I decided to make an effort to be a better friend to the boy. This was an introduction to the world of "work"  for me. Soon, I found myself working in the same linoleum flooring store as my friend. We would clean up and sweep the floor and carry rolls of linoleum flooring to the customers that lived around the neighborhood. Some of those rolls got real heavy on the shoulder by the time you got to the person's house. Occasionally, I would go to the store and buy a cup of coffee for our boss, the fellow that owned the store. I remember the smell of the coffee and  the paper  cup in the bag just as if I was carrying it down the street right now. "Work" had all kinds of twists and turns and details you'd never expect. The best part of this job, was getting paid on Saturdays. I think it was fifty cents for after school and Saturdays. That was a lot of money for a kid. Two comic books at least. Candy bars so you could chew on 'em and read the comic books at the same time. I also bought a stamp album and I'd buy stamps and glue them in with these little sticky transparent tabs. It was great fun for a ten year old. The ideas for all of this probably came from our class at school.

We did other kinds of "work" too. We sold pretzels around the neighborhood. Reisman's Pretzels. There were prizes for selling the most pretzels. I think they still do this.  My Mom got all our relatives to buy boxes of pretzels and I won a little flash camera. Gosh I miss that camera.  

Later, at another school, I think, we sold magazine subscriptions. I won a lamp for that.

It's amazing just how much practical know how you can pick up as a child in school.

How to "work" is an important lesson that I think needs more emphasis today.