Description – Journal 1985: The Life of a Salesman Who Dreams of Writing Again is one of many yearly journals written by San Francisco author Joseph Sutton. In this 7000-word journal, Sutton writes about the highs and lows of being a wholesale salesman of costume jewelry. He writes about his wife, their four-year-old son, and the constant battles he has with his teenage stepson. Sutton dreams of getting back to being the writer of fiction that was far from lucrative for him but supporting his family as a salesman takes precedence over everything else.
JOURNAL 1985
Thursday, February 7, 1985 – Four years ago, to the day, my one and only son, Raymond, was born. He’s quite a character. He’s very articulate, energetic, and boisterous. He’s my son and I love him with all my heart.
What the hell am I doing selling costume jewelry to stores when I should be writing novels and short stories? The simple answer is: I haven’t made much money as a writer, but as a salesman I’ve been able to support my family.
I phone customers and make appointments. I rush to appointments that are sometimes broken. If broken, I make sure to hold in my anger, for that person could eventually be a good customer. I drive here, I drive there, I lug suitcases, I make big sales, I make small sales. I sometimes give in to a good customer who asks for a five- or ten-percent discount.
In my travels around the Bay Area, I see a lot of people who live in parks and sleep on sidewalks. It saddens me to see such a sight.
Sunday, April 14, 1985 – Am I a writer or not? I don’t know anymore. If I write every day, I’m a writer. If I write sporadically, I’m not a writer. I guess I’m not a writer at this point in my life. I’m a salesman of costume jewelry is what I am.
My asthma is gone. I’m a healthy human being again due to my chiropractor, Skip Diamond, who helped cure my asthma by adjusting my back and advising me to eat more fruit and vegetables and by cutting out dairy products and red meat from my diet.
Sales work is all right compared to teaching. Teaching was very stressful for me last year at McAteer High. I didn’t have my own classroom, which made me rush from one classroom to another four times every day. That was the main culprit that led to my coming down with asthma. Or maybe the culprit was breathing recycled air from the building’s ventilation system. Or maybe it was breathing invisible asbestos particles floating in the air from the worn ceilings in two of the five classrooms I taught in. I do a lot of driving as a salesman. Driving 100 miles every day is not the greatest thing in the world to do, but it’s getting me outside and breathing fresh air instead of teaching at a school that had no windows in the classrooms.
Tomorrow I will get up early and leave for Monterey and Carmel. I’ll sleep the night somewhere in that area and then hit Santa Cruz on my way back. It’ll be the first time I’ll pay for a room since becoming a salesman eight months ago.
Raymond is now four years and two months. He had a great day at the beach yesterday, playing in the water and running away from the incoming waves. He told me about 10 times that he liked it very much. He’s getting to be a fast runner from what I can see. He’s taking his nap right now before we go out to dinner with Joan’s father, William Bransten. The poor man can’t walk anymore because of Parkinson’s. He’s almost 80 years old but still has a solid handshake. He keeps hanging in there even though it’s very hard for him to communicate or do anything without someone’s help.
Sol, my 14-year-old stepson, is getting a little more thoughtful around the house. He still talks on the phone too much, combs his hair a lot, buys more clothes than he needs, and stays at his friends’ houses on the weekends. He’s on the lacrosse team and is doing well. I never see him do homework.
Monday, April 15, 1985 – I’m sitting at a desk in a quiet room. I’m not going to say what desk or room, because that’s what this little story is all about.
It’s my first night on the road as a salesman. I’m in Carmel Valley. San Francisco is 2½ hours north of here. Carmel is next door to Monterey, the town that John Steinbeck made famous in Cannery Row.
My story begins at 5:30 this morning, when I got out of bed to get ready for my first trip to the Monterey Peninsula. I had an appointment in Monterey on Cannery Row to sell my line of low- to medium-priced costume jewelry. I left our flat at 6:50 and hit a traffic jam around Santa Clara on Highway 101. The jam cleared up as I entered San Jose, and then it was smooth sailing from there. I arrived at Cannery Row at 9:15.
I was a little early for my appointment, so I started to look for women’s shops in the area. I represent two lines of costume jewelry, a line of hair combs and barrettes, a line of women’s hats, and a line of sweatshirts and sweatpants. The first store I walked into I talked to a man, but he wasn’t the owner or buyer. I gave him my spiel about the different lines I carried. As I was about to hand him my card, the owner of the store called. I talked to the owner who seemed extremely interested in sweats. He said he’d be at the store between 2 and 3 p.m. I told him I’d call him around that time.
I entered the store where I had my appointment. The woman behind the counter said the owner wasn’t in but would be in for sure at 2:30 p.m.
“Well,” I thought, “at least he’ll be in the store. If he wasn’t going to be in at all, it would have been thoughtful of him to call the office in San Francisco to leave a message for me. Luckily, a couple of weeks ago I was going to drive down and called to make sure he was in, but he said he’d have to break the appointment. He couldn’t break it for a second time, could he? That’s why I drove all the way down here to keep the appointment, to keep my word. Well, at least he’ll be in later today.”
A salesman has to make most of his time. He can’t waste it or else he won’t make a living for him and his family. I walked into a few stores on Cannery Row and all I got was, “Not interested.”
“Goddamn,” I said to myself, “I’ve got to get some business going,” I said calmly to myself and not as if I were uptight for wasting a day driving all the way down to Monterey. “I have to make something of my first day and night on the road. To Carmel, then.”
It was a short drive to Ocean Avenue in Carmel. I did as I was taught when hitting an area for the first time: I drove around the business district to see how big it was. I was astonished to find that it was enormous for the size town that Carmel was. There were many women’s shops that carried hats and jewelry. “This should be a good place for business,” I thought.
I found a parking place and started out by going to those stores that were on my company’s old account’s list. “Hello,” I greeted the owner of the first store I entered, “I’m Joe Sutton. You must be Arianne.” “Yes, yes,” she said. “I don’t see any of the hats you ordered in January,” I said. “Oh,” she said, “I asked for them to be shipped today, April 15th.”
I found about a dozen other stores who used to do business with my JPR jewelry line, but none of them were interested. “Hey,” I told myself, “I ain’t gettin’ any biz going. I gotta stay in the area tonight and pay $25-$30 for a room, plus pay for gas and meals. I’m gonna end up losing money instead of making money.”
I drove to another part of Carmel, the Crossroads Mall, and couldn’t sell a couple of stores my sweats line. Then I walked into this other store, Isadora’s, and the woman said she was interested, but that she was already working with a saleswoman. “Call me back later,” she said.
Well, to make a long story short, I went to The Barnyard where there were a bunch of shops. No dice there. I went back to Isadora’s. Nothing.
It was 2:30 p.m. and I decided to phone the store I originally had an appointment with. The owner was in. “Maybe this day won’t be a total loss,” I thought. But the man said, “My wife’s very sick today. I need her here if we’re going to buy jewelry. I’m so sorry this happened.” I didn’t say a word and just hung up.
I called the store I walked into earlier in the morning, but the owner wasn’t in.
I had one number left on JPR’s old account’s list. It was 13 miles out of Carmel in an area called Carmel Valley. The woman I talked to said she’d be interested in looking at my line of jewelry. It was going to be my last stop before I called it a day to find a room for the night.
It was a spa or a place that helped people lose weight that I drove to. I walked into the Boutique. This woman Phyllis was busy talking on the phone. I looked around and read up on the spa. It was an expensive place for people to relax and get back on the track both physically and spiritually.
I showed Phyllis my two lines of jewelry and my line of sweats. She bought $100 worth of jewelry. Since I make 10% of every sale, that meant I would earn only $10 for my day’s work.
While showing Phyllis my different lines, I found out she, like me, was from Los Angeles. Both of us went to Bancroft Junior High and Fairfax High School, but at different times. We surely had something in common, plus we were born into the Jewish religion and lived in the same area of L.A. of the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s. We were like brother and sister.
“You know what?” said Phyllis. “We have an extra room, Joe. Stay here. Eat here. No charge.”
So here I am, after one of the most depressing and grueling days I’ve had in the eight months I’ve been a salesman. Yes, here I am, sitting at a desk in a quiet room, sipping wine after being served a wonderful dinner of chicken, salad, vegetables, and champagne in the spa’s dining room. I’m out in the country where there are sounds of crickets instead of cars. To me, it’s like being in Shangri-La.
Thursday, May 2, 1985 – Joan and I had an argument about Sol this morning. I need him to contribute more to the running of the household. Joan and I work our heads off while 14-year-old Sol eats dinner, goes immediately to his room to listen to music and talk on the phone. I resent Sol for being lazy, unconscious, uncaring, uncooperative, and sullen. He rarely listens to what I say. It’s hard being a stepfather.
After making a lot of calls at the office today, I zoomed on down to Menlo Park and worked with Louise Tayan. She bought $200 worth of hair ornaments. She took my advice about the items that were selling the best.
I then drove over the San Mateo Bridge to Moraga—an hour drive. I worked with Ann Berkowitz who bought $175 worth of earrings. Her eyes fluttered whenever she spoke.
Friday, May 3, 1985 – Everything worked out fine when I got home tonight. Joan made a nice well-rounded meal and Sol contributed by washing the dinner dishes. Joan must have talked to him after our argument yesterday.
Today, when I walked into Cinderella Jewelry at the Tanforan Shopping Center in San Bruno and asked the lady if she would be interested in my JPR jewelry line, she said she’d already bought JPR from Rod McKenzie. My heart sank. I thought, “What the hell is Rod doing selling JPR in my territory?” When I got back to the office, I was furious when I told Jack Levine, the owner of JPR, that I was stabbed in the back by Rod selling in my territory. “The three of us talked territory last week,” I said, “and now he’s broken his word!” Jack said he’d talk to Rod about it.
Monday, May 6, 1985 – Sol argued back to me tonight, without Joan being present, that he does a lot of work around this house. He takes out the garbage once a week, if he happens to be home. He takes out the bottles and cans every three weeks. And he takes care of Raymond for maybe an hour or two a week. He thinks that’s contributing big time. My blood pressure rose dramatically when I heard his very poor argument. He doesn’t realize that his mother and I work full-time and that we need more than this small “contribution.” The only recourse I have is not to do the dishes after dinner. Joan is either going to do them herself or she’s going to have to ask Sol. Sol, in my opinion, does not give a hoot about helping out. He knows that Joan and I will argue about it and that it might be something to split the whole family apart. Maybe he doesn’t know this, but he’s sure making things go that way.
After dinner I am going to come into my room and write. It has to be an everyday occurrence or else I’ll never be a writer. What will I write about? Whatever happens to me—my thoughts, my actions. Today, for instance I had a 9:30 appointment in Vallejo, which is 35 miles northeast of San Francisco. I got there on time and was told that the buyer had trouble with her car. Well, I could understand that. But an hour or so later, I came back and the buyer still hadn’t arrived.
I went to another place and showed the buyer three lines but he didn’t buy. He said he’d buy my samples, though. I told him I don’t sell my samples.
I got blanked today. I’m just skimming the surface of what happened at those two places, so I’ll go a little deeper. The first place was a beauty supply store called Fantasia. I had been in last week and the buyer told me to set up an appointment after I showed her my line of hair accessories. “I’ll buy,” she said, “don’t worry.” She didn’t show up.
The second place was a bargain store on a little traveled street. It was windy as hell today, and my hay fever of sneezing and a runny nose wouldn’t stop. It took the life out of me. I showed the man my sweats line in the draftiest spot of his store. No go, except he liked the price of the sweats. I showed him my hat line while I was sneezing and blowing my nose. He couldn’t make up his mind while the wind was breaking my body in two. Then he wanted to see my jewelry line. “Only if we sit in the sun,” I said. So, I went to my car, put my coat on, and lugged my jewelry line into his store. We sat in the sun and he still didn’t buy. Man, what’s with Vallejo, is there a conspiracy against me? A buyer doesn’t show up for an appointment, I spend an hour showing this fellow three of my lines and he doesn’t buy, and the Longs Drugs buyer who I saw two weeks ago didn’t send in the order.
It was a crappy day every which way. But tomorrow’s a new day.
Tuesday, May 7, 1985 – Joan and I had it out again last night until 2:00 a.m. It was about Sol, about living in a messy flat, about taking care of Raymond, about who was going to wash dishes, about making lunch, and about spoiling Raymond. It ended up, thank God, of us making love.
I made a few sales today in Lafayette and San Jose. Hairitage in Lafayette and Old Time Pharmacy and Clifford Drug in San Jose. Total sales $571.
I was very tired after staying up most of last night.
I saw my cousin Benny Sutton at his store in San Jose called Crazy Benny’s. He sells stereos and has them installed in cars. He also installs alarms and phones. He runs a big operation. Benny lets me use his phone when I’m in San Jose. It took me an hour and fifteen minutes to drive 40 miles from San Jose to San Francisco today because of the traffic on Highway 101. I have to remember to take Highway 280 from now on.
I got to San Francisco’s Main Library tonight at 6:45 p.m. It was a special night for the leader of the San Francisco Writer’s Workshop, Dean Lipton. Dean has led the Writer’s Workshop for the past 25 years. Marko Fong, a young writer, did a great job of explaining the Workshop to an audience of about 100 people. Dean was honored but didn’t say a word. Leonard Irving read a few of his poems. Gale Kaplan read a short story of hers. The second-floor rotunda has an exhibit of the Writer’s Workshop—their works and photos. I’m included in the exhibit.
Wednesday, May 8, 1985 – I had a good day today. I sold $2000 worth of jewelry. Longs Drugs in Hayward bought the bulk along with two stores in Berkeley.
The weather’s been beautiful the last few days—warm, sunny, clear.
It’s 10:20 p.m. and I’ve been going since 8:15 this morning.
When Raymond is tired he cries a lot and gets frustrated. It’s not easy being around him when he’s like that.
Monday, May 13, 1985 – All of a sudden, Saturday, I developed stomach flu. I was in bed 1½ days. I feel much better now. Skip Diamond says even though I get sick, I heal faster because of my diet, the back manipulations he gives me, and my exercise regimen. I believe him.
Next week I’m taking a whole week off. I’m thinking of camping my way up to Portland by myself because Sol and Raymond are in school and Joan is working.
Friday, I drove up to Novato and sold Longs Drugs. Earlier in the day I sold the gift shop at the Hyatt Hotel on the peninsula.
Sol is still showing his laziness and his defiance of contributing toward the running of this house. All we ask are simple things of him and he refuses to do them. Then he gets defiant when you keep at him. I just can’t have any feeling towards Sol when I see him act or not act. In the meantime, he talked for three hours on the phone tonight while I washed the dishes and pots. He’s so unaware, so self-centered, so lazy…so much a teenager.
Tuesday, May 14, 1985 – I played hooky for a couple of hours today. I stopped by Candlestick Park to take in the last three innings of the Giants-Pirates game. No one was at the gate and so I walked in for free. The Giants won 3-1. Mike Krukow pitched eight strong innings. The fans gave him a standing ovation when he walked off the field. He acknowledged the crowd by tipping his cap.
Monday, May 19, 1985 – I’m sitting at Burlington Campground in the Redwoods. It’s very quiet. Thank goodness there are none of those unthinking, loud-mouthed, alcoholic campers at this campground.
I left a loving Joan and Raymond this morning. Sol was sick in bed. It’s hard for me to love the kid. Neither of us can stand each other. I don’t know whether it’s his fault or mine. Sol seems so tormented with I don’t know what. His room is a stinking cesspool of clothes, paper, wires, pencils, money, and books strewn throughout his room, closet, and dresser drawers.
Should I sit down and talk to him? I feel like he wouldn’t listen to a word I say. He doesn’t think of getting a wallet so he won’t lose his money; he doesn’t think of picking up in his room so he’ll know where things are; he doesn’t think of putting clean clothes away so Joan and I won’t have to carry so much wash to the washing machine in the basement; he doesn’t think of washing a dish so Joan and I can take care of Raymond at night.
Tuesday, May 20, 1985 – I slept well last night. It was splendidly quiet.
Yesterday and today I went to my favorite beach and swim hole on the Eel River. It’s right off the Avenue of the Giants called Women’s Federation of America Grove.
What do I want to do in Portland? I want to see Steve and Leah and the places where I lived. There were five places, all on the South East side of town. I want to see friends and go into a tavern or two.
Saturday, May 25, 1985 – I spent 3½ days in Portland and was sick the whole time. I think it was from swimming in very cold water at my favorite swim hole. I’m still sick as I sit writing this entry in this $14 motel room in Yreka, California, a short distance from Mt. Shasta. Everything was wrong with me—my sinuses, a sore throat, feeling weak, and a bad case of laryngitis.
I stayed with my friends Steve Carey and Leah Shearin. Steve is the union rep for the community college teachers. There was a measure on the ballot to give the community college system more money, but it failed last Tuesday. Some teachers are going to lose their jobs, which worries Steve. Leah is working for a small law firm and enjoying it.
I saw all the old places I lived in. I went to a couple of taverns with Steve. I visited my friend Lenore Kaatari and her family in Longview, Washington, for a few hours. I struggled the whole time because I was weak and couldn’t talk much because of laryngitis. I didn’t want to talk much, but all I did was talk with my friends because I was their guest.
Wednesday, June 5, 1985 – I was with my friend Alan Blum at his place tonight. We watched an especially fantastic championship basketball game between the L.A. Lakers and the Boston Celtics. Truly a great game. Why? Because it was played decently and with respect. It wasn’t a jungle out there like it was in the first three games of the series. Jungle means an extremely physical game of dirty fouls, pushing, shoving, scratching. The game went down to the wire. Both teams played their finest. Magic Johnson did his magic, as did Kareem Abdul Jabbar, James Worthy, and Bob McAdoo of the Lakers. Larry Bird was his great self, as were Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, and Danny Ainge of the Celtics. But there was one man who stood out like a gem at The Forum in Los Angeles. He was the hero, the star, the man who made a last second desperation shot to win the game and tie the series at two games apiece: Dennis Johnson, guard of the Boston Celtics. [Note: The Lakers won the series 4 games to 2. They’re the 1985 NBA champions. In 1984 it was the Celtics and Lakers and the Celtics came out on top.]
Friday, July 19, 1985 – It’s been a long, long time since my last entry. The reason: Hard work. Out all day, driving, calling, schlepping, showing, and then when I get home it’s keeping a log of who I visited and the sales I made.
Sunday, August 11, 1985 – The last time Joan and I were at Wilbur Hot Springs was before Raymond was born. Now the three of us are here. Raymond is 4½ years old.
We arrived yesterday around noon. Raymond was tough on the trip. He wanted to be at Wilbur right away. It took us three hours to get here.
Overall, he’s been a good boy. He didn’t go into the hot bath until evening time yesterday. Now we can’t keep him out of it. He wouldn’t go into the pool either. Now he’s asking me to join him.
Wilbur Hot Springs in August. Hot, breezy, relaxing, good food cooked by Joan, sounds of my son, glancing at other nude bodies, nods of hello, quietness.
I don’t necessarily like being a salesman. Sure, everyone’s different, each sale is different, each day is different, but it’s the schlepping, the grunt work, the taking of bullshit from my customers that I don’t like.
Wednesday, August 14, 1985 – Sol wrote a letter to Joan and me about him and his friends going through every room in our flat, drinking beer, smoking, and actually breaking every rule in the book while we were at Wilbur Hot Springs. His letter was well written. There are a couple of places in it that I think he’s wrong, but on the whole, it shows growth on his part.
Tuesday, September 10, 1985 – I had an appointment at 9 a.m., 15 miles away, got there on time, and this woman acted crazy. She couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted to see my line of JPR jewelry or not. I didn’t get mad at her, I just told her that when she wants someone to travel 30 miles round-trip and can’t make up her mind, then she should cancel the appointment. It was depressing to start the day off like that. I wanted to go home or lie down in a park, but I’m a professional—I went to the business district in the area and tried to stir up some business. I almost got blanked. You see, not only do I have a line of jewelry, I have four lines of jewelry, a hat line, a hosiery line, a sweat shirt and pant line, a line of hair combs and barrettes, and a hand-bag line. It gives one the incentive of going into more stores than you would if you carried just one line. I ended up getting several good leads, and actually selling $179 worth of my hat line, of which I get 15% commission, which equals $26.85. But then I went to the JPR office to make calls. I can call out of the San Francisco area code and not pay for it when I go to the office. I made several appointments, which will be guaranteed sales for me. The phone and foot work have given me a decent clientele. I’m on the way to grossing $24,000 in my first year of sales. What with gas, phone-booth calls, bridge tolls, and eating expenses, it’ll probably come out to $20,000 for my first year in sales. That’s 11 months of work a year. A little less than $2000 a month. My boss Jack Levine is like a brother. I can be myself completely with him. I love and respect him. I believe he’s out to help and inspire me as much as he can. He was willing to give me a job after I quit the teaching profession due to the stress it caused me. He made it possible for me to stand on my own two feet again.
Something happened to me at the San Francisco Writer’s Workshop this evening after I read a story of mine. The major criticism was: it needs editing, cutting, less words. It was Chekov who said, “Be concise and to the point.”
I grew up in Hollywood. I was once a shortstop in my day. Of all the shortstops of my time—Pee Wee Reese, Marty Marion, Phil Rizzuto, Lou Boudreau—there’s one shortstop who was my light. He was a member of the Hollywood Stars in the old Pacific Coast League. He hustled, was the team’s leader, and in one game he raced home on a fly out to centerfield, not from third base, but from second base. His name was as American as the Redwoods, apple pie, Ford, and Coke. Dick Smith was his name; a most intelligent baseball player. The Hollywood Stars were owned by the Pittsburgh Pirates. Those who played for the Stars were Bill Mazeroski, Lee Walls, Carlos Bernier, Tommy Saffel, Ted Beard, Dale Long, and Johnny Lindell. Bobbie Bragan was the manager.
UCLA was my college football team. They had Paul Cameron, Bob Davenport, Don Moomaw, Hardiman Cureton, Bill Stitts, and Myron Berliner. My hero was Paul Cameron, the tailback in coach Red Sanders’ single-wing. Truly my hero. I met him when I was 13 and shook his hand. He literally and figuratively was an All-American.
I always wanted to go to UCLA to be another single-wing tailback like Paul Cameron, who was originally a third stringer, but when given a chance, he became the first stringer. He and another UCLA man, Jackie Robinson, were my all-time heroes. I didn’t have the grades to get into UCLA. Len Casanova, coach of the University of Oregon called and it was there that I went and played running back. I remember watching the 1958 Rose Bowl game on TV. Ohio State vs. Oregon. Ohio State was ranked #1 in the country, Oregon was ranked 17th. Ohio State was heavily favored by up to 20 points. Final score: Ohio State 10, Oregon 7. The Ducks, true underdogs, almost pulled off a giant upset. That’s why I went to Oregon and played for them in 1960 and ’61, but it didn’t pan out for me like it did for Paul Cameron. I was a fourth stringer and that’s where I stayed.
Wednesday, September 11, 1985 – I’m sitting in the sun on the steps of an old warehouse in Oakland near the shipyards, waiting for a jewelry customer of mine to show up. BART cars zoom by on my left near the roaring freeway. To my right the clanking and roaring of trucks picking up their loads off the docks.
The weather has been perfect for the past couple of weeks. This is actually the best time of the year for weather in the Bay Area.
Life. What am I doing selling costume jewelry? In a million years I never would have thought I’d be doing such a thing. But I’m doing it and I’m getting pretty damn good at it.
Mr. Baseball, Pete Rose, went 0 for 4 last night and didn’t break Ty Cobb’s record. Rose, 44, a year younger than me, is still going strong as ever. He must be built like a brick to have played in so many games and still be walking, much less swinging, catching, running, and sliding. I wonder if he still does those head-first dives he’s famous for?
I’m still waiting for the buyer to show up. It’s about the sixth time I’ve hurried to be here on time and he’s always late. Ah, here he is. He’s a very good customer of mine. I know his habit but it doesn’t bother me that much. I’ll just take my time getting here next time. [Note: Pete Rose, on the night of September 11, surpassed Ty Cobb’s hit record by getting his 4,192 career-hit off pitcher Eric Show of the San Diego Padres at Cincinnati’s Riverfront Stadium. Rose ended his career a year later with 4,256 hits.]
Tuesday, September 17, 1985 – It’s New Years-time for the Jewish people (Rosh Hashanah) and it’s time for the fascists to creep out of their holes and put time bombs on the walls of synagogues in San Francisco and God knows where else. Three bombs were diffused yesterday at three different locations around the city. Sad that we never learn about fascists such as Farrakhan and Falwell. We just never learn. Even the Jews have a fascist—Meir Kahane, from the U.S., but a member of the Israeli parliament. He wants to get rid of all Arabs in Israel. These fascists feed on hatred. Can you believe that a person has a following because he preaches hate and makes it sound logical? All I can say is, we live in a sorrowful state of affairs in this world. South African apartheid. Sad. Augusto Pinochet’s military dictatorship in Chile. Sad. Trouble in four Central American countries. Sad. The authoritarian rule of Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines. Sad.
The first thing I read when I get home from work is the sports page. Today’s big news: Exit manager Jim Davenport and general manager Tom Haller of the San Francisco Giants. Enter manager Roger Craig and general manager Al Rosen. I wish the new regime all the luck in the world.
Wednesday, October 30, 1985 – I was talking to Skip Diamond after he adjusted my back today. He told me a story of a good friend and football teammate of ours from Fairfax High, Max Himmelstein.
Max got married in his 20s, got a sales job with Shilling Spices, had two kids, rose in the ranks to be a part of Shilling’s management team, was making good money after 20 years, but deep down he was unhappy. He showed his depression by eating and drinking too much. He was just plain unhappy. One day, when Skip was visiting Max in Los Angeles, Max took him to a room, went into a closet and brought out his 1950s baseball cards. His face lit up with a smile when he showed Skip those cards. Skip ended his story by telling me how this depressed man, Max Himmelstein, quit his job (which his wife Paula strenuously objected to at the time) and went into the baseball card and sports memorabilia business. Max’s business is doing very well today. He’s been interviewed by newspapers, he’s been on TV and radio, and, most important of all, he’s happy and bringing in a better income at his store in the San Fernando Valley than he did working for Shilling.
Saturday, November 23, 2025 – To be a writer, one has to write. But now that I’m a salesman, I only dream of writing instead of sitting down and writing. Writing takes time away from relaxing, from watching TV, from exercise, from being with my wife and my four-year-old son.
Joan and I are going on a cruise to Mexico late next month. JPR is paying the way because I met my Fall 1985 goal of selling $100,000 worth of jewelry.
Thursday, November 28, 1985 – I’ve been very tired lately. I don’t know if it’s depression or if I’m worn out from working from June to today without a vacation. I really don’t know if I dislike my job or not. So, let’s see if it’s the reason why I feel like I’m in a rut that I can’t dig myself out of.
I get up and drive every day. I walk the streets and go into stores to see if they want to see the different lines I carry. If they want to see my jewelry line, I go back to my car and lift a 75-pound suitcase out of my trunk. I do this maybe four or five times a day.
Sometimes I get in and out of my car from 15-25 times a day. Finding parking places are a grind. Traffic jams are a grind. Driving long distances are a grind.
My job has worn me down to where I come home, eat, watch TV, and go to bed. I don’t want to do anything else.
What would I do if I didn’t need an income? I’d write, write, write.
Monday, December 23, 1985 – Joan and I are on Carnival’s cruise ship Tropicale. We’re presently off the coast of Baja California. We’re sunning ourselves on lounge chairs in 63-degree weather. The sky is cloudy with patches of blue, the Pacific is dark blue, it’s a little windy.
My friend Alan Blum drove us to the airport Saturday afternoon. Sol is staying with his father Ramon Sender and Ramon’s wife Judy in San Francisco. We left Raymond with Sarah Stephens, our next-door neighbor. Raymond seemed to take it quite well when we left. Joan has mentioned his name a hundred times already because she misses him very much.
My brother David and his wife Bertha picked us up at the Burbank airport and from there we went to my mom’s house on the corner of Fairfax Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard. A fantastic Syrian dinner was ready for the whole family, minus my brother Charles. Aunt Sarah was there, as was Becky Herrari (my Mom’s friend from Brooklyn who happens to be a great storyteller). I find out so many little things about my family when we all get together. I found out that Becky’s sister Zerife was the woman who came from Syria with my father’s family. Zerife was “married” at 12 years old in Syria to Joe Sutton. They were married so Joe wouldn’t have to go into the Syrian army during World War I. Joe came to the U.S., settled in New Orleans, and when my father brought Zerife to Joe in New York, Joe paid for Zerife’s passage. Becky also told us a story of how she came to the U.S. at the age of ten or thereabouts. To this day she still doesn’t know her real age. She approximates that she was born in 1910. She approximates that she was married at 19 and that she had her first child at 20. She was always asked when her birthday was, and would answer, “I don’t know.” Finally, after the question was asked so many times of her, she decided to say “May 15,” which falls roughly on Mother’s Day.
My brother Maurice’s son Ray told us that my father used to whistle to the blue jays in our backyard with pieces of bread in his hand, and they would come and eat out of his hand. My dad was a very peaceful man—more peaceful than I thought.
Tuesday, December 24, 1985 – We’ve been in the Pacific for almost two full days. Tomorrow morning we’ll be in Puerto Vallarta.
There are so many things happening on this ship, such as eating, walking, sauna, lying in the sun, reading, observing.
Being on a cruise ship, you don’t have to shop or cook or wash dishes or do the laundry or fix your bed? It’s great, it’s relaxing, and it renews the spirit and energy.
Today it’s sunny, whereas yesterday was cool and mostly overcast. Joan is enjoying the trip immensely.
Saturday, December 28, 1985 – The first couple of days on the ship, Joan couldn’t get Raymond out of her mind. She mentioned his name almost every five minutes, speaking for both of us. Our little four-year-old is the main reason why we’re looking forward to getting back home.
Our first port was Puerto Vallarta. We enjoyed it to the hilt. We took a taxi into town and walked the streets. It was Christmas Day and most of the shops were closed. We walked where the Mexicans lived. It was a mixture of cleanliness and dirt. The streets were cobblestone. The vendors didn’t push their goods on us. I found Puerto Vallarta to be a very civilized resort town.
At around noon, we happened upon the beach. There were Mexicans and Americans surfing, eating, drinking. Opposite an unclean ocean were lush green hills. We walked the beach and watched small boats tow parachutists into the air. I believe they call it parasailing. Joan and I found a large thatched umbrella to sit under so we wouldn’t get sunburnt. It was next to a restaurant-bar. I figured if we paid for a beer or two we could stay there and enjoy the day at the beach. And enjoy we did, for that’s what I’m leading up to.
Joan and I hit it off with three men. A 75-year-old man named Dom, and his two nephews, Jim (37) and Dean (35). All three Italian Americans were from Fresno. When they arrived, we hit it off as well as a man and wife and three men can. We drank, talked, shared food, and swam in the ocean for several hours. We took pictures of each other. We trusted each other. It was such a sharing and joyful time for the five of us. Then we all left the beach and walked a few blocks to the hotel where the men were staying. They showered and changed for dinner. Joan was uptight because she was worried we wouldn’t get back to the ship on time. It was 6:30 and we had to get back by 8:30 p.m. The five of us took a cab up a hill and entered a restaurant overlooking Puerto Vallarta. The meal was only fair and our share was $20. All three men sensed Joan’s worry and so we all finished on time so the two of us wouldn’t miss the ship. We took a taxi back to their hotel. We all hugged and said goodbye and then Joan and I taxied back to the ship.
Joan feels that we hit it off with the men like people in Hemingway and Fitzgerald novels. Camaraderie is what it’s called.
The next day we docked in Mazatlan. We walked around the town for a while and ended up at the beach. We were inundated with vendors trying to sell us something. It was an unending flow of vendors and beggars. It made me hate Mazatlan for what we were going through. It sickened me. Everyone on the beach was American, and so if that’s where the money is, then that’s where the vendors and beggars go.
Our last stop was Cabo San Lucas. We walked the streets like we did in Puerto Vallarta and Mazatlan. It was such a beautiful, idyllic, peaceful setting. No one was trying to hustle us. The Cabeños were very civilized and took pride in their small, clean village where the ocean water was clean and clear to swim in.
Epilogue – I sold costume jewelry for three more years and earned between $36,000 and $42,000 per year, more than double of what I was making as a long-term substitute teacher. But I wasn’t content selling costume jewelry—it gave no meaning to my life. I needed to get back to writing. In my third year of jewelry sales, 1987, the idea came to me to compile a book of quotations on all aspects of health—be it mental, physical, spiritual, or emotional health. After much research, I collected 2000 quotations from the sages of all ages and grouped them into 120 categories. In 1989 my query letter and sample quotations caught the eye of editor Dan Olmos at Hay House. Words of Wellness: A Treasury of Quotations for Well-Being was released in 1991. It was the success of that book that gave me a chance to become a full-time writer again.
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