The Myth of the Self-Made Man

Preface: I wrote this before SuperStorm Sandy tore the tri-state area to shreds. I hesitated to post this as it might touch some frayed nerve endings at a fragile time. Now that things are inching closer to normal, it might be a okay to think about these things?

It was painful to watch Derek Jeter go down, even as an avowed MetSox fan (I pull for the Mets and the Red Sox). Like a lot of Americans, I respect Derek Jeter. The Yankees in the ALCS without Jeter? Interesting, not the same. What is it about Jeter? First of all, he’s talented and has had decades of success at the top of his profession; he’s the shortstop, one of the toughest positions, for the NY Yankees. It’s obvious that Jeter respects the game and his opponents. Now if anyone could take credit for his own success, it’s Jeter, or any other baseball player for that matter. After all the batting practice and coaching, eventually it’s him, 60 feet six inches from Justin Verlander. It’s a results business, if you can’t hit, you won’t play and Jeter hits, has been hitting, all his life it feels. And in the field? There’s also no place to hide, especially for a shortstop. Runners on first and second, one run ball game, sharply hit ball to short, it's on you to make that play. And Jeter has made them, because of his talent, because of the work he put in. But if you ask Jeter? Jeter has much love for his parents. He credits his teammates. He talks about how lucky he is to be a part of the Yankee organization. Jeter always mentions his coaches, all the way back to his high school days in Michigan. If any man is an island, it’s a baseball player. If anyone could claim to be a self-made man, it’s a baseball player, like say, Derek Jeter. He’s the one who has fielded tens of thousands of ground balls. Derek Jeter’s the one who has taken years of batting practice to become the NY Yankees all-time hit leader. But given the chance, he defers the credit, actually credits others. And that’s a major reason why Yankee fans love him and also why the rest of us respect him.

Baseball’s an interesting sport because the tempo of the game gives us time to, ponder. The night Jeter got hurt I thought, Jeter is a great American story, how much we could all learn from him. Given the chance to toot his own horn, Jeter will not. Now America is filled with many impressive stories, from the contemporary Bill Gates all the way back to Cornelius Vanderbilt. The success of our country and the success of our businessmen are intertwined; we would not have one without the other. America would not be America without Ben Franklin, John Hancock, William Randolph Hearst or say, George Steinbrenner. I love reading about our country’s history, so many entrepreneurs and business tycoons building businesses up from an idea, and through hard work and stick-to-itiveness, creating something to be proud of.

We can all applaud the Ray Kroc’s of the world and our local mom & pop burger joints. All of these people are hard-working, smart, driven, it takes a lot to build a business and their successes have led to America’s success and vice versa. Not to take anything away from these successes but I do find it sad, disappointing even, when so many Americans are quick to tout their own success, to claim the mantle of Self-Made. It makes me cringe when I talk politics with friends and they brag about being self-made. Really?

President Obama was recently lambasted for something he said on the campaign trail about successful business owners. Part of his message was, “You didn’t build this business.” Probably not the right way to say that; however, if you continue to listen to what he said, all he was saying is that like Jeter, if you are successful, maybe you should look at, in addition to your talent, your brains and your hard work that maybe other things were also part of the recipe for your success?

Life, Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness: Our government, and our country is designed for people to succeed in this manner. Our Founding Fathers were a lot of things but if you know the Constitution and the deliberations surrounding that document they were businessmen, or at least they had business in mind when they wrote the Constitution. These iconic men, setting up a nascent country knew that trade, mercantilism, entrepreneurship was something that was paramount for a successful America.

Over the centuries, we have all been reaping the benefits of their foresight. As we all know, America is a pretty safe place. Luckily most Americans have been safe, most of our lives. Do you think John Rockefeller could have built his oil empire in Afghanistan? If we had anarchy? Successes like his would not have happened. If you were able to start a bakery or begin a personal computing empire in your garage, it certainly helps that you were safe. It wasn’t luck that there were no Mexican drug cartels wreaking havoc in Texas as Michael Dell began his American success story. No, Mr. Dell has his local police and the FBI to thank. If he’s smart, and I know that he is, he should also thank the US: Army, Navy, Air Force & Marines. The climate for business success is there in part because we are safe.

Our Founding Fathers put into place the power to coin money, the power to regulate commerce between and among the newly united, states. Over the past 225 years the governmental system has enabled trade on a consistent basis. There were a few blips here and there but Americans have been trading with money, coined by our federal government, for over 200 years. And for that we should all tip our caps. We could all look in our history books for many countries, actually look at some of today’s European Union countries, to see a place where it would be tough to start a business. What do you think the markets look like right now in Egypt? Syria? Uganda? How easy would it be to start up a computer company in your garage right now in Libya?

The president mentioned we all need roads. (As I mentioned, I wrote this piece before the storm but Sandy’s damage has really put our infrastructure front-and-center in our conversations) To point out the obvious, if you have built a successful company roads have probably played an integral part as they: help employees get to your factory or office, enable you to receive the materials necessary for the manufacturing process and help you get the office supplies to run your business. Finally, it’s our roads you use to ship your goods to markets. President Obama should have added that while you and your employees are at work you have running water, sewage and electricity, all part of our infrastructure that enables success. This infrastructure, very costly infrastructure, where does it come from? It’s provided directly and sometimes indirectly by your tax dollars and your government. (Right now it’s being repaired by your tax dollars, and your government) So think twice
Mr. Calandro when you say that you didn’t get anything from your government, the government has put into place the infrastructure to enable success.

Some things we don’t even think of as infrastructure like the airport system. There’s not an airline in the world that could recoup the money they would have to spend to create a system of airports around the country to move passengers and material around. No, the government builds airports, and finances the building of airports and then companies like Continental, United and the other airline companies as well as you and I benefit from that construction. How many of our self-made business people rely on air travel? Our government and business also worked together to create our nation’s railroad system, Cornelius Vanderbilt had a little government help along the way because it was beneficial to, a lot of parties, to get the railroads built. So many stakeholders benefited from this business/government relationship.

I know that a lot of this infrastructure has been around for a while but I would think the president would have mentioned the internet, our 21st century infrastructure. How many self-made business people have benefited from the internet? Think of all of the people, very imaginative, hard working people, who earn their living via the internet. And of course, we have the government to thank for the internet.

Our Constitution gives congress the power to establish patents and to protect those patents for a period of seven years. It’s that kind of foresight by our Founding Fathers that helped our entrepreneurs build their businesses and build our country. I know that we Americans are an inventive, inspired, hard-working people and luckily we have the right government in place. It’s just more endearing when we are patriotic about our successes instead of hurting our arms patting ourselves on the back.

Back to America’s game. If you asked Jeter about his success, he would not hesitate to mention Joe Girardi, Joe Torre all the way back to his high school coaches for helping him become the ball player he is today. He gives credit for his success to his coaches, his parents, his teammates... If you are good at math, writing or computers, if you can play the guitar, or you went to a tech school and became an electrician and started your own business, I would hope that you realize you got to where you are because of talent, hard work, and the skills you learned along the way. Over the decades people have been free to become John Steinbeck, John Mellencamp or John Rockefeller because they had the right teacher, because their parents were supportive, because their school was safe and the bus came every morning. And luckily for most American students, when they got to school they had desks, text books and an environment where they could learn. When they graduated from high school, an affordable state college was available because of our government’s foresight.

Hasn’t Sandy reminded us all of how fragile life can be, and how we take for granted things like subways and tunnels, roads and bridges, running water and electricity? I know Jeter would be smart enough and respectful enough to realize all of the things that led to his success and to be thankful for all of the things America has given him. Maybe we could all learn a lesson from The Captain?

Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are.

“Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are.”

With that phrase in mind I am proud to say that Randy Giles was my friend. I have to use the past tense; as I recently took a phone call from an old camp friend, “Spinner, got some bad news man. I just got a call from Kim Slaton. Randy Giles died. I guess he had a small stroke on the way to work. They took him to the hospital and he had a massive stroke later at the hospital and he died. I figured I’d call you directly, I didn’t want you find out via email.” I appreciated Glen’s call and I knew that Glen needed to talk to someone who knew Randy. Shocked, digesting the information, we processed Randy’s passing. We chatted about Randy, his sense of humor, laugh, athletic ability, his easy manner, his wily independence, his sense of style. One phrase Glen used resonated with me, “Wise beyond his years.” That was perfect for Randall.

Randy, Glen and I went to camp together, YMCA Silver Lake in Sussex County, New Jersey. When I first met Randy he was a camper and Glen and I were staff members. Randy was my favorite camper. And I am not saying that out of respect, I mean because he just passed, that’s the truth. In six years at Silver Lake, with probably hundreds of kids in my various bunks, kids that I loved having in my bunk like: Gray Goldfarb, Craig Calzaretta, Sean Croke, Chris Casabona, Greg Giordano, Vinny Aprile…the list goes on, Randy was top of the list. Alright, tied with Calzaretta, for all the same reasons. Having Randy in your bunk, I had him in Lennape, Pioneer Unit, was like having an 11 year old junior counselor in your cabin. He was responsible but he also knew how to have fun. Unlike most kids, myself included, Randy (uncannily) knew where the proverbial line was. He got all of our jokes, even though he was years younger, and he really knew how to dish it out and take it.

One of my favorite Randy memories: We had a lot of inner city kids from Paterson, NJ coming to Silver Lake. For some, this was their first excursion away from a concrete world. It’s the first night of our two week session, we are getting ready for bed. I am sitting on the front porch of the cabin as the kids are inside putting on pajamas and grabbing their toiletries for our walk over to the Kybo (bathroom) to brush our teeth. I can hear Randy talking to one of the boys about being scared to walk down the dirt road at night. This kid is dealing with crickets, frogs and darkness like he’s never seen before. He does not want to leave the cabin. Now you have to remember both campers are the same age. However, Randy’s a veteran of a few Silver Lake summers so he tells the kid, “Listen, I was just like you, it is scary but you are better off walking over with the whole bunk and the counselor now. You better use the bathroom now because if you have to go in the middle of the night, it’s even scarier.” The boy takes the measure of Randy and joins us for our walk. On the way over Randy continues to talk to Malcolm to assure him. When we get back to the bunk, and I’ll never forget this, I can hear through the screen, Randy says, “Malcolm, if you need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night you can wake me up and I’ll walk over there with you.” THAT was Randy Giles.

What else can I tell you? Randy was just cool. He had a sense of style, of who he was. One summer he took to wearing a goofy chef’s hat everywhere, just because. And it fit Randy. He never seemed to get flustered, nothing bothered him. One time on the hoop court, and this story always comes up, someone called Randy for traveling. And he freaked. “I didn’t walk. I DIDN’T WALK! I DIDN’T WALK!” As the argument continued, Randy’s voice got louder but it was comical, because it was so out of character for Randy. When my wife, who I met at Silver Lake, told me a few years ago that she and Randy had a little fling back at camp, that made sense to me. If I was a girl, I could see dating Randy. He was just cool.

As news of Randy’s passing circulated, I spoke to other Silver Lakers and we all man or woman, said the same things about Randy: smart, funny, great smile, responsible, good friend, energetic, athletic, independent…The calls came, as they do after friends pass, because we needed to share stories of Randy. Moira Flanagan broke down in tears shortly after we started talking. We were both so sad, but this was different, we were sad about losing a friend we hadn’t seen since the 80’s. During our conversation, Moira mentioned that on an Explorer trip down the Delaware, she and Randy shared a canoe for the 4 days they were on the river. And my thoughts were, that would be fun! What a great combo in that boat, they must have had a freaking riot. Sharing a boat with Randy, or Moira for four days would have been a hoot. God, those were the days. Not only are we mourning Randy, we are mourning those long ago days.

Randy was a heckuva, basketball player. He was tough, smart, knew the game so well that he made other players better. Lefty, and six years younger than me and most of my friends, he was one of the better players on the court. Man could he pass, always putting the ball in the right place at the right time. Actually, Randy preferred to make a nice pass rather than shooting himself. He was competitive but not ultra-serious. As Glen said, wise beyond his years.

I have a picture of Randy having a catch with our friend Woody in front of our old Cabin 15. Randy, with his Met hat on is throwing the ball right at the camera. That is my favorite picture of Randy. Youthful, smooth, engaged in life.

I'm trying to wrap my head around why news of Randy’s passing, a friend who meant so much to me, so long ago makes all of us so sad. I know that I am sad for the people who are still in Randy’s life, his wife and kids, mom, dad, nieces, nephews, colleagues at work, guys he still plays hoop with. I also know that with each passing year and each passing friend we continue to be confronted by our own mortality. I know I am torn up because Randy and I lost touch, saddened by the fact that Randy and I were unable to play catch up one last time. Glen Gruder and I spoke of how we had reached out to Randy over the years with little success. That was surprising to me. Randy seemed like the kind of guy that would keep in touch. I guess, as a doctor and father of three, like a lot of us, he was probably pretty busy. Kim Slaton, a fellow Silver Laker and close Giles family friend said to me, “I don’t know why he didn’t keep in touch but I know that his Silver Lake years were a big deal for him.”

I’ll take solace in that…As the saying goes, “Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are.”  I’d like you to know, Randy Giles was a friend of mine.

The Not-So-Kosher Deli

Nicholas, my 13 year old, is starting to ask questions about earning money. Like many of us at that age, he’s starting to care about what he wears, he’s tired of hearing No from his parents. I am sure our lectures about being fiscally responsible are wearying as well.  That’s a good thing for kids. Didn’t we all go through that? My father was a working class dad (carpenter) in the 70’s and with four kids in the Spinner house we knew the financial realities early on. Right around seventh grade, my peers became conscious of name brands and certain fashions, starting with sneakers. You might remember the neighborhood song, “Rejects, they make your feet feel fine. Rejects, they cost a dollar ninety-nine.” Once I was aware that the abuse was targeted at me, I asked my mom if I could get a pair of Pro-Keds. I can still see them in the Royale Sporting Goods window on the corner of Church Avenue and East 5^th Street. They were white, with the little red and blue stripe where the pinky toe would be. I asked my mom, but I knew the answer. Like many of you, I got my first job because I wanted something, sneakers.

 After a series of odd jobs shoveling snow and walking neighbor’s dogs, Jimmy Quinlan, a neighborhood friend hooked me up with a job at The Cortelyou Deli. Simon Althaus ran the Cortelyou and central casting could not pick a better aging, Jewish counterman. He was stout in his restaurant issue white pants, shirt, and apron. His jowly face was framed by tufts of white hair above his ears. The guy was a classic.  Schmuck. For the two years I worked at the Cortelyou, Sy called me Schmuck. As a teen, raised in a Catholic household, I knew Schmuck wasn’t a good thing, but I didn’t know what it really meant. When I finally saw the real definition years later…He was calling me THAT!?

I knew Sy was making fun of me, but I put up with it because of those Pro Keds. There seemed to be an innate goodness to the man or I would not have taken his abuse. At two bucks an hour, it would not have been worth it. I could see in his eyes that he liked me, that he loved to bust my chops, so I would give it right back to him.

On school nights we worked 4:30 to 8. I’d leave John Dewey High School, take the B to Stillwell Avenue and then grab the D train to Cortelyou Road. I’d be in a great mood, walking along the avenue, past Hurley’s Bar, looking in all the store fronts, past the fire house and as soon as I open the glass windowed front door I’m smacked with the smell of hot dogs and sauerkraut from the steam table and…

"Schmuck, we got a dewivery from Dr. Brown’s you have to stock the soda coolers.”  

“Nice to see you too Sy, how was your day?” 

Sy turns to Henry, hovering on the half door that separates his kitchen from the restaurant, “You hear what the Schmuck says to me Henrrry?” Central casting did a nice job with Henry too. Also in restaurant white, Henry’s response to Sy is a grunt through the ever present stub of a cigar on the left side of his mouth. Henry took the train from Harlem every day, and it was his job to run the kitchen. That was Henry’s domain, even Sy wouldn’t mess with the kitchen. Henry was retired army, spent most of his career working kitchens for guys like Sy and teaching kids like me about life.

With the wisdom of hindsight, I can see now that the two of them loved to toy with me, to knock me down a peg.  At that age, I had the unfounded confidence of the teenager and the curriculum of East 4^th Street Wise Guy class to help me hold my own. I was close to calling this piece, the Dysfunctional Deli because I can see now how screwed up the place was, so many experts, who could barely run their own lives. But boy was it fun, a crucible for youth, as most of our first jobs were.

By the time I got there, The Cortelyou Deli, like the neighborhood it was in, was clinging to the glory days. Like the few remaining doctors, lawyers and accountants in the classic Victorian houses (mansions we called them) along Stratford, Rugby and Westminster Roads, the Cortelyou was a reminder of days past. The neighborhood once warranted a kosher deli for the well-heeled neighborhood professionals. The memory of those days was fading as a large percentage of Sy’s customers packed up for the leafier zip codes of Long Island’s Five Towns or Jersey’s Bergen County.

The Cortelyou Deli was really my first exposure to Jewish people on a regular basis. Most people who keep a kosher house are devout. I mean you have to be conscientious to keep a kosher house. And in order to maintain this lifestyle, you are not supposed to mix your dairy and your meat. We served a decent cup of coffee at the Cortelyou Deli and we were supposed to stock non-dairy creamer to maintain our kosher status. Sy would have me buy half-and-half at the regular deli a few blocks away. To watch people rave about our coffee, while they were actually drinking a dairy product caused Anthony (who split the week’s schedule with me) and I to snicker. We were just complicit in this petty offense. Sy, who was very Jewish, didn’t care. How he slept at night with this crime against his landsmen, I’ll never know.

There was tension in the neighborhood between the newer black residents encroaching from Flatbush Avenue westward, and the remaining white residents. The deli was on tenuous financial ground and would become the setting for drama. Sy would bend over backwards whenever Mr. Kalish came in or any of the other long-time customers. But if a Caribbean gentleman came in or a group of young black teens, Sy would reluctantly slump out of his chair at the back table and stand by the slicing machine while the customer tried to make sense of the menu. Chopped Liver, Tongue, Pastrami, Corned Beef, Knishes…, “Yeeees, can I help you?”  The response was a stare that said, hold your horses old man I’m spending good money or conspicuous silence that said, I’m anxious and confused. “Uh, Ya Mon, I’ll have a ham and cheese on rye with mustard.” Wiping the counter with a towel, I loved to watch these exchanges. Sy would put his head down, “Sorry, dees is a kosher deli, no dairrry and no pork.”  Intimidated and feeling worse, Jimmy Cliff starts to panic, he realizes all eyes in the deli are on him. “Uh, alright then, give me baloney and American on white bread with mayo.”   “SCHMUCK! No dairy and no pork.” Eventually the lost customer would head for the exit cursing as Sy did the same as he headed back to his “office” at the back table, his coffee and NY Post.

Towards 7 o’clock my duties included putting away the condiments on the tables, windexing the glass on the front windows, restocking sodas and beer…and making Sy a scotch and water. We hid a bottle of Dewar’s White Label below the slicing machine. The bottle was strategically placed so Sy’s wife, who pulled up in her sky blue Cadillac a few times a week, would not see it. There were secrets at the Cortelyou Deli, but this wasn’t one of them. Mrs. Althaus knew about the Dewars, she knew Sy drank. Once in a while I would have to call Mrs. A and tell her that I thought Sy shouldn’t drive home.

Sy, Henry, Anthony and I knew very little about the many secrets our lives held. The entire time I worked there, my parents never once came in for a meal, never came to check out the place or the guys I was working for. Can you imagine doing that today? One day while I was grabbing a sandwich at the back table, Sy rolled up his sleeve revealing a faded blue number, tattooed on his forearm. The tattoo sat there on his too white arm, a pregnant pause between us. Sy knew that I knew what it meant. He snorted, and raised his chin as if to say, Yeh, that’s what it is. We never spoke of it. The thought of his tattoo, and all that it represented, provided an answer to Sy’s gruff exterior, his need for Scotch and water.  

Most of us can point to the crucible of our first real job and take inventory of all the life lessons learned. Things like how money earned is empowering, how hard work and being dependable can pay off. And how working with and for others, it pays to get along. Eventually, the deli was a second home for Anthony and I, there was something comforting and safe about the Cortelyou. Maybe it was the food? I put on about 30 pounds while I worked there. The job introduced me to not only Sy and Henry but the world outside my neighborhood. Henry and Sy became part of our group’s lore, they were, characters. After getting off from work on a Saturday night, I’d bike the 10 or so blocks back to our neighborhood and hook up with the Tomasi brothers, Donald Kenna, Andrew O’Callaghan. We’d discuss many topics but the guys always wanted to know what kind of crazy stuff Sy or Henry had done. Donald Kenna would always ask, “What kind of antics did Sy pull today? Anything happen with Henry?” Our crew knew their personalities, they remembered the stories…

One Monday morning, Henry called in sick. Shocking. I had never worked a day without Henry in the kitchen. Sy called a restaurant temp agency and they sent over the dregs of the service industry to help us get through the night. This Harry Dean Stanton look alike mixed ammonia with bleach and practically blew the place up. Sy kicked him out and we had to make do without a cook. Sy performed admirably in both roles, showing off his decades of restaurant experience. Henry called in sick the next day. And the next. Saturday night Henry showed up and he wasn’t our Henry. His face was shiny, he hadn’t shaved, his clothes were unkempt, he was overly friendly and his voice was high-pitched. AND he was talkative. Sy knew what was up. For me, it was my first look at a real life bender. It was scary and exhilarating. Who was this boisterous, fun, Henry inviting me to Harlem “Ah, JIMMY, you have to come up to my place in Harlem! It’s not all black folks you know. Used to be a lot of Italians, some of those people never left. Those old ladies in my building will love you.”  Henry was coming in for his paycheck, even though he wasn’t working. I don’t know how much Sy paid him, considering Henry’s response, it seemed like a regular pay day for Henry. Sy was sympathetic, he knew what Henry was going through. After Henry left, Sy informed me, “Henry does this every once in a while. It lasts about two weeks, has to get it out of his system.” I wondered about the cause of Henry’s benders? I envisioned it was something like Sy’s reasons for drinking. Growing up black in America in the 50’s Henry had endured hardships. Being in the army, basic training down south, this fiercely proud man, had to eat his share of Jim Crow. Working for mostly white restaurant owners, scratching out a living on an hourly wage, life would grind him down and he’d snap. Henry was smart, he knew stuff. You got the feeling he could run just about anything. And he’d tell you too. “That asshole Ed Koch, Ah, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. What he should do is…”

Eventually I moved on to a better paying gig. One night I was meeting Anthony to go to a party. I pulled my  bike into the store and placed it safely to the side by the front window. I proceeded to bust Sy’s chops. Liberated in my street clothes, secure in the knowledge that I did not work there anymore, I pushed. There was a pay phone right where I parked my bike. I called the number for the Cortelyou. Ring! Sy awakens from his slumber seeing dollar signs, “Anthony, maybe eet’s a dewivery.” He lumbers to the front, just before he picks up the phone, I hang up. Once Sy gets comfortable, at the back table, I ring the phone again. You can take it from there. I do it six times, and he keeps schlepping across the floor boards. He’s probably into his second scotch so, he's a little slow on the uptake…Eventually, he figures it out, “OH! SCHMUCK! YOU TINK THEES IS FUNNY?” Sy comes charging around the counter. Anthony and I are howling. For me, running away is not an issue, but I also have to get my bike out the door, while I am doubled over laughing.  “Henry, do you see what the Schmuck ees doooing. Oh, you wait…”

I think of the hours, days, weeks, eventually years that we worked together, and that we never saw each other, outside the deli. Now, the Cortelyou is a bodega where other neighborhood kids are cutting their teeth on the employment line. I wonder how many people from the neighborhood remember the Cortelyou. I wonder what happened to Sy and Henry…The Cortelyou keeps popping up in my memory and my writing. I learned stuff there, about life, about people. Probably like you did at your first job. Where did you work? What were the characters like? I would love to hear.