"You tell that little faggot to turn in his keys, he ain't livin' up here no more!"
The boss was mad. Country Lee Simms was a barrel-chested southern biker, but when he got pissed-off his voice went up high like a girl's.
All he had accomplished by this screaming was to alert an entire normal office building to the fact that someone had been living in his bad-smelling rented office space. Lee went through offices pretty fast. There was so much chaos and drug and alcohol use associated with his operations that he often got kicked out. Eventually the parent company BayGent rented a house for him so he wouldn't disturb any neighbors. I worked for this guy on and off over a period of 7 years, mostly raising funds for veteran's groups.
The "little faggot" in question was Lee's secretary for the office; a slightly older than middle-aged drag queen named Jess. Jess was OK, pretty much an elfin, harmless kook. Originally from rural Idaho, he favored odd women's wigs along the stylistic line of JoAnne Whorley's hair on Laugh-In circa 1968. In addition to aiding in the pursuit of a female persona, the wigs also served the purpose of concealing a congenital bone-crest atop his head. He had been living in this particular office off 11th and Madison and did keep a pretty low profile; but his pile of dirty clothes and other personal crap had grown to the point where Lee had finally taken exception. Jess was to die suddenly of a heart attack outside a different one of Lee's offices a few years after this particular incident.
Jess wasn't in the office, so bearing the brunt of Lee's rage was Lee's appointed office manager; an old, dilapidated, stinky crack-cocaine addict who strongly resembled one of those grizzled pervert pirates drawn by S. Clay Wilson in the old ZAP comix. Name of Dennis, this character had a habit of collecting bizarre criminal types that would hang out in the office at all hours. At one point, a couple of Dennis' paranoid drug-addict friends had accosted some normal citizen in the Madison office because they assumed he was there to sell them drugs, then they got angry because he wouldn't! Some of these types had just gotten out of prison and would work there briefly to establish some phony reference for their parole officer or whatever. Dennis was also a pathological liar and entirely untrustworthy. Within a few years he had absorbed most of the paid accounts worth calling, and left everyone else scrabbling. Lee knew Dennis was a crappy guy, but just wanted someone to do the work. Eventually, BayGent set Dennis up with a room of his own on a temporary deal down in Arizona. He stole the money, the furniture, the office equipment and everything else and was never heard from again. Last spotted in Chicago.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Origins
My personal research indicates that the use of the telephone for sales or fundraising goes back to the 1920's! At that time, a typical situation would be gathering leads for the sale of the then new electric appliances, mostly washing machines. A caller would use a phonebook to canvas for interest, then a salesman would be sent out to follow up. Of course, not all homes had electricity yet. To digress, early washing machines were powered by a low RPM, single cylinder "hit and miss" gasoline motor. Most of these were scrapped during WW2, but I actually saw and heard one run in Tillamook, Ore. in 1971.
My first exposure to the industry was in Berkeley, Calif. in 1977. Two friends of mine were selling office supplies, specifically "toner" (used in Xerox-type copiers) nationwide in a nearby phone room. The pitch was to say that the supplies were just sitting in a warehouse outside of town (whatever town you were calling). The place my friends were working shut down, and they connected with an even funkier operation that wanted then to call from a WATTS line (early free long distance system) from their apartment. Strictly commission. They invited me to give it a try. One the first pitch, the office manager I was calling interrupted me to say in a sneering voice, "...and I suppose the stuff's in a warehouse just on the outside of town?"
I said to my friends "you've got the wrong guy!" and I bagged it. They stuck with it and made a few sales, but when they got paychecks they were unable to cash them. I can't honestly recall whether the checks were bad or if their total lack of ID was the issue. Anyway, I wanted nothing more to do with it. And I didn't......until about 5 years later.
I had returned to Portland at the end of 1981 after living in San Francisco for 2 years. My friend Dan Blessinger insisted that I try selling tickets for the Portland Police Association's annual circus. The annual circus had replaced the annual policeman's ball as the fundraiser of choice; but occasionally, even into the 90's I would contact very elderly people that assumed the tickets were for the ball. "We don't dance" would be a common rebuttal. Eventually, going into the millennia, police-sponsored ticket-based fundraisers were finally replaced with crime-prevention promotions that garnered a donation without tickets changing hands.
Anyway, the money sounded better than bussing tables, so I agreed to give it a try. That started in January 1982 and I got 2 dollars for each 16 dollar ticket that I sold. It wasn't exactly a boiler room. but it was in the basement of the Boilermaker's Union Hall......and that's how it all started for real.
My first exposure to the industry was in Berkeley, Calif. in 1977. Two friends of mine were selling office supplies, specifically "toner" (used in Xerox-type copiers) nationwide in a nearby phone room. The pitch was to say that the supplies were just sitting in a warehouse outside of town (whatever town you were calling). The place my friends were working shut down, and they connected with an even funkier operation that wanted then to call from a WATTS line (early free long distance system) from their apartment. Strictly commission. They invited me to give it a try. One the first pitch, the office manager I was calling interrupted me to say in a sneering voice, "...and I suppose the stuff's in a warehouse just on the outside of town?"
I said to my friends "you've got the wrong guy!" and I bagged it. They stuck with it and made a few sales, but when they got paychecks they were unable to cash them. I can't honestly recall whether the checks were bad or if their total lack of ID was the issue. Anyway, I wanted nothing more to do with it. And I didn't......until about 5 years later.
I had returned to Portland at the end of 1981 after living in San Francisco for 2 years. My friend Dan Blessinger insisted that I try selling tickets for the Portland Police Association's annual circus. The annual circus had replaced the annual policeman's ball as the fundraiser of choice; but occasionally, even into the 90's I would contact very elderly people that assumed the tickets were for the ball. "We don't dance" would be a common rebuttal. Eventually, going into the millennia, police-sponsored ticket-based fundraisers were finally replaced with crime-prevention promotions that garnered a donation without tickets changing hands.
Anyway, the money sounded better than bussing tables, so I agreed to give it a try. That started in January 1982 and I got 2 dollars for each 16 dollar ticket that I sold. It wasn't exactly a boiler room. but it was in the basement of the Boilermaker's Union Hall......and that's how it all started for real.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Fight
"O.K., let's go over to the Plaid Pantry parking lot and we'll find out who has balls!"
The tiny office was feeling even more close the past few minutes. Greg Elmo wanted to fight me. A week previous I had sold him my 1981 Chevy Caprice wagon for $300. The car had worked fine at the time, but as is often the case when a 20 year-old vehicle changes owners, he had had nothing but trouble with it. Greg had consumed some alcohol to get his courage up before coming into work.
"My buddy said there was no way you could not have known that the alternator bracket was about to fall off; you had all kinds of washers on there and shit!"
Adding to the tension was the fact that it was 9/11; info on the twin tower attacks had been dribbling in on a small radio pushed into a corner of our shared table. In addition to the used car hassle, Greg had some kind of competitive problem with the job itself. He had to be number one in sales. He was still angry about the fact that our boss, Bill Dooley, had recently given me a $1000.00 tap (phone room term for previous sale) to call that had been his to call the year before.
Enough was enough.
"We don't have to go over to the Plaid, we can take care of this shit right here!", I said, raising my voice.
At this, our boss Bill came quickly into our little office.
"If you boys are going to fight, take it outside!"
We both got up and walked out into the parking lot, and over to where the lot met the edge of the sidewalk near Belmont St. I sized up the situation. Greg was 20 years younger and theoretically a lot faster; but he was drunk enough to be thrown off. A fair fight. As we squared off, an older man with white hair who worked in the same office approached us cautiously on his way in to work.
"You guys shouldn't do that, it's bad for your heart."
Greg's first move was to aim a kick at my groin. I saw it coming and shifted, allowing the kick to glance harmlessly off my thigh. Immediately, Greg moved in close, swinging, but stumbled a bit and only got two minor left and right punches in to my sides. I punched him directly in the face and blood came out of his nose.
At this exact moment an earnest looking middle-aged man jumped out of a plumbing truck stuck in traffic on Belmont. He ran up to us.
"Break it up, it's not worth it!"
Greg managed one more punch that went wide.
"Hey!" shouted the plumber, "I'm not kidding. We could be in New York right now!"
At the time, this seemed like an absurd line, but the fight was over. Greg wiped some blood onto his fingers and tried to flick it at me in a final act of defiance, but the plumber was holding us apart.
"Ahhhh, that's enough...I got my licks in...", I mumbled.
Greg walked back into the office; I walked over to my car, got in and started it. I slowly pulled out into the afternoon traffic.
The tiny office was feeling even more close the past few minutes. Greg Elmo wanted to fight me. A week previous I had sold him my 1981 Chevy Caprice wagon for $300. The car had worked fine at the time, but as is often the case when a 20 year-old vehicle changes owners, he had had nothing but trouble with it. Greg had consumed some alcohol to get his courage up before coming into work.
"My buddy said there was no way you could not have known that the alternator bracket was about to fall off; you had all kinds of washers on there and shit!"
Adding to the tension was the fact that it was 9/11; info on the twin tower attacks had been dribbling in on a small radio pushed into a corner of our shared table. In addition to the used car hassle, Greg had some kind of competitive problem with the job itself. He had to be number one in sales. He was still angry about the fact that our boss, Bill Dooley, had recently given me a $1000.00 tap (phone room term for previous sale) to call that had been his to call the year before.
Enough was enough.
"We don't have to go over to the Plaid, we can take care of this shit right here!", I said, raising my voice.
At this, our boss Bill came quickly into our little office.
"If you boys are going to fight, take it outside!"
We both got up and walked out into the parking lot, and over to where the lot met the edge of the sidewalk near Belmont St. I sized up the situation. Greg was 20 years younger and theoretically a lot faster; but he was drunk enough to be thrown off. A fair fight. As we squared off, an older man with white hair who worked in the same office approached us cautiously on his way in to work.
"You guys shouldn't do that, it's bad for your heart."
Greg's first move was to aim a kick at my groin. I saw it coming and shifted, allowing the kick to glance harmlessly off my thigh. Immediately, Greg moved in close, swinging, but stumbled a bit and only got two minor left and right punches in to my sides. I punched him directly in the face and blood came out of his nose.
At this exact moment an earnest looking middle-aged man jumped out of a plumbing truck stuck in traffic on Belmont. He ran up to us.
"Break it up, it's not worth it!"
Greg managed one more punch that went wide.
"Hey!" shouted the plumber, "I'm not kidding. We could be in New York right now!"
At the time, this seemed like an absurd line, but the fight was over. Greg wiped some blood onto his fingers and tried to flick it at me in a final act of defiance, but the plumber was holding us apart.
"Ahhhh, that's enough...I got my licks in...", I mumbled.
Greg walked back into the office; I walked over to my car, got in and started it. I slowly pulled out into the afternoon traffic.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Phoneman---stories from the boiler room and below..
My name is George Katz; age 57. I am starting a new blog that will focus on my years working in a series of sleazy phone rooms on the West Coast. Like the carnival, the boiler room scene is a way of life that is dying out and should be documented. Primarily, you will see a series of anecdotes portraying some of the characters I used to work with. The action will not be in any chronological order; and the characters will be "unstuck in time" a la Vonnegut. The timespan is roughly 1980 to 2010.
In addition to the phone room stories, I will occasionally be digressing into some rock and roll filth centered around playing toilets like the old Satyricon in Portland.
Oso Sanchez had returned from break.....but not with his hands empty! The heroin-addicted 'Nam vet would often prowl and clumsily break into cars within a block or two of the office at 2nd and Oak, then duck back into the building with his pitiful haul. I recall him breaking into the trunk of a car near a different office off Powell Blvd. about eight years before; that time he ended up taking three different busses to sell a jack for five dollars. So now he comes into the office glasses fogged, sweating from the drugs and exertion, clutching an obsolete am/fm car radio still trailing wires. What caught my eye was not the radio, as he often displayed various questionable electronics for sale. Covering his head like some kind of obscene parody of a baby bonnet, was what appeared to be an old lady little-house-on-the-prairie type of 19th century frilled night-cap. It was in the car with the radio, so in a jaunty act of joie de vivre, he chose to wear it on in to the phone room. No-one working there gave him a second look.
At this particular office, Oso would sometimes show up with visible injuries. When questioned as to the origin of the scrapes and bruises, he would go into an elaborate story about getting into a wreck on his bicycle. It didn't take long to figure out that he was getting sloppy with the car prowls and being caught in the act. For some victims, it made more sense to just beat the heck out of him instead of calling the law.
When Oso eventually did get caught by the police, an officer informed our boss Ophelia that they believed he was responsible for a significant percentage of the car break-ins in the immediate vicinty of the office.
In addition to the phone room stories, I will occasionally be digressing into some rock and roll filth centered around playing toilets like the old Satyricon in Portland.
Oso Sanchez had returned from break.....but not with his hands empty! The heroin-addicted 'Nam vet would often prowl and clumsily break into cars within a block or two of the office at 2nd and Oak, then duck back into the building with his pitiful haul. I recall him breaking into the trunk of a car near a different office off Powell Blvd. about eight years before; that time he ended up taking three different busses to sell a jack for five dollars. So now he comes into the office glasses fogged, sweating from the drugs and exertion, clutching an obsolete am/fm car radio still trailing wires. What caught my eye was not the radio, as he often displayed various questionable electronics for sale. Covering his head like some kind of obscene parody of a baby bonnet, was what appeared to be an old lady little-house-on-the-prairie type of 19th century frilled night-cap. It was in the car with the radio, so in a jaunty act of joie de vivre, he chose to wear it on in to the phone room. No-one working there gave him a second look.
At this particular office, Oso would sometimes show up with visible injuries. When questioned as to the origin of the scrapes and bruises, he would go into an elaborate story about getting into a wreck on his bicycle. It didn't take long to figure out that he was getting sloppy with the car prowls and being caught in the act. For some victims, it made more sense to just beat the heck out of him instead of calling the law.
When Oso eventually did get caught by the police, an officer informed our boss Ophelia that they believed he was responsible for a significant percentage of the car break-ins in the immediate vicinty of the office.
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