One day I was walking down 6th Avenue in New York City on my way to an eye doctor’s appointment. I had enough time to smoke a cigarette. Suddenly the wind gushed and an ash landed in my right eye. I was upset. This would have been my first appointment with a new eye doctor. How could I be seen with this ash in my eye? I felt embarrassed. I threw away my cigarette and continued on my way to the doctor’s office. Fortunately, the ash dissolved and my eye was in good shape. I sat in reception, happy. Once I was in the exam room the doctor pulled up his stool and sat close to me. He instructed me to look into the apparatus that reminded me of my childhood view finder. As he checked my right eye he asked, “do you smoke?”
Oh, my God, he saw the ash. I replied, “you can see it?”
No,” he said, “I can smell it!”
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One night after a long day of errands, I went to take off my coat when I felt something slimy in my pocket. It was disgusting. I pulled it out and there it was a thin slice of deli ham. Earlier that day I was in the supermarket at the deli counter. It was the beginning of the pandemic. I wasn’t wearing gloves. I was afraid to touch anything. The deli clerk, a nice elderly man, handed me a slice to taste since I didn’t know whether I wanted imported or domestic. As he handed me the slice and even though he had gloves on, I was hesitant to try it. I didn’t want to insult him, so I waited for him to turn around and that is when I stuck it in my coat pocket. That was the moment I was glad I had opted for the imported French ham and to stop being so gullible.
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Something wasn’t right with the bill that the banquet manager at the Waldorf-Astoria Ballroom handed me to sign. It was clearly a miscalculation based upon the guarantee of dinners that I had given him days earlier and the actual dinners they served. I had to confront the VP of catering who exuded an undeniable air of authority. Before I approached him, I consulted with my associate to confirm whether I was justified in questioning or, if necessary, insisting that the bill be corrected. She agreed that the bill was incorrect. I trusted her judgment completely, as she was exceptionally detail-oriented. She was impressed that I decided to confront him. “Better you than me,” she said. She sat nearby to support me as I walked with courage to approach him with my evidence that the bill was wrong. I stood firm as I delivered a steady stream of numbers to him but what I didn’t realize was that my glasses broke in half and when I put them on, only one of the frames sat on my nose. He gazed at me and I could see he was trying to keep his austere form and was holding back his laughter but when I turned to my associate, she erupted into a thunderous laugh that filled the ballroom. I don’t know if he felt sorry for me but he fixed the bill.
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I was fascinated with the man that lived across the street from me because he owned a book binding factory. I must have been about nine when he asked some of the kids on the block if we wanted to work there for a week during that summer. Three of us girls accepted the offer. The first day was exciting to see how books were made and the work was easy. All we did was walk around this long table and reach for each page as we went along. We had to keep circling the table since there were tons of pages to be assembled. Once that was complete I looked forward to be part of the actual binding but much to my disappointment, the table was set for another book and the circling began again. This is what we did for four days and on the fifth day we got paid. After a week of the most boring, tedious work I suggested to the girls that we should go to the diner nearby instead of eating lunch in the ugly fluorescent-lit lunch room at the bindery. The girls were reluctant at first but they agreed to go after I convinced them that they deserved to treat themselves after going around in circles and sweating for days. I ordered a BLT and a coke and one of the girls ordered a tuna salad sandwich with a 7up. I was shocked when Betsy ordered a water and took out her peanut butter and jelly sandwich from her brown paper bag. She at least could have ordered a soda. It mattered more to her to keep her pay then to waste it on a lunch. Meanwhile I haven’t changed much since I still view money as a means for my interest in life rather than accumulating “interest”on my savings. My uncle’s motto was “spend what you got, but don’t live beyond your means.” Now, many, many years later at this time in my life I have a new job and during lunch I prefer to eat at Panera instead of the florescent-lit lunch room at the office. Unlike Betsy, I order a drink but I do bring my sandwich from home and there I sit to read a bound book.