Tall Tales

In some of the stories to follow, I will purposely omit real names and use pseudonyms for others in order to protect the innocent from embarrassment, or, in some cases, the guilty from exposure.

What not to do in Howard Johnson’s Restaurant:

I am certain that my mother loved me very dearly. I think the reason she did not have me circumcised at birth is because she couldn’t bear to have me in any pain. I put up with that nuisance for as long as I could and when I was in my late 30s I decided to undergo an adult circumcision.

I called Bill Munro, a dear friend, stalwart companion, a skilled and accomplished surgeon, to ask if he would do the procedure for me. He came to Ormond Beach one weekend and set me up for Saturday afternoon in the operating room. The anesthesiologist gave me a low spinal block and Willy proceeded to work on my Willy and amputate my prepuce. In his hands, it was a simple procedure and I was off the table and recovering from the spinal within 30 minutes. Because it was an adult circumcision, there were several sutures placed. The nurses made a big thing of wrapping my little Dickey in Vaseline gauze; they even tied a little bow on it.

During that time of my life I was doing a lot of skeet shooting. Two weeks after the procedure there was a registered skeet shoot at Patrick Air Force Base near Cape Canaveral. Bill was living in Miami at the time so I called him and asked if he would like to go to the skeet shoot on Saturday and spend the rest of the weekend with me in Ormond Beach. He thought it was a great idea and we decided to meet at the Howard Johnson’s restaurant at the Cape Canaveral exit off I-95.

We met, went into the restaurant and ordered breakfast. While we were waiting I mentioned to him that several of the sutures on my circumcision were causing me more than a little bit of irritation. They were absorbable sutures and most were gone but one or two were hanging on. We thought it would be best if he took a look at it so we went to the men’s room; I dropped my pants and Bill bent over to look at his handiwork.

Unbeknownst to us, a chartered bus load of Veterans of Foreign Wars stopped at the restaurant that morning.

The door to the men’s room opened; in walked two elderly gentlemen wearing service ribbons and caps emblazoned with the letters V. F. W.

The moment was one of shock and surprise. They were shocked, we were surprised.

One of them snarled “We risked our lives in a shooting war to make this country free for faggots like them.”

We looked at each other; I pulled my pants up and Bill and I ran for the door. We dashed out of the restaurant, jumped into our automobiles and drove out of the parking lot spinning rubber. After several miles we pulled over to the side, got out, sat down on the curb and laughed for 20 minutes.

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Shirts:
That Albert was a character is an understatement. That Albert was gifted in many ways is a given. He was diminutive in stature, and had an unruly shock of brown hair on top of a cherubic ‘Charlie Brown’ face in which were embedded a pair of piercing hazel eyes that periodically paled with anger or sparkled with mischief. This incident occurred during the early days of Intermedics. Albert was scrounging around doing something in the manufacturing facility and he had to go to Houston to pick up some parts. I went with him, we picked up the parts and then he said to me “Let’s go to the Galleria, I want to buy some shirts.”

The Houston Galleria is a chic, upscale shopping mall frequented by many Texas millionaires. We found our way to a trendy men’s shop, (the name is lost in my memory) and walked over to the area where shirts were on display. A salesman walked by us several times but paid no attention to us. I was dressed in jeans and a rumpled shirt and Albert had on a pair of cutoff shorts and a polo shirt. The third time the salesman walked past us Albert asked if he would help us and the man curtly replied “I will be with you in a moment sir.” Albert had a short fuse that day and replied “We’ve been standing here for 15 minutes and you haven’t offered to help us. Can anyone get some service in this place?” With that the salesman just politely walked away.

That’s when it hit the fan.

Albert erupted and screamed; “I want to see the Goddamn manager. I want some Goddamn service around here and I want it now.”

There was a hush in the store but it was only momentary. Albert shouted repeatedly “I want service! I want some Goddamn service! I want a manager!” A man who purported to be the manager hustled over to us and told Albert that if he didn’t quiet down he would have him ejected from store. Albert told him that he would be glad to quiet down as long as he got some service to which the manager replied “I will be glad to help you, sir, what can I get for you?”

Albert then looked squarely at him and said “I wear shirt size 15 ½, 33 sleeve and I want to buy every Goddamn shirt of that size you have in the store.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the manager, to which Albert answered, “You heard what I said, I want every Goddamn shirt of that size you have in this Goddamn store.” The manager fumbled a bit and said “Sir, we have several hundred shirts of that size.” Albert said, “Package them up; I’ll take them with me.”

By this time several salesmen and a few customers were standing near us in awe of what was transpiring. The manager didn’t know what to say so he looked to me for an explanation. I told him that it would be wise if he gathered up all the shirts of that size because Albert was indeed going to buy them. For the next hour there was a flurry of activity behind the counter while all the shirts, size 15 ½, 33 sleeve, were made ready to leave the store. Albert turned to me and said “Charlie what size shirt do you wear?” I quickly replied “No, no, no, boss; leave me out of this.”

I don’t recall the exact amount of the bill but it was several thousands of dollars. Albert tossed an American Express card to the manager who, I’m sure, made a phone call to check the validity because when he returned he was all smiles and apologies. Albert did not let him off the hook. He reamed him up one side and down the other and said that if he ever came into the store again he wanted real service, not just lip service.

When we left, there were so many shirts in the truck that we almost didn’t have room for ourselves.

Believe It Or Not

Another Typical Albert Story:

If you had a hard time believing the shirt tale, (no pun intended), try this one on for size. (intended)

A part of Albert personality is that when he got onto something, he went with it all the way. This tenacious bulldog aspect was obvious in his work and more so when he was playing. He went with me to an antique automobile show, fell in love with the old cars and before the afternoon was over he tried to buy several of them on the spot. I recall a beautifully restored Duesenberg that Albert coveted. He told the owner to name his price; the owner told Albert that it wasn’t for sale at any price. It upset him because his philosophy was that everything was for sale if the price was right. Before the day ended he bought a 1930 model ’A’ ragtop touring car and a trailer to haul it away.

Albert never permitted little things like price or practicality to impede his desires, particularly if toys were involved. Before long, he had several more cars including a Silver ghost Rolls-Royce, a ‘T’ top Corvette and a 30 foot motor home. I don’t think he used the motor home more than three times. One night, roaring along a lonely Texas road, he rolled the Corvette over in a ditch and totaled it. All of the above is vintage Albert and I loved him.

He decided he needed a garage, so he had a building constructed large enough to house all of his cars with a separate section for a workshop. Albert needed a workshop as much as a man needs another nose. Intermedics had as complete a workshop/machine shop as could be found anywhere. But that never stopped Albert.

As I did on many occasions, I went with him on a buying spree in Houston. We went to Sears and headed right for the tool section. Albert went to one of the salesman and said “If you work on commission, I am going to make your day. I want to buy every craftsman tool that you have on display here in the store. I want the best table saw, band saw, drill press and every toolbox, table, wrench, hammer and screwdriver that you have. Actually, I want every tool with a craftsman label on it.”

The salesman looked bewildered and I fell a bit sorry for him. It’s not every day that you encounter someone like Albert so I understood exactly how he felt. He called his manager. Albert and the manager got along famously (why not with an order like that) and Albert wanted all of it sent to the workshop in Columbia Lakes. The sales manager assured Albert that it would be delivered within a week. Albert also wanted someone to set up the workshop so that every tool had a place and there was a place for every tool. The manager quietly came over to me and whispered “You seem to know him very well, who is he?” I smiled and said “He’s just an average everyday bloke who likes his toys.” The manager turned a quizzical eye, murmured something and then went over and shook Albert’s hand for what seemed like 10 minutes.

A week later, walking into Albert’s workshop, you would think you were in the craftsman tool department at Sears.

Believe It Or Not