What's Money?
Notes of a Stand-Up #31
I can make money disappear as well as the next guy, but making it? That takes a certain nose to sniff out them bones.
Let’s just say the first job I ever applied for was salesman at a ladies clothing store.
An auspicious start.
The highly effeminate manager asked what I knew about bras and dresses, half-expecting me to cop to being a cross-dresser; or at least profess a desire to learn. Needless to say I disappointed him, and was summarily relegated to a stock boy position.
I boxed shoes, taking cigarette breaks with the flock of attractive twenty-something saleswomen on staff. This was in the early 90’s, when the giant 80’s hair and stonewashed denim jacket was almost single-handedly kept in style by this cadre of Yonkers fashionistas. Alas, I was nothing more than their barely pubescent Chia Pet, and so I moved on after three days.
In later endeavors I was a Chinese delivery driver (I ate the food), a compact disc salesman pitching a hot 12 for 99 cents club, where they’d dump me from a van in the middle of Queens or something with nothing but a sack of product. This slapdash business was like an old-school boiler room, where I quickly plummeted from its leader board. I couldn’t sell hot tea to a penguin.
A little later I was a waiter at a shaky chain restaurant, sharing shifts with drunks and ex-cons, and those were just the customers.
I was clearly lucky to have parents that clothed and fed me.
When my father died and I had to take over his business overnight, I experienced an extended Will Ferrel moment from the movie Old School (where he debates James Carville brilliantly and then passes out from the burst of brain power), as I structured deals proficiently.
Yet since then, I seemed to have eschewed the pleasures of a handsome income.
(By this description, I’m speaking of a wholly different tax bracket. To be clear, all our pets eat gourmet meat and fish from sterling silver bowls and summon us by bell; we humans live very comfortably too, sans butler).
Now, onto the choices made and roads not taken:
I worked as a criminal defense lawyer for years, preferring to represent pirates, thieves and bandits for a modest take of the booty, instead of applying my courtroom skills to really clean up as a plaintiff’s attorney. I could’ve had my face on only the finest bus stop benches!
(Incidentally, it’s fair to say that if I stayed in criminal law, I would have worked my way up to mobsters and cartel members, which I opted against; also, civil litigation practice is the devil; endless lawsuits, paperwork and acutely upset parties).
Another financial windfall I passed on:
I have a family member who offered ownership of his adult magazine business, as well as a referral to a guy who owned a massive sex toy factory in need of a successor (the latter of which would have put me in more green than Seinfeld).
This was my thought process on that: when my parents asked me what I want to be when I grow up, I can confidently report that I did not say, sell dildos.
Moreover, I could not see myself at Shabbat dinner regaling my dear grandmother with how many love massagers we sold this week, as well as the new line of nipple clamps! Ah bubbe, we’re all so proud. . .
And so, another swing and a miss.
Instead, I have published four books, deftly timed for a cultural moment when no one reads anymore, and performed a one-man show about recovery from horrifying grief and the death of a loved one (a hilarious crowd pleaser).
I do mainly work as a professional stand-up comedian, which is great, and of course write this Substack, which enjoys a popularity only eclipsed by the Utne Reader and the monthly edition of Famous Jewish Sailors.
The good news is I regret none of these decisions.
For instance, it seems sex toy salesman is more in the nature of a calling than mere vocation, and as I did not hear its clarion call, wouldn’t think to belittle its stature.
Again, it’s a true privilege to be in a position to make such choices at all.
Having said that, it’s a funny thing when one weighs material fortune against matters of the heart, as if by some inward scale; tipping its tension to a gentle equilibrium.
*******
Note: Respectfully, I’m going to start to pay wall some of my work, which I’m sure you will understand (or not). I do strive to provide chuckles and hugs, and hope you will accompany me on the next leg of this journey.
With utmost appreciation,
your humble scribe,
Erik Lewin
Thank you for reading HECKLE!
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www.eriklewincomedy.com
erik@eriklewincomedy
IG: @eriklewincomedy
I loved this story..