My life continues to surprise me. It hasn’t been a linear route, for sure. I liken it to a knock-out rose bush. Sometimes, everything’s in full bloom. Then, all the petals fall to the ground and the branches are barren. Then, I see a bud here, a bud there. The plant flowers anew, the cycle continues.

Upon college graduation, I scoured the newspaper help-wanted ads. No Interwebs back then. And, being a Bronx Primitive (TM), I had no business connections to speak of, so talk about taking the wide route around the racetrack of life.

It was hot and sweaty in my old Fordham apartment. The oscillating Vornado fan blew sooty air this way and that. Fan-conditioning! One morning, red BIC pen in hand, I found a job possibility: management trainee for a cosmetics/beauty products wholesaler on Third Avenue, about a quarter-mile south of Sears. I called, shined my Frye boots, dusted off my Robert Hall brown polyester suit, and went to my interview (the boss’ office was air-conditioned — aahhhhh!).

Somehow, I got the job. The pay was outstanding: $7,500/year.

The next Monday I started. The boss gave me sell sheets of products, package sizes and prices, which I was to memorize. Then, I was led to the warehouse, where I was to unpack cases of products with a box cutter and place the goods on floor-to-ceiling shelving.

No a/c in the warehouse. It was sweaty, filthy, and boring. I tore into my new job. On the second day, I arrived in cut-off jeans and tee-shirt, for my suit was already ruined by the dirty shelves back there. The managers looked at me askance.

At lunch, I walked up Third Avenue on that second day, and found a bar. The a/c was blasting. Three shots for a buck, and they had hot roast pork hero sandwiches for $.75. I downed the three shots and ripped into that hero, juice running down my filthy arms. I finished the day.

The third day, I looked forward to lunch and that bar. I barely finished the day. It was exhausting. At the end of the day, the boss called me in. He tested me on the info on those sell sheets, which I hadn’t even looked at. I coughed up dust balls from the warehouse and left.

The fourth day, I showered and dressed, and paused. Then I called the boss and quit. He offered to pay me for the stock work I did, but not a prorated portion of my lofty $7500/year salary. I said fine.

This second-generation American learned some valuable lessons. It wasn’t my first job that required intense physical labor, but it proved to be my last. Our forebears worked with their hands, so that we can work with our minds. That was one. Another was tremendous respect for, and appreciation of, those who must tackle, hold, and succeed at, these physically demanding jobs. Last, I eliminated a type of work I didn’t want to do.

But now I was out of work, out of money, and almost out of my apartment. I learned an amazing fact: when the wolf is at the door, I could reach back and make stuff happen. I got another job. It, too, was shit. But it was indoors, in air-conditioned splendor. I learned a lot about life there at this crappy insurance company in the Wanamaker Building in the Village, and there I met the girl of my dreams.

We were two Randall McMurphys in that company, stirring it up, just passing through. Our lives took flight.

$7,500 a year and a bar with three shots for a buck had initial appeal, back when I was 22. But looking back, I took Yogi Berra’s advice, and I’m glad I did: “when you come to a fork in the road, take it.”