New to The Closer? Visit the Table of Contents to catch up on everything you’ve missed.
Pocket calendar in hand, I headed to my favorite barber shop. Freddie’s was at 5th and Laurel near downtown San Diego. He opened the shop in 1965, and Freddie Orlando would stand at that chair until his death in 2013 at the age of 83. Shortly after opening his shop, an attempted robbery would turn Freddie into a legend. A robber entered the shop and pointed a gun at Freddie as he was cutting hair. Freddie told the thief, “Here, you can have all the cash in the drawer.”
But instead of pulling out money, Freddie pulled out an old Army Colt 45 and stuck it in the robber’s face. Size matters. The startled bad guy dropped his little snub nose 32 and darted out the door. Freddie, a stocky Italian, chased the crook down, tackled him, and held his face to the sidewalk until the cops arrived. Given present day California's leftward lurch, Freddie would have been the one going to jail. But this was 1968 and Ronald Reagan was Governor. The thief went to the pokey and Freddie went back to cutting hair.
The building was as old as Freddie. It had worn out linoleum on the floor and years of Freddie’s memorabilia was tacked to the walls. Freddie’s 20 year old cat slept in the window. No one had actually seen it move, but Freddie swore it was alive.
Even before his heroics, the shop was a hangout for off-duty cops, and today was no exception. There were two of San Diego’s finest waiting to get clipped. Freddie was a man’s man and his customers were manly men. The only time a woman came in was to find out why it was taking so long for her husband to get a haircut. Freddie would exchange barbs with the guys as he hacked away at their hair. Trouble was, Freddie couldn’t clip and talk at the same time. It was clip a little, talk a lot. No matter how many guys were waiting, it always took forever to get a bad haircut. But no matter how bad the haircut, it grew back out in a few weeks, just in time for another bad haircut and at least an hour of barbs and jokes with Freddie.
The seat next to me was empty, and as I waited my turn I thumbed through a travel magazine. A tall, thin man in his 60’s came in, smiled, exchanged insults with Freddie, and sat down next to me. We exchanged greetings. I asked him how long he’d known Freddie. Then, as per my usual icebreaker, I asked him how long he’d lived in San Diego. Turned out Bob Rosenblum taught Bridge, had a Master’s Degree in math from the University of Chicago, had moved to San Diego after his discharge from the Navy and married his high school sweetheart.
His favorite place for lunch was the buck fifty hot dog at Costco. He had a little dog he’d rescued fourteen years ago from the pound and it was on it’s last legs. “What do you do for a living?” I asked. What are the odds, that the morning I decided to travel, the guy sitting next to me was a travel agent and his office was only a few blocks away? See what happens when you simply ask a stranger what he does for a living? I told Bob I was “taking a break from work” and that I “intended to do some serious traveling.” “Do you have a travel agent?” asked Bob. My reply? “I do now.”
Another chance meeting turned into a lifelong friendship. Once again, the pupil was ready and the teacher arrived. After my haircut, I sat back down, thumbed through a tattered Soldier of Fortune magazine, and waited for Bob to get sheared. As we walked to his office, we both tried not to look at each others haircut. Bob had been a travel agent for 40 years, had been everywhere, and was a treasure trove of information and advice. This was before Orbitz and online everything. Travel agents actually put together trips, booked airlines, and spent time getting their customers the best deals. His commissions were paid by the airlines and Bob had first crack at bargain tours and cruises.
“Where do you want to go?” Bob pulled out a large globe and gave it a spin. I said, “Everywhere.”
Bob said, “Pick a continent.” The globe had stopped spinning and there was Australia. “How about down under?” asked Bob. I grinned and said, “Perfect.” Bob asked, “When do you want to go?” Since my calendar was empty I said, “You tell me. I travel light. I can go at a moments notice.” Bob smiled broadly. “Ok, I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” Bob had found the perfect traveler and I had found the perfect travel agent.
Back in 1978, it was common for “consolidators” to put together prepackaged, all-inclusive vacations.
The consolidators would pay the cost of the tours upfront, and then resell the tours through travel agents at a profit. Consolidators would occasionally end up with a tour no one had booked. Having already paid for the trip they were stuck for the money. So, as the trip departure grew near, whatever money they could get was better than no money at all. That afternoon Bob called several consolidators and told them he had a client who could literally “go at a moments notice.”
The phone woke me up at 7 am. It was Bob. He said, “Larry, I’ve got a deal for you. How about an eight day tour of Australia starting in Sydney and ending in Darwin. Hotels, car rental and airfare, all for 700 bucks.” I said, “what’s the catch?” Bobs reply? “You have to leave tonight at midnight.”
I was at my gate at 11 PM, my passport and one carry-on in hand. It’s great being a guy; one pair of shoes, no makeup, and two changes of clothes. (Nobody cares what a guy wore yesterday.) I would soon master Bob’s cardinal travel rule. “Take half as much stuff and twice as much money.”
This was the first of my frequent last-minute adventures. Consolidators knew Freddie had a guy who could actually go at moments notice. They’d wait until the last minute and call Bob. Then the poor consolidator would find himself in a knock down drag out negotiation with Bob over the price. Some of the deals were astounding. I got a four day trip to Paris, airfare and hotel for $300. The catch? I had to leave in two hours. I walked on as they were about to close the door. Within a year, Bob’s “deals” took me to every continent, most major cities in the world, and some out-of-the-way places, the names of which I can’t pronounce.
It was Labor Day 1978, and I’d just returned from climbing Kilimanjaro. Sounds tough, but it’s really a “walk-up” mountain. Five days up, sleeping in climbing huts every night. I’d been skiing for years so Kilimanjaro’s 19,341 foot altitude was a challenge, but not a problem. However, altitude sickness is a strange ailment. One never knows who will be susceptible and who won’t. A Dutch cycling team was one night ahead of us on the mountain. One of the riders, a 23 year old champion from Amsterdam, succumbed and died before they could get him down to our hut. But our entire group, which included a chubby Librarian from Fresno, made it to the top. Go figure.
The ten hour time change, Nairobi to San Diego, was harder on me than the climb. I was sleeping days and wide awake all night. Ron Popeil was late night TV’s top gizmo pitch man. Within a week I’d bought one of everything he had to sell. So when the phone rang at 8 AM, I was sound asleep, dreaming of my soon to arrive Chop-O-Matic. I fumbled for the phone and mumbled a sleepy “Hello?” It was Jack Wilson.
He insisted we meet for lunch. He’d bailed on Bajamar three months ago. Turns out, a couple of guys he tried to sell a lot to were better salesmen than Jack. They talked him into investing in a condo project in Lake Tahoe.
Then he said, “I’m one of three investors and a guy named Billy Fink is the general partner. I said, “Are you sure you want to be in business with a guy named Fink?” I was about to give Jack a wave off and go back to sleep, but he reminded me that I’d told him if he found something to sell in California I might throw in. He said, “The condos are already built, but sitting empty. Fink says he’s going to turn them into something called a Timeshare. Do you know anything about Timeshares?”
In an instant my jet lag was cured. What do I say to Jack? (Bear with me, it’s movie time again.)
Shane is my all-time favorite Western and I’ve seen it 100 times. Maybe the fastest gun alive, Shane rides into a valley in Wyoming surrounded by the Tetons. (Modern day Jackson Hole.) Hoping to give up gun fighting, he signs on as a hired hand for a family of homesteaders. But their little boy Joey, figures out Shane is handy with a gun. One day Joey begs Shane to show him how to shoot. Joey says to Shane, “I bet you can shoot!” Shane smiles and says, “YEAH, A LITTLE BIT.”
“Do I know anything about Timeshares? YEAH, A LITTLE BIT. Let’s get together for breakfast. When’s good for you?” Jack said, “How about in an hour. Rickys in Mission Valley. It’s right next to that hotel with the hooker bar.” I said, “I know the place. I’ll be there.” I shook my head in disbelief. I’m not sure there's a God. (Ray had heard his voice, but I hadn’t) Still, it’s hard to watch a hummingbird and not believe in some sort of Higher Being. And I’d had too many lucky breaks, too many coincidences, and too many chance meetings not to admit that some Higher Being might be guiding my life. I drove to Rickys and waited for Jack to arrive.
The vintage Chop-O-Matic. I still have it and it still works. Over 2 million were sold.
NOTHING HAPPENS UNTIL SOMEBODY SELLS SOMETHING.
Chapter Fifteen: Selling Myself (Coming Soon…)
Table of Contents
