lukeward.com

Well let’s keep the story thing going and in the vein of occupation, allow me to discuss one of the worst ways I’ve ever shilled for a buck.

I sold encyclopedias. Yep, I really did. And I sold them in the summer of 1997–which, if you know your history, is right around the time when the internet had really taken off. Making my product, nearly useless. But despite this knowledge (that I didn’t really have until after I took the job), I made an attempt to sell encyclopedias.

I took the job because the setup was this: if you sold X amount, you got Y commission. I had not had a commission sales job before, so I ran at the chance to do it, thinking that I could easily sell a few, and make some nice cash before the start of senior year (Boy was I wrong). After the first couple of days, I learned that you don’t even start making a commission until after you’ve sold 10 sets. Just to break it down for you, a set cost about $1500. I had to sell 10 of them. To people too dumb to realize that they could either log on to the internet, or visit a library. There aren’t that many people in Massachusetts.

The job went like this. You worked the phones during the day–the numbers having been acquired from new parents who’d recently subscribed to “Parents” magazine or some other touchy-feely rag. On the off chance you got a bite, you set up an appointment to meet up with the prospective customers, and went to their homes to do your spiel. in the 2 weeks I worked there, I set up 3 appointments. That’s after calling all day, 5 days a week. You do the math.

These three appointments went like this:

And for my final sale (and the nail in the coffin), I drove 45 minutes to a young couple who were both into purchasing an encyclopedia for their newborn baby…except I forgot to bring sales slips with me for them to actually purchase their encyclopedia. When I called my manager, he yelled, “Well, shit, get over here and bring them back some slips”, which I felt was kind of futile as this young couple was living above the garage in the husband’s mother’s house.

I quit the next day, thinking that this job was utterly pointless. But hey, I got a good story out of it.

My good friend Stacey has recently given birth to a darling little girl, and in the spirit of the occasion, I decided to tell a story that involves Stacey.

Stacey and I worked at Record Town, the music shop at the Summit Park Mall, from 1992-1994. It was by far the coolest job I had ever had. I got to listen to music all day, hang out at the mall, and I was forced by management to approach everyone in the store; especially young girls looking for the latest Spin Doctors album. I was in teenage music nerd heaven.

Stacey and I had other cohorts with us at the Record Town. There was Mr. Wos, our band teacher who made extra cash putting in a few hours on Saturdays. Tammy, the assistant manager, who was just a few years (and leagues) out of my reach. Darin, the other assistant manager who embodied the slacker-cool that was popular at the time. Some seasonal help, who’s names I can’t remember. And then there was Lance.

Lance looked like an emaciated Kenny Loggins, but with longer hair, and he was the store manager. I wish I could tell you that he was the inspirational manager that brought our rag-tag group together, but the sad fact was that Lance was, as Mr. Wos would put it, a dunder-head. He seemed to struggle when having to organize/command the store, and didn’t really inspire the team to sell.

He also paid very little attention to the store. In fact, he focused most of his energy towards the girl at the Piercing Pagoda, just outside of our store (I think her name was also Tammy, but for the purposes of this tale, let’s call her Piercy). Piercy was cute, had bleach-blond/Whitesnake video extra hair, and was married. Well, officially married, but was having difficulties with her spouse, which Lance was more than happy to help out with. And by help out with, he tried to bang her at every opportunity that came his way. From my perspective, none did.

I have no idea how old Lance was, as I was 16 and my age perspective was completely skewed. He could have been anywhere from 25-45. But he acted like he was 12, and even at 16, I knew I was more mature at handling life than he was. Within moments of opening the store for example, he would turn to me and say in his frighteningly-deep, baritone voice, “I need to go see a man about a horse” and then leave the store. Years later I thought that he had to go take a 30 minute shit outside of the store. I now imagine he was going out to get high in his car, or he just needed a few minutes alone before subjecting to 6 hours of “The Bodyguard” soundtrack (and frankly, can you blame him?).

It was assistant manager Tammy and Darrin that carried the store. For all of his slacker attitude, Darrin was a great boss. He was inspirational, he had a good work ethic, and he was just all around cool. Tammy was the Dick Smothers to Darrin’s Tommy Smothers, in that she took care of the organizational aspects of the job, and kept schedules/books in line. So despite Lance’s extended breaks, the store kept running smoothly.

Eventually the corporate parent found the proverbial porn mag under the bed, and realized that Lance was not really doing his job. He was fired (I think. It’s been a while), and a new regime was brought in. And although the new store manager made our lives a lot easier (A LOT easier), Stacey and I always had a slight fondness towards Lance, in that sort of, “I miss having the Chicken Pox” kind of way. Even if he was a dunder-head.

Hey all,

In the spirit of narration, I decided to tell another tale from the Book of Luke.

Our story begins in the fall of 1991, with my 10th grade English teacher, Mr. Braas (pronounced “BRASS”. Now you get the title pun). Mr. Braas was for me, that teacher that you remember periodically as you go through life. He was the teacher that rejuvenated my desire to read, encouraged my fiction writing, and was that rarest of teachers who taught outside of the teacher’s manual.

And as wonderful a teacher as he was, and as kind and forgiving as a person he was, he was also subjected to torture at the hands of his students. See, Mr. Braas was a big nerd (and I say that lovingly, and as fellow nerd). His awkward discussion of sexuality and gender was painfully apparent to his students, and he dressed like a government employee (ill-fitting short-sleeved button-down shirts, horn-rimmed glasses after and before they were cool, and bland patent-leather shoes).

He also suffered from extreme psoriasis, which covered his fingers, his elbows and parts of his pale, bald head. Mix all together and you’ve got a great teacher who students loved; and loved to tease. He frequently received prank phone calls on the class phone, was subjected to drive-by yellings in the hall, and in-class ribbings from students. 90% of which was done lovingly, much in the way you tease that friend in your group of friends who really wants to watch SportsCenter instead of going out and talking to girls.

I really like Mr. Braas because of the reasons I stated earlier, and because he nudged me where needed, while still giving me enough rope to hang myself (When it was painfully honest I hadn’t read “Catcher in the Rye”, instead of yelling at me, he just said, “Luke, when are you going to read it?”. I went home and knocked out 5 chapters that night). But, as someone who craved attention at a young age, I found I got laughs by imitating Mr. Braas’s awkward mannerisms, and standard catchphrases. And once you get laughs, that supersedes all else.

I liked Mr. Braas too much to mock him to his face (yes, I see the irony of that statement), so I kept it hidden from him for as long as I could; until the day before Christmas break.

We were having one of those “It’s fairly useless to teach anything, so let’s just fuck around” English classes, where we had cookies, played the game “Password” (a Braas staple), and just hung out. After 3 rounds of “Password” and 40 rounds of “Hangman”, we were just sitting around when out of nowhere, Mocaraina Forsythe (pronounced “Macarena” like the dance) yells out “Hey Luke! Do your impression of Mr. Braas”.

Mr. Braas was totally into it. My heart stopped for a full 30 seconds.

“Show me Luke!” he exclaimed. I knew it was wrong, but instead of saying “No, I really couldn’t”, I bounded up to the front of the class. The show was about to begin.

“Keep in mind Mr. Braas, this is done with love.” He laughed. I took a deep breath, and got into position. To properly perform “The Braas” required the shoulders to be brought as close to the ears as possible, and the arms folded, with the finger tips under the arms (straight, not in a fist). Then, you pick a student, lounge forward head first, while aiming the right hand, fingers perfectly straight as if serving a dish, with the left hand as a back up server, and exclaim, “[Student], wanna play Password?”. This is what I did. In front of the 24 sugar-fueled students. And the man himself.

When it was done, I reluctantly turned to Mr. Braas for approval (or condemnation). To my joy, he was in stitches. He loved it. I imagine it was like Dana Carvey must have felt when meeting with HW Bush, although the only wars Mr. Braas initiated were against teen illiteracy.

I was happy. The class was happy. Mr. Braas was happy.

And then that bitch Mocaraina opened her mouth again.

“Do the clock thing!”

Now, since Mr. Braas had given such high praise to my prior performance, I figured, “why not?”, and got back into first position. Doing “The Clock Thing” was a simple maneuver. From first Braas position, you simply rotate your entire body to face the clock above the door, as opposed to just turning your head. It was a common move by Mr. Braas, and one that I thought nothing of calling out.

After my 5 second performance, and with the class in full-fledged guffaws, I turned to look at Mr. Braas for more adulation. I didn’t get it.

“I have to look at the clock like that because I have severe arthritis. I have limited range of motion with my neck.”

My heart stopped for a full hour.

He looked like a small child who’s not only lost his prized toy, but has found it in the hands of a bully who’s recently defecated all over it. He was crushed.

“Mr. Braas, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I…it was just…I…”

“It’s ok Luke. You didn’t know. It was all done in jest.” He smiled again, and patted me on the shoulder. I sat down back my desk, and laid my head down, figuring if I can’t see him, the pain I just caused will go away. It didn’t.

As soon as break was over, Mr. Braas and I resumed our prior teacher/student relationship. I did pretty well in his class, and he kept encouraging me to write and be creative, which I truly cannot be more thankful for. And although a year later he told his class that the only time he found a student’s impression of him hurtful was mine, at graduation he came up to me, threw out his hands and said, “Luke! Wanna play Password?” with as big a smile as I could have hoped for.

As for Mocaraina Forsythe, well, I take solace in the fact that the girl that enabled me to hurt someone I cared about with hand gestures will forever be taunted by hand gestures herself (HEY MACARENA!).

Ok, where were we? Right, so I make my way back to school by around 6:30 or so. Jim meets me at the dorm, and says, “Hey, we got time before we need to be there, let’s go eat at the dining hall and I’ll fill you in on what happened.”

So over a steaming pile of Chicken Speedy, Jim gives me the details on the last 48 hours. Apparently Jim and Raf decide to go buy a case of beer at the local supermarket using their fake IDs. The cashier thinks that they look a little odd, and notices that the ID numbers are EXACTLY THE SAME, prompting her to call over the security guard. He takes a look, realizes they’re fake, confiscates them, takes their addresses, and tells them to leave. (It should be noted here that this is the story that Jim told me, as I was out of town. The fact is that over the years I learned that Jim would “alter” the truth, so there’s a strong possibility that all of this is bullshit and they got caught buying booze at a strip bar or something. But I digress)

Later that evening the security guard, who is an off-duty copy trying to earn a few extra bucks, decides that the IDs are too good to just let these two idiots off with a warning. So in the middle of the night, police visit the dorm and take Jim and Raf out in handcuffs for booking and questioning.

Now, here’s where the story is completely full of holes, but I’ll share with you what was shared with me. According to Jim, the cops take Jim and Raf into separate interrogation rooms to learn where they got these fantastic IDs from, and who else has them (apparently they thought my work was part of some sort of underground conspiracy. And this was pre-9/11, so kudos to me, huh?). Jim and Raf give completely different stories, the cops confer, and tell Jim and Raf that they’re full of shit. After this scenario is repeated 2 or 3 times, they finally manage to come up with similar stories–There are two guys that made these IDs, and their names are Luke Ward and John Palen. I say that this part is crap only because after years of recapping this story did I wonder, why were only our two names given when the rest of the floor could have been narc’d on? And after knowing Jim and Raf for a few years afterwards, I learned that they’d sell out their mother to get out of trouble, so I’m sure the interrogation lasted 30 seconds before they gave up our names. But according to Jim, he and Raf “did everything they could” to prevent the cops from learning our identities, and it just happened this way. (Sure, right)

After dinner, Raf and Jim drive John and I over to the Dewitt Police Station. I’ve since told this story to Syracuse locals, and when I mention the Dewitt Police Station, they always laugh. Here’s why: Dewitt is a small offshoot of Syracuse, where the “uppercrust” live. It’s basically the upper middle class suburb of a predominantly lower class city. So their police department is kind of like the Amity Police in “Jaws”, where crimes mostly consist of psuedo-rich retirees complaining about the local high school kids milling about near their prized azalias.

Raf and Jim wait in the car, while John and I go inside to get processed. We walk in, tell the front desk who we are, and an officer comes out to meet us. We’re both shaking, pale and slightly sweaty. I’m expecting some sort of “Law & Order” good copy/bad cop treatment. Instead the sheriff of Stars Hollow comes out smiling and says, “Hey guys, why don’t you come with me?”.

He sits us down in front of his desk (which was something out of the Pottery Barn catalog) and explains that we were brought in because we were named by Jim and Raf, and we’re being charged with a misdemeanor, not a felony. If we were to fake federal IDs (like a SOCIAL SECURITY CARD), we would be charged with a felony. For those that don’t know, misdemeanor=fine/community service, felony=jail. We both grunt in approval when we hear we’re not going to jail.

Officer Smiley takes John’s ID, and begins the paperwork. While doing so, he explains that we’ll probably get community service, but we’ll have to get a lawyer. John asks, “What if we can’t afford one?”, which as college students is a legitimate question. He says, “As a minor, your family’s income is taken into account when determining if you can afford a lawyer, so if you want to plead poverty, we have to call your parents”. Which is awesome, because on top of everything else, we’re going to have to spring for a lawyer to make sure we don’t get 200 hours of community service or somehow wind up at Shawshank.

I’m sweating profusely now because I’m thinking I have no money for a lawyer, I told those two idiots to wait while I make sure I take care of the their ID numbers, and I finally do something to break the rules and look at the steaming pile of shit I’m in now.

Rage and fear are growing steadily inside me as the officer turns to me and asks to see my ID. I tell him I’ve never made one for myself.

“Oh. Well, then you won’t be charged with anything. Ok, John, let’s fingerprint you.”

All the rage and fear and anxiety leave my body. I just got off scott-free because of my cowardice, and now I’m feeling utterly delightful. I turn to look at John, and see that what has left my body and find a home in his. He looks at me with an utter disgust in both me and himself, as if to say, “What the fuck just happened?”

I smile as I watch Officer Smiley try to fingerprint John no less than 3 times because his hand sweat smudges the ink. I laugh a little to myself as John’s mugshot is taken, but not loud enough for anyone to hear. And I certainly enjoy seeing off Raf, John and Jim as they make their way to volunteer at the local veteran’s hospital, where they feed, clean up and possibly even worse, chat with the elderly of upstate New York. Serves them right, I think. Well, except for John, but hey, you can’t make an omelet right?

So that’s the story of how I almost got arrested for making fake IDs. A few years later, I was chatting with a friend, and she was telling us about the presentation the police made at her local sorority about the dangers of fake IDs. When the officer was done talking, he took out a few samples of what constitutes a fake ID, and she was utterly astounded to see Jim’s ugly mug in her hand. Apparently they were really that good.

So now we have Photoshop, and I’m sure you’re thinking, “yeah, you can design a license, but you can’t just print out a license. There are watermarks and holograms and paper thickness issues. Plus, you guys sound like a bunch of idiots.” To be fair, you are right about all of those things.

But, keep in mind that it was 1994. In 1994, the New York State Driver’s License was on the cusp of a redesign, so while some folks had the newer blue/green hologram licenses, a lot of establishments were still accepting the tan, no hologram licenses. Which our other cohort, Raf, had in his possession.

Within moments, we were putting together our (quite literally) hair-brained scheme. John had access to a high-end scanner through his job as monitor at the computer lab in the photo building. He also had high-end photo paper which we could print out from a color printer Jim would borrow from a girl he occasionally coerced into sleeping with him. He even had special treatment spray that would give the license some thickness, adding to its legitimacy. (It should be made aware that this is the same man who once tried to heat up spaghetti sauce by placing the jar (lid closed) on the stove burner because he didn’t have a clean pan. And he was the brains of the operation). I even suggest that we create fake Social Security cards to match the IDs, but Jim thinks it’s overkill. We’re like the Special Olympics version of Ocean’s Eleven.

My part was simple. I took the scan of Raf’s license, swapped out the photo, and used the existing letters on the license template to create licenses with our real names. I even went so far as to rearrange the license ID numbers on all of the IDs (except for Raf and Jim’s) so if there was a group check, it wouldn’t raise a flag. Why didn’t I fix Raf and Jim’s you ask? Because those 2 idiots were so impatient to get their ID, they didn’t want to wait for the time it took me to work on them. But more on that later.

So now all of us (except me, because I’m a coward and keep using excuses as to why I didn’t have time to make one for myself) have IDs. They turn out so good that a few other guys on the floor ask for their own too. Which we’re happy to oblige, as we get them to buy us beer for the service. Which makes sense–an $8 case of beer for committing a felony.

The IDs were great. They looked fairly real, but if you examined it, you could see pixelation and ink stains. Basically, they looked like someone made a really nice color copy of an ID–if you took the time to examine it. Which no one ever did (Except for the waitress at Bennigan’s, oddly enough).

About a month or two after everyone’s running around committing illegal activities, I go back home for the weekend. It’s the Sunday I’m supposed to go back, when I get a call. It’s John.

John: “Um, when are you coming back here?”
Me: “Eh, I think there’s a 7:30 bus that’ll get me in at like 11. Why?”
John: “Um, you may want to take an earlier bus.”
Me: “Why?”
John: “Um, Jim and Raf got arrested last night for using their IDs, and if you and I don’t go to the Dewitt police station before midnight tonight, they’re going to issue a warrant for our arrest.”

And that dear friends, is where I’m going to leave you for today. More after the weekend.

I spent the past week editing footage of the latest installment of “Nights of Our Lives”. It’s a fantastic show, and if you haven’t seen it, run out right now and then come back in, and find out when the next performance will be (I believe it’s March 26th).

Editing the show always makes the inner narrator come out, and so I thought it might be fun to write about an event in my life, based on the next show’s topic, “Breaking the rules”. It may get to be a bit long, but we’ll see.

When I was in high school, I was a goody-goody. Like, big time. The rare times where I was at a party, and booze was rumored to be on the way, I would come up with some reason why I had to leave (“I have a paper to finish. I have to get up early and help paint the living room. My mom says I have to come home.” You get the idea). I don’t know if it was all the after-school specials or what, but I avoided bad situations like, well, a bad situation.

But when I got to college, the voice of reason immediately disappeared. I started drinking. I started having less care for my fellow man. I started missing classes (well, not a lot, but I did). And while I don’t want to blame my behavior on any one individual, I will. His name was Jim*.
(*His name has not been changed. It’s actually Jim.)

Jim was one of the most charismatic people I had (and have) ever met. He could sell ice to an eskimo, and have them coming back for more. And for some reason, he seemed to respond to me, so we became friends (I say “for some reason” because I kind of gave off a nerd vibe at first and was surprised that the popular guy wanted to be my friend. I have issues).

Being Jim’s friend was great. We talked to the pretty girls, we hung with the upperclassmen, and we also engaged in shenanigans. Nothing extreme, but little capers like making Jell-o shots in the common room microwave and sneaking beers into the dorm were quite thrilling to a former band geek.

So around the 2nd or 3rd month into freshman year, I got a computer. And while this normally wouldn’t be so exciting in this day and age, in 1994 it was the equivalent of getting a telephone during the Depression. I could write papers when I wanted, I could kind of check the 3 emails I got a week with my 14.4 modem, and I could spend days downloading a picture of Jennifer Aniston where you could kind of make out her nipples through her tank top. After purchasing said computer, my photographer roommate bought brand new software from the school store—Photoshop 1.0.

It was the coolest program I had ever used.

John: “I can amp up my photos!”
Me: “I can put mustaches on celebrity pics!”
Jim: “We can make fake IDs!”

And being the charismatic man that he was, John and I were totally on board.

That’s enough for now. I’ll tell the rest of the story later.

There are a few items I’d like to discuss today.

1) There are ads on the subway for the new for the NYC children’s something or other. The lines read something like, “Are you strong enough for a child?”, “Are you brave enough for a child?”, etc.. But there is one that reads, “Are you cool enough for a child?”. Really? Seriously? Does hipness really play a factor? And are you truly tapping into my sense of style in order to encourage me to be a foster parent? Bad move.

2) Project Improviser DVDs are coming. You heard it here first audience of 1. Not sure when, or how they’re being distributed, but so help me god, they are coming.

3) After meeting with a florist last night, I wonder if peace of mind is worth the cost. This woman, while seemingly very experienced and very talented and very reasonably priced, was so poor at communicating with us that I worry about what will happen on our wedding day. My dad taught me that sometimes it’s worth paying a little extra if it’ll take out the worry, but does that make sense? Is peace of mind really worth $400? On the other hand, she did create floral arrangements for Lee Iacocca. So there’s that.