Choice or Prime

Choice or Prime

Bob and I were in the food business for a few years.  We would deliver fresh steaks, frozen prepared foods, fish, shrimp, chicken cutlets, cheese cakes, lobster, and many other items in portion controlled boxes.  These things would be delivered to people at their home or business for their home consumption.

We became the “Meat Man”, just like the old time milk man, bread man, etc. who came to you with the items you ordered.  We would give them recipes and advice on how to cook, offer them specials, and we would have regular routes going from Palm Beach to Miami.

At one point I was the only salesperson authorized to make deliveries and sell this kind of service on Palm Beach Island.  I had to register with the Palm Beach Police and carry an ID card with me.  Since I was registered the police didn’t give me a hard time, and kept other “salesmen” off the Island.  We sold to some famous and near famous people, such as the sister of Senator Jacob Javitts.

Almost all our customers stayed with us for a long time, and we were always looking for new customers.  We would always have extra items with us to sell to new customers, generally at their place of business or where they were when we arrived with a delivery, such as a beauty salon.

The beauty salons were great.  Once one person bought, it often inspired the other women to buy and we would gain new customers.  Sometimes it would turn into a buying frenzy which was great for us.

We often got recommendations to other customers.  One such recommendation was a man in Delray Beach.  He ordered a box of NY Strip Steaks and asked for it to be delivered to his home.  I called him before coming and he seemed a little befuddled on the phone, but gave me directions.  The house was on the beach.  I knocked on the door, and the man came to the door stark naked with a drink in his hand.

I decided discretion was the better part of profit, and quickly turned around and left, leaving him swaying in the doorway.  Needless to say, I didn’t go back.

Some of our customers were commercial establishments like restaurants and bars.  We had some topless bars as customers. 

Their licenses usually were restaurant licenses, so in order to keep their licenses; they had to “sell” food. 

The inspectors would look at their purchase receipts to make sure they were buying food.  They would generally buy items they could prepare easily.  They would buy steaks, hamburgers, hotdogs, Chicken Fingers, and the like.  Their cliental were more drinkers than eaters.

The first time I delivered to a one particular customer, he gave me a check as payment.  I told him I couldn’t take his check.  He asked me why and I replied, “the name of your company is Goniff, Inc. (a Yiddish word for No-goodnik or thief, a bad person), and I know what that means. 

He gave me cash.

We would also sell to the dancers in the clubs.  They would pay us in $1 bills.  Our pockets would bulge with the wad of one dollar bills they would pay us with.  Hint, that’s a good way to pinpoint the occupation of your young female acquaintances.

One time, I was delivering a box of Prime NY Strip to one of the clubs.  I was in the kitchen when one of the dancers came into the kitchen.  She had just finished performing and was wearing a filmy negligee.  She spied the box I had just brought in and asked what was in it?

I replied, “Prime NY Strip Steaks”. 

She asked me to open the box.  Her eyes lit up.  She asked what they cost.  I told her.

She lifted her negligee and said, “Do you want to trade Prime for Prime?”

I replied, “Looks kind of Choice to me”. 

My comment went right over her head.  She didn’t understand what I was referring to.

Fortunately, the owner came in with my payment and I left.

I told this story to Barbara when I got home. 

I never understood why she awarded me no points for my behavior.

The Dead Guy in the Apartment

The Dead Guy in the Apartment

My brother-in-law and I own some properties together which we rent out.  In the course of several years we have encountered various renters who were or are truly characters.

One of the rental units is in a building on A1A in Fort Lauderdale.  It is a converted hotel and has all studio apartments, half of which have little kitchens.  The hallways are drab looking and the place used to be filled with transients who were less than desirable.

Barbara and I had to go there once and were accosted by an older woman carrying a bottle of liquor, wearing a long blouse that came down to her thighs and was basically unbuttoned, and no panties (don’t ask).  She asked if we were interested in a party and nearly floored us with her alcoholic breath.  Barbara quickly left the building and I went into our rental unit to collect some rent.  

It has gotten better over the years, although we do have one couple who consistently come home drunk and have fights.  The condo management has sent us surveillance pictures of the husband dragging the passed out wife by her feet into the elevator. 

In another building we have 5 units, and at one time there was an older lady leaving there with a heavy, black, southern accent.  She would pronounce my name as “Shirley”.  She would call the office and ask for “Shirley” and be told there is no-one here by that name.  After a while we learned to recognize her call.  She was very demanding of certain things and once called to complain the tenant in another unit didn’t say hello to her.  What was I supposed to do?  I’m not the guy’s father.

We had a tenant who was a dancer/escort, who hated men, a guy who thought he was a musician and insisted on practicing all day and into the night (we evicted him), a guy who would troll the bus station looking for naïve out of towners; offer them a place to stay the night and then lock them out and steal their stuff (also evicted).

There were and are many other “characters” who we have and are renting to.

The one tenant who stands out is the one that died.

I first met him when he answered our ad.  The first thing he asked me was “do you want to see my teeth?”  I was a little taken aback by that, but pressed on.

He next informed me he was an “Official Police Informer” for the Pennsylvania Highway Patrol, and he had a little card printed which stated that.

By this time I was becoming very leery of him and felt there was something a little off.   

He did have rent and security and we had guarantee’s from his mother and brother back in Pennsylvania that they would pay the rent. They were probably glad to get rid of him. We rented him the studio in the building on A1A.

Everything went along well for the first two months.  The rent showed up and we had no complaints about him from the management.

Towards the end of the third month we had a message left on our answering machine that said “I have been attacked in my apartment, I am going to the hospital, the police are here and I have contracted Aids”.

We called the building management to see what had happened.

It seems a young girl had come home drunk about 3 AM; she got off on the wrong floor and attempted to open our tenant’s door with the key to her apartment.  This woke him up.  Instead of looking through the peephole or asking who was there, or keeping the chain on when he opened the door, he flung the door open.

The girl pushes past him and thinks he is in “her” apartment trying to attack her.  She proceeds to attack him.  They fight, rolling around, and in the scuffle, she bites him (thus the Aids comment).  The police are called by some other tenants and the girl is arrested.

Our tenant while not really hurt, goes to the hospital, thinking he’s infected with Aids.

We speak with him that afternoon and he seems fine, or as fine as he gets.

A few days later we get a call from the tenant’s brother. He tells us he can’t get a hold of his brother and wants us to go investigate.

We tell him we can’t go today but will tomorrow morning.

Bob, my brother-in-law goes to the apartment, knocks, gets no answer and opens the door with a key.  He finds the tenant dead in his bed.  He calls the police.

The police and coroner come and take away the body.  They think it’s an overdose of prescription medicines, they have found a virtual pharmacy of prescription drugs. We think it may have been deliberate since he was worried about AIDS.

We are informed we have to hire a special bio disposal company to take way the bedding and mattress.  It’s rather expensive.

We get a call a few days later from the brother of the tenant.  He implies it’s our fault his brother is dead.  He ignores the fact the brother died 2 days before, and that he and his mother sent the brother to Florida to get rid of him.

Never the less we agree to help pack up the brother’s stuff and load his car and meet a transporter who will take the car and contents to Pennsylvania.

We do all that. 

A few days later, the brother calls again. We are expecting a thank you for our help in getting the brother’s stuff and car.  Instead, he asks if he can get back the 5 days rent remaining in the month. 

We are speechless and hang up.    


A new development just occurred and I have to add it to this blog.  


We got a call from the building manager at the A!A property.


The police called him at 3 AM to ask if someone lived in the building.  It seems our newest tenant was found wandering on the railroad tracks at Commercial Blvd in Fort Lauderdale STARK NAKED.


He had no recollection of how he got there or where his clothes were.  The police brought him back to the apartment where they found the door wide open.


I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.           

The Volley Ball Incident

The Volley Ball Incident

Barbara and I, and our friends Gina and Mark were going on a cruise. 

As is her routine, the General created a list a few weeks in advance, listing all the things to take along including Passports, medicines, etc.  She packed the day before and was dressed and ready early the morning of our departure.  I of course, being more spontaneous (she says disorganized) opted for that morning to pack.

We had arranged for a car service to take all of us to the port.  We arrived at the port around 12 and proceeded to the boarding area.

We were on line waiting our turn to go through security when the guard told us to have our passports ready.  Barbara confidently looked in her handbag for the passports.  They were nowhere to be found.

Now Barbara’s handbag is always pretty big and filled with various items.  Today was no exception.  We stepped off the line to search the bag.  We took out a fairly large pile of items, still no passports.  We turned the bag upside down, unzipped everything we could see, still no passports.  By this time, I am picturing having to leave the terminal get a cab and go home to look for the passports.  The General is sure she had taken them and insists she has them.  We spend about fifteen more minutes searching her bag, her pockets, etc.  Now we fear she has put them in a bag we have checked through to the room.

We turn the bag inside out, and tucked away in the dim recesses of the bag is a “secret” zippered compartment.  We can feel something in there, but when we open it up, we don’t see anything.  Finally, we see a slit in the lining and find the passports inside a more “secret” area of the secret compartment.

Barbara is overjoyed and runs ahead to catch up with our friends.

Unfortunately I am left with a couple of carry on bags, two hats and the camera to go through security with.  Of course I am pulled aside.

“Come with me,” the security guard says.

“What seems to be the problem?” I inquire.

“The x-ray machine has detected what appears to be round cylinders or bottles in one of your carry on bags,” she replies.

“Really,” I say, “round cylinders, what the hell could that be?”

I look around for Barbara; she’s gone on ahead, leaving me to my fate.

The guard and I approach a counter top with another guard.  They take the offending bag and open it up.  They discover the suspicious objects.  It’s Barbara’s hair rollers.

Between the passport fiasco and the hair roller incident, I have spent a total of 20 minutes on line and I haven’t even approached check in yet.

I eventually catch up to Barbara, Mark and Gina, and we make it on board.

We are too early to get into our rooms so we go to lunch carrying our carry on bags.  We finish lunch, drop off our bags and go around the ship looking it over and signing up for specialty restaurants and Mark and Gina for the Spa.

We have chosen late dinner seating and are placed at a table for 10.  For the whole trip, two of the people are never present.  The other 4 people are friends traveling together.  They are friendly and funny.

We spend the first day at sea, the second at Cozumal.  At this point my stomach is upset and I am being very careful to eat small portions and simple foods.  I contact the nurse and she tells me if I want any medication they will isolate me until I feel better.  I choose to tough it out. The next day is at Routan, Honduras.  We have signed up for a shore excursion that includes a beach day and snorkeling.  They take us to a great beach with a nice resort and we spend the day there.  Barbara does not go snorkeling.  She does go in water, never getting her hair wet (a family legend).  I’m still not feeling well and stick with fruit and water.  I survive without embarrassing myself.

We get back to the ship and discover the door to our cabin is covered with crepe paper ribbons and a large poster which says: “Happy 85^th Birthday Shelly” It has various side messages such as “you look good for your age” and other things meant to emphasis an 85^th Birthday.  It is really funny.  Barbara and I laugh about it. 

We go into our room and Gina calls us.  She managed to do this while we were off somewhere.  She is getting me back for a joke I pulled on her a month before.  I decide to leave the poster and crepe up for the remainder of the cruise.

People passing by when we are going in and out of the room comment on how well I look for “my age”.  Gina and Mark’s stateroom neighbors on the other side of the ship tell them about the 85 year old on the floor.  We all get a laugh out of it.  I leave the poster up.

The cruise is great, we have a great time. We participate in many of the ship activities, we dance every night before dinner, and I get to dance with the singer in one of the bands as well as one of the activities directors.  Barbara dances with the dance instructor during a theme party.  I even wind up winning about $30 dollars at blackjack at the end of the cruise.

We love Costa Rica, taking a gondolier through the treetops of the rainforest, a boat through the Panama Canal, a tour of Cartagenia (Barbara manages to buy an emerald ring.  I send an email to our Grandchildren asking them to get their parents to send money) and especially the Caymans.  Mark and I have talked the girls into swimming with the Stingrays at Stingray City, something they are hesitant to do.

We get on board the boat, which takes us to Stingray City, a sandbar off the coast of Cayman Island.  We anchor and step onto the sandbar.  The water is warm and about 3 feet deep.  The stingrays are all around.  The crew is terrific.  They grab hold of a stingray and show us how to feed the stingrays with the octopus they have brought along.  We all get to hold the stingrays, get massaged by them and kiss them (its funnier than it sounds).  The crew takes photos and videos of everything, which we buy.  No one will believe Barbara has done this without proof.  Mark says his family won’t believe Gina did this either without proof.  Barbara has managed to do this without getting her hair wet.  The legend grows.

I send another email to our grandchildren saying “Barbie Poppa has kissed a Stingray” We get an email back saying “There is shocked silence” This is definitely not the Barbie Poppa they know.

Barbara and Gina have a great time.  They forgive us for making them come on this excursion.

The next day is a day at sea.  The activities people have organized a pool volleyball tournament.  I wander down to the pool and meet our table mates. One of them has signed up and I decide to sign up too.  Barbara, Gina and Mark are on another deck reading and sunning themselves.

It’s my team’s turn.  I jump in the pool and get in position.  The ball comes my way.  I jump up to hit it back.  I rise up out of the water, my bathing suit does not.

My suit is not tight enough around the waist and has chosen this moment to make that evident.

I quickly pull up my suit.  No one seems to have noticed.  Not sure if I’m relieved or insulted.

Now, every time I jump, I try to hold my suit up.  Sometimes I’m successful, sometimes not.   It makes for an interesting time.

We manage to lose our game, but since there are only 4 teams competing (have I mentioned I’m considered a “youngster” on this cruise, most of the fellow passengers are older), my team comes in 3^rd and we are awarded a bronze medal. 

I return to the side of the pool where my tablemates are.  I casually mention my wardrobe malfunction, much to their delight and amusement (they didn’t notice either).

I go back to where Barbara, Mark and Gina are, wearing my medal which is bronze colored.  I let them think it is gold.  In the sun they can’t tell the difference.

During the cruise, something has happened to Mark.  Gina blames me.  She claims Mark is usually shy.  He now appears to have become much more gregarious.  He is introducing himself, talking to everyone (remind you of anyone?) and being very “unlike Mark”.  I think this is a good thing, Gina’s not so sure.

The cruise is coming to an end.   People are still commenting on the Birthday Poster.  We have all had a great time. 

Barbara and I would definitely go on a cruise somewhere else, not sure if it would be together.

Soccer Mom or Saki Bomb

Soccer Mom or Saki Bomb

My wife and I and another couple were going to dinner.  We decided to go to a Japanese Restaurant that cooked at your table.

When we arrived the restaurant was very crowded, but we had a reservation and we were seated at a large U shaped table that would accommodate about 20 more people.

We placed our initial order when a large party was seated with us. 

They were loud and boisterous screaming out “Soccer Mom” and pounding on the table.

One of the women came over to me and said “We are loud, let me apologize in advance.  It’s my husband’s 50^th birthday”.

“No problem” I said, “we like loud”.  Barbara claims I speak with everyone.  She would prefer it if I didn’t speak to people we don’t know.  I think that’s rude and you would be missing out on some fun.  So I started up a conversation with them.

Turned out they were all Miami cops, including most of the women.  They worked undercover, murder investigations, SWAT, narcotics, and probably some other divisions I didn’t catch.

They kept chanting “Soccer Mom, Soccer Mom” and pounding on the table.  Shortly, the waiter brought them all a glass of beer and a shot glass of Saki.  They balanced the shot glass over the mouth of the beer mug on a pair of chopsticks.  Then, all together, they hit the top of the shot glass and when it dropped into the beer mug, chugged the whole thing.

I realized then that they weren’t saying Soccer Mom, but Saki Bomb.  Barbara says I am going deaf, but I swear it sounded like they were saying Soccer Mom.  She and the couple we were with thought so too.

They asked us to join in the fun.  They had rules.  You could only drink with your left hand or it cost you a dollar, everyone had to drink Saki Bombs.  They bought us a round.

After a couple of Saki Bombs, they didn’t seem so loud anymore.  They were friendly and I thought we blended right in, except for us not being cops.

They told us stories of recent happenings including the birthday boy almost getting shot that afternoon in a drug bust gone wrong.  He had a cut on his forehead from the fight he got into with the guy with the gun.  They all thought that story was particularly funny and kept kidding him about it.

They invited us back to one of the houses to continue the celebration.  I asked how I would know the house.  They said “the one with the Giant Gazebo in the backyard”.  Since it was night time, and the house in question was in a semi-rural area, I didn’t think it wise to wander around and risk getting shot looking for the Gazebo landmark in a backyard.  One of the few times I let discretion rule.

I bought a round of Saki Bombs for everyone and of course it was reciprocated.

By the end of the evening, everyone was happy and many of them were feeling no pain.  It was time for us to go.

I stood up and said, “We have to leave, but I need some protection from the local police while we drive home, what you can do?”  I was hoping for a badge of some kind.

One of the guys gave me his card and said “If you get pulled over show him this, and tell him to call me.  It probably won’t do you any good, but you can try.”

I took the card, and we left.  They stayed and as we left we heard the chant “Saki Bomb, Saki Bomb”.

We had no need to show it, I wasn’t really drunk or even tipsy. I can’t speak for the other three in the car.  We made it home safely, laughing about the evening all the way.

I now know what a Saki Bomb is and what it tastes like.  I think I can tell it apart from a Soccer Mom, but not sure what would happen if you mixed the two; a Soccer Mom who thinks she’s a Bombshell?

The Fabulite Caper or How I was Tricked into Marriage

The Fabulite Caper or How I was Tricked into Marriage

Barbara and I met in college and began dating in the middle of our sophomore year. 

After a while, we became serious and Barbara started hinting at getting engaged.

Getting engaged at that time was a very big deal for the girl. 

She got to show off to her peers her ring by feigning headaches and putting her left hand on her forehead a lot, or by doing everything with her left hand so as to showcase her status.

Since I was working only part-time, and I hadn’t really asked her, I figured we would just go along for a while status quo.

I was wrong.

Keep in mind that I had never formally asked Barbara to marry me.  She just assumed we would.

First came the hints about buying a pearl ring instead of a diamond.  I successfully fended that off by saying when I could afford a diamond that would be the time to talk.  This worked for a while.

Barbara’s mother decided to take a hand.

On her own, she contacted a childhood friend who owned a jewelry store.  He told her about this new sort of gem called Fabulite. Fabulite was the first attempts at CZ’s.  

She brought some sample rings home with her and showed them to Barbara who then showed them to me.

The price was right, about $200 if I remember correctly, but the ring was not.  The Fabulite looked like a milky glass prism.  In short, it was not very good.  I refused to consider it.

I pointed this out to Barbara and her mother, but they were looking at the bigger picture, a future wedding.

Barbara decided to “mention” this to my parents who always liked her better. 

My father had a childhood friend who had a store in the Diamond District on 47^th street in Manhattan.  He called up his friend and sent us down there.

Again let me point out, I hadn’t asked yet.

We got down to the store and he showed us some rings that he thought suited our needs.  Barbara became very excited and picked out one of them.  The stone while under a carat was a good one, and the price was one I could afford.  The ring had baguettes and was in white gold.

The ring decision was made.

The deciding factor in this saga was the Fabulite ploy.  I think Barbara and her mother knew I would never agree to that horrible looking ring.  They shamed me into getting a real one.

I became engaged without ever having asked Barbara.  All so Barbara could fake having several headaches a day to show off the ring to her friends and anyone else she came in contact with.

I am still married to my first wife all these years later.  I have always maintained she asked me, since I didn’t ask her.

My Walk to the Bronx Zoo

My Walk to the Bronx Zoo

When I was about 8 -9 years old, I spent some time at my aunt’s apartment in the Bronx.  I don’t remember why I stayed there, just that I did.

My aunt, she was called Tillie at the time lived in a one bedroom apartment on Walton Avenue one block off Burnside.  She lived there with her husband who was sick and her daughter Rocky, aka Carol, who is 8 years older than me.

Rocky got her name in Junior High.  She wore a black leather motorcycle jacket and was always in trouble.  Once she got stuffed in a garbage can during a fight.

She almost didn’t graduate from high school because she spent so much time in the balcony of the Loews Paradise Theatre with her boyfriend when she should have been in school. 

Later in her 40’s she went back to school and eventually became a teacher and Assistant Principal.  As an Assistant Principal she was the disciplinarian.  The kids quaked when they had to go see her. It’s kind of ironic when you think about it.

My aunt Tillie, who later changed her name to Natalie, was very close to me.  As a baby she would carry me around bundled up beneath her fur coat.  She introduced me to coffee at about 6 months and Jelly Apples about the same time. 

My grandmother once went to the coffee shop with my aunt, my mother and me, and was shocked I was pointing at the coffee cup, wanting some.  She got really angry, and really let my aunt and mother have it for allowing a baby to drink coffee.  This was repeated when we passed by the candy store and I cried because I didn’t get a Jelly Apple which I was pointing at in the window.  I still cry at not getting a Jelly Apple.

It was summer time, and I was with my aunt for a week.  I don’t remember my uncle being there; perhaps he was in the hospital at the time.

My aunt worked every day in Manhattan and I was left to my own devices.  Its possible Rocky was supposed to watch me but I’m not sure.

There was another boy in the building about my age and we became friendly.

We were bored and he suggested we go to the zoo.  He said he knew how to get there so we started off in the morning with no plan other than walking in the direction we thought it was.

The Bronx Zoo is a great zoo and is on Fordham Road about a mile or so from the Grand Concourse.  That made it about 4 miles or so from where we were.

We walked up Burnside to the Grand Concourse and headed for Fordham Road.  Once at Fordham we turned in the direction of where he thought the zoo was and continued walking.

We eventually found the zoo.  We had no money but managed to get into the zoo.  We walked around looking at all the animals and the exhibits, and late in the afternoon we headed back.

We hadn’t eaten since breakfast and we were hungry and thirsty.

My friend said his uncle had a store on Fordham Road and we should stop in and ask for some money for food.  We eventually found his uncle’s store, it was a hardware store, and he gave us each a quarter and some ball bearings.  We used the quarter to buy some ice cream at the candy store next door and continued walking.

We eventually made it home.  We were exhausted and hungry.  I got in just as my aunt was getting back from work.

I excitedly told her about my day and could we eat now. 

I didn’t get the reaction I was expecting.

She didn’t seem too happy about my adventure.  She was angrier about my going off without telling her than the adventure itself.

Times were different then; two young boys could safely navigate the streets of the Bronx and go to the zoo. 

I don’t think she told my mother right away or I would have been picked up and brought back to Queens, and some appropriate punishment doled out.  Not sure if she blamed Rocky for not watching me.  I hope so.

The Dead Guest at the Wedding

The Dead Guest at the Wedding

When I was in college and for some time afterward, I worked part-time on weekends for a Caterer.  He did weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, engagement parties, etc.  He threw a great party and we all had our weddings done by him.

My friends Bob and Mark also worked there.  Bob was the maitre d’ and Mark and I worked as waiters or bartenders.  Mark’s and Bob’s mothers also worked there.  Bob’s mother made the fruit and other displays and Mark’s mother was a waitress.

Bob’s house was filled with left over food from the parties.  You could go to Bob’s house at any time of day or night (his mother was always up) and his mother would lay out a complete spread of meats, poultry, pastas, desserts etc.  Her freezer and refrigerator were always packed.

When I was working as a bartender, we were told not to throw away the bottles of the “good stuff”.  The caterer would re-pour the cheap stuff into the bottles with the better brand labels.

At every party there would be one guest who would come up to me and brag how he could tell the difference between the brands, usually scotch.

He would insist I pour shots from different brands like J & B, Dewar’s, Johnny Walker Black, Johnny Walker Red, Cutty Sark, etc and he would “educate” me on the differences in taste, color and aroma. 

The guest would sip, sniff, swirl and pontificate on the glories of each brand and their differences which he, connoisseur that he was, could readily discern.

I would nod my head and smile, thinking all the while “Schmuck, they are all the same ‘chief Kahoochee fire water’.” 

Never the less, the guest would go home, secure in his infallible knowledge of Scotch brands; happy to have imparted his wisdom to a young ignorant guy like me.

Anyway, one time we were working a wedding, when a guest had a heart attack and died in the bathroom.

What to do?  Should we tell the host and hostess, stop the affair and call the cops, what to do?

Bob spoke to the father of the bride.  The dead guy was his wife’s brother.  He decided we shouldn’t tell anyone and ruin the affair.

Now, we were faced with what to do with the body.  We couldn’t leave him in the bathroom, someone would see him.  Bob decided to put him under the table of the buffet during the cocktail hour. The table was not being used at the time.  If we left him in the bathroom someone would notice.  He was covered by the drape of the table and no-one knew.

The party continued.  It was time for the Viennese Table (dessert).  We had to take the buffet tables and fill them with desserts and wheel them into the dining room.

What to do with the dead guy?

Fortunately, it was winter.  We picked him up and put him in the step van in the parking lot that we used to carry around supplies.  It was below freezing so we figured he would keep ok.

The affair came to a successful conclusion.  The guests departed.

Big George, the dishwasher, who had to come in early tomorrow to help set up decided to take the truck home.

Big George was this 300 lbs very Gay Black Man.  He had wild crazy hair which he never washed (sometime you could see bugs in it), but he always showed up and did his job.  He also kept hitting on my friend Mark, who after a while wouldn't go into the kitchen alone.

George goes out to the truck, unaware of the dead guy.  There is a horrible scream and George comes running inside in a panic.  We had forgotten to get the dead guy out before turning over the keys to the truck to George.  George didn't even know we had a dead guy.  He is somewhat upset.

We move the dead guy back inside and call the police.

The police and coroner came.  They were not happy they hadn’t been called immediately, and they suspected that the body had been moved.  They started asking questions.

We all hurriedly left to let the police and caterer sort it all out.