Benny Jay: My Peak Earning Years

It’s one of those rush-rush days. Gotta drive six miles north for a doctor’s appointment in Evanston, then turn right around and drive twenty miles south to meet Daddy Dee in Hyde Park.

At the moment, I’m slogging through my taxes, which my wife told me I absolutely, positively, have to compete — two days ago.

The bad news is that my income is down from last year.

The good news is – well, there’s really no good news.

Looking for a diversion, I call Milo, who may or may not be Gary’s greatest writer. “My income’s down from last year,” I tell him.

“Well, Benny, take comfort from this thought – these are our peak earning years.”

“Ugh, thanks for the diversion….”

It reminds me of a recent conversation I had with my buddy Bob, the track coach, who knows everything there is to know about websites.

“There’s a site that will tell me how much your site is worth,” Bob told me.

“Really?”

“Yeah – all you have to do is type in The Third City. I’m doing it now….”

I hear him typing.

“It says your site is worth eighteen dollars,” he says.

“I must have misheard you. Did you say eighteen?”

“Yes, I did….”

So much for my plans to become the world’s richest man by blogging.

Now it’s 11:35 and I’m almost late. Which is different than being late. Being late means no matter how fast you drive you’re not going to get there on time. Almost late means if you drive really, really fast and your car doesn’t breakdown, you’ll get there on time. Maybe.

So I’m zipping up Clark Street and talking on the phone – don’t worry, got the ear piece in – to Milo who’s saying: “Remember that post I wrote asking people to send me money?”

“Yeah….”

“Well, it worked. Somebody sent in twenty dollars….”

“You’re kidding me….”

“Nope. A guy named Anthony “Tony” Patellis — grew up with me back in Gary. He’s actually a well-known actor on the New York stage.”

Well, god bless Tony. Thanks to him Milo’s the only person to ever make a penny off this humble operation. Guess there’s hope for me.

Suddenly, an orange light flashes on the dashboard. “Hey, man,” I ask. “What’s it mean when an orange light goes on the dashboard?”

“I don’t know, but rule of thumb about dashboard lights – when one goes on it’s generally not good news….”

A few minutes later the car sputters, squirts and stops. Uh-oh. Now I’m late. I call the doctor and cancel the appointment. Then I try the car. It turns on. I make a U-turn and drive back into Chicago, heading for my mechanic.

A few blocks later another orange dashboard light goes on. This one shows a picture of the engine. A few blocks later the car dies.

I call Triple-A. The operator wants to know what kind of car I’m driving.

“A Ford,” I tell her.

“What kind?”

“Ugh — a gray one.”

“No, sir — the model….”

Dang, tough question. I’ve always been bad with car brands. I say the first thing that pops into my mind….

“Celica?”

“Sir, that’s not a Ford….”

“Oh….”

She’s right. That’s a Toyota.  My first car was a Celica. Snazzy two-seater — made in 1973. God, I loved that car. Drove it all over the country. But I don’t bother her with all that information….

“Sir, I need to know the model,” the operator says.

“Hold on.”  I fish the manual out of the side pocket. “Taurus,” I tell her.

“Thank you, sir. A tow truck will be there in fifteen minutes….”

I sit in the car. Look out the window. It’s freezing….

The town truck arrives. Driver’s named Antonio. Nice guy. We start talking politics. “I don’t trust none of those mother fuckers,” he tells me.

Hmm, can’t really argue with that.

Antonio drops me off at the mechanic’s. The dude looks under the hood and says my anti-freeze  dried up and that “there might be internal damage to your engine.”

Internal damage to the engine? Now those are words you never want to hear when your income’s going down.

I take the train to Hyde Park, hook up with Daddy Dee, take the train back home, return to my office and sit down to finish my taxes.

Nah – forget this shit.

Go downstairs and put on another DVD of Weeds. That’s the show I’ve been watching as of late. Can’t get enough of it. In the old days, I smoked it — now I just watch it.

By some calculations, that’s progress.

Hey, things are already looking up…..