After many months of deliveries, most neighbors became accustomed to seeing the Cotler brothers on bicycles, towing their Radio Flyer egg wagon. A few unimaginative churls thought it insanely humorous to yell, “Hey, Eggman! Gimme two dozen!” every time we rode by, but the unpredictable wagon-chasing dog was our bête noir.
The worst crack-up (pun intended) came on a fair spring day. Continue reading “Eggman — Part 4…Dog and Egg Sandwich”
With its motto “We Sit Securely on Our Assets,” the Outhouse National Bank strove to offer the finest service to its only depositor, my 10-year-old brother Doug. It was open 24/7 for deposits, almost all of which were imprest as a result of the superior judgment of the 15-year-old employer of said brother. It was mere coincidence that said employer was also the owner of the bank.
After a few weeks, Doug had accumulated a substantial two-figure account balance in the Outhouse National Bank. Continue reading “Eggman — Part 3…Outhouse National Bank”
Three weeks after beginning my egg route, my weekly delivery had increased to nearly 150 dozen. It only took two after-schools to deliver the eggs, and I was netting over $30 each week, more than $4.25/hour. With the minimum wage at $1.55/hour, I, only 15, had found the chicken that laid the Golden Egg. Of course I intended to expand further, so I needed to find a low-paid worker to help me. He was right in front of me, watching cartoons, a thin line of drool connecting the corner of his mouth with his chin: my 10-year-old brother, Doug. Continue reading “Eggman — Part 2…Expanding the Business”
“Hello. My name is Steve Cotler. Each week I go out to a ranch in the country and pick up fresh eggs and deliver them in this area at a price within a penny or two of store prices. Of course, these eggs are much fresher than store eggs because I pick them up and deliver them the same day. This week, as I finish my route—I deliver to Mrs. Jones across the street and Mrs. Brown down the block—I find that I have a few dozen left over. Since I only want to sell the freshest eggs, I’d be happy to offer them to you at half-price. Would you like to try some really fresh eggs?”
This was my pitch. I was 15. Continue reading “I Really Was the Eggman — Part 1”
The odor of skunk is very different up close than it is far away. A wee bit-o-skunk is sharp and somewhat lemony…stinky, definitely apprehendable, but not outrageously offensive. Full-skunk, however, clouding thickly outward from the furry hotness of a thoroughly swacked pet dog, is an altogether different experience. It holds back for an instant, then slashes across your senses, hitting much further back, more on the reptilian neurons, with a cutting edge that noses in like the sound “chank-chank” composted with hot lye. There’s no meat to this stench. Nothing rotted. It is knife-edge, bluish-green, maybe bluish-gray, and you cannot stay with it long before gakking.
Continue reading “Mephitis Mephitis”
Several years ago my brothers (Lanny and Doug) and I were on Long Island where Doug, a well-known performer of modern Jewish music, had a concert scheduled. The show was set for 7:30 p.m., with a sound check an hour earlier, but it was just 4:45 and Doug was hungry. Because a full stomach does not make for a comfortable and melodious performance, Doug opted for a snack at a nearby Sunrise Highway diner.