Category: Uncle Bill’s Place

WELCOME TO THE CHAIN GANG, by Art Smukler, author & psychiatrist

by artsmuklermd, posted in Psychiatry, Self Examination, Uncle Bill's Place, Writing

The term “Chain Gang” brings to mind an image of Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. Bare-chested, sweat dripping down his forehead, he swings a pickaxe as guards with dead eyes and no sense of humor stand ready with their shotguns cocked and loaded. Summer in Mississippi is not pleasant.

How about another image? Picture a 15-year-old student in a cold basement, shadows projected on the hard cement floor from mufflers hanging from the ceiling, sweating as he crimps together long rows of chain with connector links. After he completes two rows of chains, he places the chains in sturdy cardboard boxes labeled snow chains, and then does it all again, all day. His knees burn, his back aches, and his mind is on a different planet. It’s storming outside, and upstairs in the store, there’s a run on chains. In the background a deep baritone sings Old man River, but only in the mind of the 15-year-old. December in Philadelphia is not pleasant.

Yeah, it was tough down there in the basement of GI Joe’s Auto Accessory store, my uncle’s business. It would be nice, as an author, to extol the virtues of how I overcame torture and abuse to become the man I am today. Sadly, my uncle didn’t provide any torture or abuse. He was one of the sweetest men I’ve ever known. He gave me the opportunity to make money, bought us all lunch, and treated every employee with respect and dignity.

So what did he give me besides a person to respect and emulate? He gave me the chance to dream. Down there in the dark basement filled with cobwebs and dust, I survived the unpleasant hours with an active fantasy life — the dark-haired girl with the ponytail who maybe glanced at me for an extra second, the Chevy Impala with white-wall tires and dual exhaust pipes, and the smile on Doctor K’s face when I asked him how the heart worked. For two bucks an hour, I learned how to do something I hated, to never give up, and to grudgingly feel a sense of accomplishment. To achieve anything in life, we have to learn to do things that are distasteful.

The fantasies of our youth are the foundation of our stories and who we eventually become. Are children today being given the opportunity to dream? Is there any time left between, iPads, computers, organized sports, TV and play dates? Do they have anytime to actually figure out who they are?

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AND THAT’S THE BEAUTY OF IT! SELLING DONE THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY, by Art Smukler, Author & psychiatrist

by artsmuklermd, posted in Psychiatry, Uncle Bill's Place, Writing

While having dinner with a friend, a decades old memory made me smile.

“What’s so funny?” Bob asked.

“An idea for my blog just popped into my head… I was 17 and helping my father develop a line of ignition wire sets. You know, the wires that connect the distributor to the spark plugs in a car engine.”

Bob took a sip of wine and nodded.

“I read some technical manuals, calculated the lengths of wire needed for the largest 8 cylinder and 6 cylinder cars,  figured out all the other parts, came up with a packaging idea, and presented it to my dad. He calculated the costs at 6 bucks for the eight package and 5  for the six. ‘What about attaching the ends?’ I asked. ‘The machinery’s too expensive, and the labor costs will kill us’, he said.

“You were just 17?” Bob said.

“I’d been working in auto accessory stores since I was 13; so I sort of  knew my way around.”

Bob nodded. “So what happened?”

“I asked him, ‘Would people actually buy wire sets without the ends attached?’ He said, ‘I want you to spend a day with Harry. He knows what to do.’

So a few days later, it was summer and hot as hell, I drove up to New York from Philly. Harry was the kind of salesman who was always dressed in a suit and sported a cool, pencil-thin mustache. I rode shotgun in his big white Caddy, as we drove to an Auto Accessory store out on Long Island. ‘I’ll do all the talking,’ Harry said, as we walked in the front door.

That was fine with me, because I had no idea how he was going to sell a package that contained only a length of wire and a bunch of clips, while every other wire set manufacturer in the country had all the ends already attached and crimped.

‘Hey Harry, how they hangin’ ?’ Joe the owner asked.

‘Meet Art. I’m shown’ him the ropes.’

‘Be careful, Art. Harry can sell you a pair of his old Jockey’s if you don’t watch out. So waddaya got for me?’

Harry tossed him two packages.

‘What the hell’s this?’

‘One fits all eight cylinders, the other all sixes.’

‘Harry, with all respect, this is bullshit. It’s a roll of wire and a bunch of ends.’

‘Joe, that’s the beauty of it. You cut what you need and save the rest till you need more.’

Joe looked at Harry, then looked at me, and said, ‘Art, see what I mean? Harry you’re such an asshole. I’ll take a hundred this month and a hundred next month — fifty of each.’

Bob laughed. “Great story. But what does it have to do with psychiatry or selling your book?”

“Nothing… It’s just a good story. That’s the beauty of it.”

We both laughed and took a sip of wine.

Any thoughts about selling the old-fashioned way?

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