After being escorted out of Florida by their State Police, it was back to
Jersey, and find work. Which landed me a job as Traffic Manager for London
Records @$150/week, good money in 1974. Where I would learn about life not
taught in any class, and get to use my Spanish learned from Miss Ludi’s Spanish
class. Sort of. She didn’t teach us to cuss or swear, but I picked that up
easily the first week, and learned Castillian Spanish is different than that
from Puerto Rico and Cuba, which is different from Spanglish in San Diego. But
I was young, and learned fast. And suddenly this white boy from an upper middle
class town was thrust into International intrigue.
My boss was a big Italian man, Amos Romeo, who drove a 1967 GTO, and always
wanted to race against my R90S, just to see how fast I really was. But my
immediate bosses, Mario and Julio were both of Puerto Rican descent and great
guys. Julio was quiet and got things done, Mario outgoing and very helpful,
translating for me when I needed it-constantly. But his English had a heavy
accent, and many time he had to write what he was saying so I, we could
understand. But he always had a smile, and provided me with a Columbian
secretary named Alba Mary. Very pretty with heavy red lipstick, her English
consisted of “OK Mike,” and a smile. She did the filing, fortunately the
numbers are bilingual, and always had a smile. Now my job was to route freight,
and the gifts, incentives from trucking companies ran from tickets to ball games
to your favorite bottle. Always being reminded of a local guy from Brooklyn
with his own truck, who stayed until closing. He would take all not picked up,
and many times Mario would tell me, “send more freight Al’s way, his kid needs
braces,” or “he’s having a rough month.”
But within this huge warehouse, many sub-companies existed. One consisted
of two guys, Tony and Carlos, who both talked so fast you never could understand
them, and when you said “what,” talked louder, until finally throwing their hand
in their air, and commenting on your heritage. Ironically these two worked in a
cage, I think for our protection more than theirs. The packers consisted mostly
of Puerto Ricans, with one Maria, built like a refrigerator, would always pinch
me when I walked by. Her co-worker Benito, loved the Yankees, and most of our
conversations were either “Yankees, si” pointing to his ever present Yankee cap,
or telling Maria a dirty joke and making her pinch me. But we all somehow got
along....except for the Cubans.
We had to keep the Puerto Ricans and Cubans separate, some places with a
floor to ceiling fence. They hated each other. The Cubans were refugees, and
not Americans, the Puerto Ricans real Americans, and hated because they were.
Go figure. But the head Cuban was a dignified man, who before his exile had
been a high government official, very respected and classy, called Sargento.
Who ran his area like the military. But his counterpart from Puerto Rico was El
Tigre, who looked like an old Tony Montana. A cigarette with ashes about to
drop were always between his lips, and El Tigre enforced the law. He was often
seen during working hours holding court with his men, no one interfered. I
think he tolerated me, I always went to Julio for help with him. Add in the
fork lift driver from Haiti, St. Cyprian La Prince, the Jewish guys in the
office who ran London Records, Freddy, the black chauffeur of the owner of the
place, known as the “Old Man,” and we were truly a diverse, if not interesting
work place. But somehow we all got along, and I think Alba Mary would agree,
“OK, Mike.”
We all might agree, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is for the
weekend. And for 40+ hours a week, I was willing, weekends not included. I was
not saved yet, and my two worlds were converging, work in a West Side Story
atmosphere, and home life, party central. And the two were taking a toll on
each other. Something had to give, and when BH offered me a junior executive
job, I took it. Seems the flesh is weak, the dollar stronger. And when
influenced by ego and pride, along with a title, “hasta luego London Records,
hola Polychrome.” But as Christians we fight the same battles, and I soon found
the spirit was willing, at least in church on Sunday mornings, and the flesh
week once I left. Sometimes I felt the words of Jesus asking me like he did
Peter, “could you not watch for me one more hour?” I was physically awake, but
spiritually asleep. And not sleeping very well. And I found in the diversity
that I had left behind more secure than in the new world with Jesus I was in
now. Pressure from the church, well meaning brothers, and others who knew what
was best for me. Soon I found the human sense of independence growing, as the
freedom I knew in Christ had turned to rules, regulations, and all the things I
didn’t want to have to do with religion. I would brag “I am a Christian,” to
other Christians, yet never have to explain who I was to my secular friends.
They accepted me pretty much as I was, and didn’t put restrictions on me. The
one place I thought I could find acceptance, the church wasn’t it. I had
confused a walk in Christ with the church. And the two are not the same at
all. I soon knew how Peter felt, where was that extra hour when I needed
it?
And it was found in prayer. Seeking God, going beyond church doctrine and
pleasing them. Keeping up an appearance of happiness, while bummed inside. It
was when I started to trust the spirit, that my life changed. I had the
knowledge, knew the songs, carried a Bible. But in my submission to Jesus, I
found that extra hour Jesus spoke of, to do what he asked, and only what he
asked. I had been impressed by so-called strong Christians who were always
doing things in the church, but found in my weakness, like Paul did, God’s
strength was made perfect. And soon the joy of the Lord became my strength. My
understanding limited at best, I learned to trust. No negotiations, trust Jesus
not for something, just worship him for who he is. He is God incarnate, savior,
and when he became Lord of my life, the I knew of the freedom he promised. In
the spirit, not of man, should I boast. It was OK to be scared, but to find
strength in Christ. To be honest, and not a facade. When a friend and I talked
about death, we agreed it was scary, although we knew heaven waited. We had
never done death before....but Jesus has. And in him, we will too be
resurrected. With no ethnic barriers, no fences between denominations, no
arguing over King James vs. NIV. It will be all about Jesus. So what are you
waiting for?
When you are sure in your weakness, you will get strength from God. If you
are having problems today, go to Jesus, just as you are. He knows, your friends
probably do too, the church may ignore it. Only Jesus loves you as you are, and
doesn’t want you to stay that way. He promises life abundantly, overflowing in
joy. The spirit is willing, deny the weekend flesh, even of church, and trust
God. To which even Alba Mary would agree, “Jesus, OK Mike.” In any language,
at any job, on any weekend, he is Lord. Jesus is Lord. Jesus Christo es el
senor. There, see how easy it is. Bet you didn’t know the language of love was
bi-lingual too.
love with compassion,
Mike
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