Being Frank
“My grandmother had died, and I felt as if a big chunk of the past was gone. I was a few months shy of my 17th birthday, and all I wanted to do was hide in a small mahogany-paneled and velvet-wallpapered room, draw the velvet drapes over the bay window, and listen to Blue Amberol cylinders on an Edison reproducer. Probably I should have gone to San Francisco. Instead, lacking any wherewithal whatsoever, I sheepishly checked back in at the Parental Hotel in good old quotidian Manhattan Beach. I h...ad some vague notion of trying to study musicology or medicine; my mother felt that I should get a job and contribute to my upkeep.
This wasn’t a half bad idea, but after three weeks of toting a 30-pound sack of junk mail and rubber-banding circulars onto doorknobs in Watts and Willowbrook, I was relieved when a position opened up in the shipping department of my father’s furniture company. My dad had definite opinions about nepotism: His brothers were partners in the business, and their no-good kids had been given roomfuls of furniture by their doting fathers, for free.MoreLess
This wasn’t a half bad idea, but after three weeks of toting a 30-pound sack of junk mail and rubber-banding circulars onto doorknobs in Watts and Willowbrook, I was relieved when a position opened up in the shipping department of my father’s furniture company. My dad had definite opinions about nepotism: His brothers were partners in the business, and their no-good kids had been given roomfuls of furniture by their doting fathers, for free.MoreLess
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