The old woman with the old house on University. (Part one.)

In 1982, Ohio was part of "The Rust Belt." The economy was terrible. Jobs were scarce. People were flocking south in search of a better life. This was the year I graduated from The Ohio State University and started looking for a job, and the result of my job search was pretty much what you might expect.

There were no results.

Looking back on it, I didn't know what I was in for and I clearly didn't know what I was doing. A job search requires focus and a full-time commitment. I was about as unfocused as one can be and still have a pulse, and I'm not confident now that I ever gave it my all. Perhaps that's because I was looking for a job as a reporter, and even though my brand-new journalism degree still had its fresh lemony scent, I was dreading the idea of working for a newspaper. I didn't want to write about local sports, which is probably what I was going to have to do, and I didn't want to write about people's misfortunes, which is something that I would definitely have to do. So why did I get a job as a journalist?

Two reasons:

1. Because I was really good at writing, and not particularly good at mathematics, science or business.
2. To avoid having to endure a forlorn life as a hopeless and bullied store manager at Radio Shack.

I worked at a Radio Shack store for a number of years before I woke up and went back to college. What finally woke me up was the fact that I was headed down a road that I didn't want to be on. I knew all of these really nice people who managed Radio Shack stores, and each one of them suffered daily under the pressures and bullying of their District Managers (who probably were suffering under their Regional Managers, etc.). They truly lived lives of quiet desperation.

When I realized that my life was becoming quietly desperate, I tried to join the Navy. I was moments away from taking the oath when the doctor who had just given us physicals pulled me aside and said, "I'm sorry, son. Because of your asthma, I can't let you in." 

So I went back to school, met Jane in the summer of 1980, graduated two years later and got engaged on the same day, and started sending out resumes into a big and indifferent world. 

I got one interview. A newspaper in Willard, Ohio was looking for a reporter and called me in for an interview. I'm sure Willard is a wonderful place for those who live there, but to me it was dark, dirty, desolate and depressing. I remember it in shades of gray, with lots of boarded up old buildings and railroad cars parked near the downtown area. I didn't impress the editor of the paper, and I didn't get the job.

Shirley, my future mother-in-law, was getting impatient with me in her sweet, "I just want to help, dear, so do what I tell you" way. I still worked at Radio Shack part time, and one day she suggested that I apply at Radio Shack advertising. To be honest, the thought had never occurred to me. Copywriter? Write advertisements? I guess I could maybe do that. 

So I applied, and much to my surprise, they flew me to Fort Worth, interviewed me and hired me. Just like that. It happened so fast, my head was spinning. Jane and I were due to get married in March of 1983, which was still months away. We said our goodbyes, promised to write and to call a lot, and with a big hug and a kiss, not to mention a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes and a lot of uncertainty, I drove off to Texas.

Jane and I had CB radios, and as I was driving away I talked to her until the signal gave out. When I could tell the connection wouldn't last much longer, I told her "I love you!" CB radios weren't exactly the most private form of personal communication, because some bloated middle-aged woman wearing a tutu and with a face smeared with grease from eating fried chicken broke in at that point and said, "I love you, TOO, hon-ey!" and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. I shut off the CB at that point and never turned it back on the entire trip.

When I finally drove into the Fort Worth area, I was on westbound I-30 and somehow got turned around and ended up on the north side driving south down I-35 toward Fort Worth. Don't ask me how I managed to do that. I still don't know. It was late, and I was tired and I saw a Motel 6. I paid the guy behind the bulletproof glass, unloaded everything that I had in my car into the room so it wouldn't get stolen, and called Jane from a pay phone.

"Jane, I'm in the stockyards!" I practically wailed.

I went to bed that night thinking that cows were getting slaughtered nearby. I was certain that I could hear them mooing as they were being lead to their deaths. I had no idea that it was really a touristy area with bars, restaurants and Billy Bob's. 

The next morning, I bought a Fort Worth Star-Telegram and started looking for a place to live. I couldn't afford an apartment, so I looked through "Rooms for Rent." I called the very first one I saw. The lady who answered said, "Yes, the room is still available. If you're interested in it, I only have two requirements. You have to have a job, and you have to be white."

Under normal circumstances, I would have moved on at that point and looked elsewhere. But these were not normal circumstances. I was away from home for the first time in my life, I was away from Jane, I had no friends and no family, I was in a strange city and about to start my first "real" job, and there were lines and lines of cows being slaughtered nearby. I was frightened, and in my fear I decided that I couldn't let my own personal values get in the way of my immediate need of finding a place to live.

"I fit both requirements," I replied.