I Never Thought I'd Be Doing This

Stories that shouldn't die with me in the family business

This is another installment in the tales of one family business. When I last wrote, we'd just finished the national kart races with me as Race Director, but Mom had another favor. She told me Dad was going to Jersey to deal with 'those people' and that he was too old. You need to do it for him. She and I were close; she was one of those moms who'd rescue you from the Mexican jail but never let you forget it. She supplied my team in Vietnam with socks, booze, and face paint.

When I sorted out what I'd committed to, I never thought I would do anything remotely like this. My Dad was a very hardworking, self-made, and honest man. We rarely saw eye to eye, but being a crook wasn't his. But he'd gotten over his head in his venture beyond the Delaware River. He'd made two deals that were haunting him.

For nine months, on the last Friday of every month, I'd board a plane in Cleveland and fly to Newark, New Jersey. I'd get a room at the Sheraton Inn next to the Budweiser Plant and await my call. The call would come between 6 PM and 8 PM to come to the dining room for dinner with a fellow we'll call Carmine. It was interesting.

He and I oddly became friends, albeit from two different worlds. He was entertaining. The dining room at the Sheraton had big leather booths and lighting that was so low you couldn't read the menu. Years later, I would have a flashback to Carmine when I watched the movie Get Shorty. It was surreal. His style was East Coast crude. I remember him turning to a waitress and very loudly saying, "Honey, could you get us some fucking butter?" She smiled and dutifully complied. He was a regular and big tipper.

Carmine was connected to the North Jersey attorney I mentioned earlier. The one who I got jogging and who invited my wife and me to his oldest son's Bar Mitzvah. Things were well-connected in the greater NYC area. We'd head to my room when he and I were done with dinner and small talk. As instructed, I would lay an envelope of cash on the bed and go to the restroom. When I would come out, the envelope would be gone, and we'd shake hands and pledge to see one another the same time next month.

So what was the deal my Father struck with the attorney and Carmine? After the fiasco in South Jersey that ended in my leaving, he struck a deal with the attorney to pay him a certain amount of 'retainer,' he, the attorney, would handle the troubles in the South Jersey operation. The deal would last three years, like the labor contract at that location.

Carmine came in because he was the kingpin in a Teamsters Union in north Jersey, where Dad chose to open another terminal with about half a dozen trucks. He couldn't pay the going rate for North Jersey hauling sewer pipe, and his Hoffa deal held no weight there. It turned out that the attorney was a guy who could get you a union, get you out of a union, or anything in between. It was fascinating for a guy in his twenties trying to find a stationary object to pursue.

The deal with Carmine was also a three-year one, matching the labor contract. The kicker for Dad's company was that he paid about one-tenth of the going rate to the union for health, welfare, and pension. This made the numbers work for the company but meant the employee was screwed when it came to benefits. My Father and I greatly differed on this, and I could see the desperation in his decisions.

During those nine months, I had a lot going on and was commuting an hour to work. I'm not sure what event sent me to the surgeon, but while in his office one day, I noticed a joint office with a hypnotist. That's not something you see every day. Intrigued, I asked the Doctor what was up with that. He told me he'd had a young lady patient with a severe leg injury from an auto accident. The surgery to repair it was successful, but she couldn't or wouldn't walk.

He said, "Mr. Kugler, I met him (the hypnotist) socially. He told me he could fix her, and he did." He hypnotized the young woman, took her back to the scene of the accident, and revealed that a first responder had said, 'Oh man, she's never going to walk again.' So the Doctor was a believer, invited him to share an office, and said he used him more than he thought he might.

After hearing that I was off chasing another shiny object, he introduced me to the hypnotist, and I started seeing him. During the first visit, he challenged me to tell him something I had always wanted to stop doing. At that age, there's nothing you want to stop doing, so I said, "I eat too many potato chips." He put me under and told me I hated chips, and I couldn't bear to eat one for over a year.

He taught me self-hypnosis, which came in handy with the bit of sleep I was getting at the time. As I was flying around, I learned to tell myself I just had eight hours' sleep and would come out of it feeling better. It would work for about ten days, then I'd be flat out for about twelve hours. I was such a good subject that he wanted me to join a program to become a hypnotist. Fortunately, after thinking about it, I covered that shiny object and moved on.

At around the nine-month mark, I got a rude awakening. The envelope of cash I was picking up before my flight to see Carmine was handed to me by Dad's company treasurer, who'd been with him for many years. He's in the dictionary under 'curmudgeon' but was very loyal to my Father. I never bothered with where it came from until one of the ladies in the office tipped me off. The Treasurer was writing the check in my name, taking it to the local bank, cashing it, and putting it in the envelope for yours truly.

That could have been my first case of 'red rage' from my days in Nam. I was pissed. I'm not sure my Father even knew, but he was the target of my rage. He and I had a strange encounter of the worst kind, and he said, "Well, then go over there and get us out of the deal!" My Mother was not a happy camper. But, she wanted me to 'get us out of it.' Family businesses are quite the challenge.

Working through the idea of walking away from a deal with at least one devil would take another couple of months. I knew we couldn't just walk. The blatant and sometimes shocking truth has never failed me. When Carmine and I sat down about eleven months into my newfound exposure to the IRS and certainly illegalities, I issued my plea.

I said, "Carmine, here is a truth. My Dad is over his head and out of his league. We are just country bumpkins from Ohio. What can we do to end our deal? He is losing money, and I'm just trying to help." He laughed and laughed. We made some small talk, and he surprised me with, "Eddie, you're a good young guy. You're honest. We can make a deal." We were eighteen months into a thirty-six-month agreement. He says, "Come back next month with half of the balance and we're good."

My next stop was the attorney in nearby North Jersey. He always welcomed me with open arms, supported me personally, and said, "Eddie, I'm going to make you a star." We went to dinner; he was cordial and said, "Your Father is a big boy. He made a deal, and we keep deals." He explained he would do what he agreed to, but the agreement was the agreement. I'd at least gotten us out from under the most risky one, Carmine.

I made the drop the next month, which was a substantial drop. Carmine and I parted friends. He asked me to stay in touch and said he'd be there if I needed anything. The attorney and I remained close for many years, and it wouldn't be long before he'd offer me a job to work for him. The family business, however, was another matter.

I decided to try something totally different. And it would turn out to be a bad choice.