Crazy People Get Paid Too

“If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up.”

                                                                                                        -Hunter S. Thompson

I went to the interview. It was in a warehouse on River Road in Clifton, New Jersey a block from the infamous “Rutt’s Hutt” a hot dog and hamburger joint that hasn’t changed in decades, nor should it and who’s grinders, or deep fried hot dogs, smeared with a mysterious mustard-like condiment filled many a happy lunch hour for me and my compatriots. The parking lot of the warehouse was littered with giant potholes which were often flooded with rainwater and motor oil. It was like driving on the back roads in some developing nation. There were two big bay doors, usually open. I parked and walked inside.

The clothes from the donation bins came in here off of tracker trailers, collected by independent contractors who picked up the clothes from the donation bins each from his particular route. My boss often wondered if these contractors were stealing clothes from the bins and selling them privately. Much investigation time was put in by him, both during and off hours. But my boss was no gumshoe. He caught only one guy but he fired him, and felt a brief satisfaction in it. The clothes were sorted, compressed and sold in bundles to unsavory looking brokers who hauled them out in their own trucks. I must have spoken to one of the guys in our warehouse once I arrived for my interview, probably either Mario or Walter.

Mario was a tall, skinny, shaven headed El Salvadorian. He loved to talk about Carnivale in his home country, how it lasted for days drinking, dancing, eating and carousing.  I never tired of his explaining it. Another favorite topic was how many Coronas he ingested the weekend before. Walter was the other warehouse worker that sticks out in my mind. He was a dim but kindhearted, older, southern black gentleman with a fu manchu. He always wore a baseball cap. He was sweet and had an easy smile. Once on a trip together to collect clothes in one of our trucks, I had offered to buy him a frozen yogurt at a rest stop. It was hot. There was no AC. I wanted something to cool me down. He looked at me dubiously. But when he tried it, he couldn’t stop saying, “Man! That’s good! MAN that’s good!”

After searching for where the interview was to be held, I must have been pointed to the office, a rectangular outgrowth on the far left of the warehouse. It had two rooms, the manager’s private office in back and a secretarial and reception area in front. It was in the reception area that I was met by Alma, a whiny, energetic, obsessive, obsequious middle-aged Puerto Rican woman with curly dark hair and thick glasses. She had family drama that she would bemoan out loud and ask everyone’s opinion on one at a time—a son in and out of prison, seething arguments with her son’s girlfriend who was also her grandchildren’s mother. It was also rumored that our regional manager was or did have an affair with her, which may be why she had some sort of leverage over the warehouse workers.

The guys in the warehouse hated her. Every day she’d go in there and boss them around. They’d tell her to go to hell. Our manager would then have to go out there and yell at them. They’d go back to work. But when she went out there to frantically lecture or order or command, they’d insult her again. It’s a wonder they got anything done at all. 

She treated the warehouse workers with absolute contempt, though I have to admit that, just like a nagging mother, sometimes, not often but sometimes she was right and the workers did occasionally run into trouble because of this. As callously as she ordered the men, Alma lavished Jostein and me with accolades. She ran to get his coffee. She complimented both of us all the time, to the point where it embarrassed me. It was sick and utterly transparent. I usually quickly thanked and then ignored her.

Once in the office, waiting for the interview to begin, I was asked to sit and wait, making small talk with Alma. Finally, she led me through the reception area into the manager’s office to meet Jostein Pedersen himself. His first name is pronounced Yostein. He is a small, bespectacled, older gentleman now in his early seventies, with a white beard and a shy smile. He was a runner and has a runner’s physique. He loved running marathons and won many metals, especially in his age group, until his leg gave him trouble. Poor guy had to quit. He seemed lost for a while. It was a big part of his life. It made me wonder what I may have to give up someday when I too get old.

One of the reasons I sort of believe the cult label of the Teacher’s Group is that Jostein had the wide, unblinking stare of the true believer. Doesn’t matter the ideology, I’ve seen street preachers on wooden boxes in Boston Common, who called me a sinner and said I’d be going straight to hell, with the same exact stare. Jostein shuddered every morning while Democracy Now!’s “War and Peace Report” with Amy Goodman blasted out of his office radio, filling him with a righteous indignation he both savored and despised.

He was grandfatherly, but a little cold at times. Whenever he introduced himself in meetings he would say, “My name is Yostein. I’m a Norwegian.” He’d smile, squint and shake firmly, two awkward pumps as if he’d seen this ritual in an informational video but never experienced it in real life. Jostein was a good boss overall. He cared. And he was a nice guy. I invited him to Easter one time. He came. 

He didn’t really know anyone in New Jersey. The Teacher’s Group just sent him to work here. His Danish girlfriend Jane, an enigmatic, attractive older woman visited from time to time. She was living in Slovakia and working in the used clothes business, gathering them and selling them in a store there. He is there working with her now. At Easter at my mom’s he seemed jolly, carried upon the wave of good feelings. He thought we served way too much food however. And as Italian-Americans, we do.

Jostein had an innovative concept which he brought up at my interview, trying to sell to towns the idea of curbside collection. Donation bins are unsightly. People dump all kinds of things in front of them. They are vandalized sometimes covered in graffiti. We had reports of them on fire. One of our drivers even found a homeless man living in one. He swears it was locked when he came up to it. If you’ve ever seen how small the shoot is in one of these things, you’d agree it isn’t an easy feet for someone to get in there.

Jostein wanted to move away from donation bins altogether. Great idea. He had already done this in Somerset County. But the quality of the textiles collected wasn’t good. Once I was hired, I wrote a proposal and looked up the names of all the recycling coordinators in all of the towns in New Jersey. I sent them informational packets with promotional materials that were just lying around. No one was doing anything with them. I told them, “Reduce your solid waste disposal fees, and advertise to your town that you are doing textile recycling.” I got us a lot of meetings.

It was very successful until clients started seeing the anti-Tvind and Humana websites. Then they wouldn’t call us back. Any town or group that didn’t look into it or didn’t care was very happy with the program. I told Jostein that unless you answer these claims to defend yourself, people are automatically going to think you’re guilty. Because why wouldn’t you defend yourself against those spreading vicious lies? But they didn’t want to go in that direction, which makes me think that TG has something to hide.

This was an exciting job and I was very successful. I started doing expos and speaking engagements. I met Ted Danson, Ed Begley Jr., and Senator Robert Menendez at the Global Green Expo. I got published twice. I did a five part series called, “Into Africa” on www.nj.com/helpinghands, and I got an article in WasteAge, now Waste360 a recycling trade magazine. I met my wife the love of my life. I got to go to Africa. And I got this tremendous business idea. So I do owe Planet Aid a lot. But as I learned more about the organization and what was going on, things got weirder. In my next post I’ll talk about my training to go to Africa, the Tvind school I went to on top of a mountain in the Berkshires and the other managers in training I met, from other parts of the country.