October 1990

“Ice, Ice, Baby….Ice, Ice, Baby…”

Friday, 6:00 p.m., the first week of September, 1990–I sped along the oak tree-lined, now shadowed streets of University City in my metallic, not-really-sporty (but I thought so then), gold four-door sedan. I jammed to the funky rap tune I was digging.  What a song!  It had a beat that pulled you in and a rap that rocked.  It also had a melody that some lame DJs believed too closely mirrored that of a Queen/Bowie tune–whatever, fun-crushers!  I was pumped.

Having graduated from the Universityof Kansas in May, I had just completed week one of my first real adult job–no, the first week of my glamorous career in advertising.  My journalism/psychology double major and 3.92 GPA had paid off.  Phi Beta Kappa would be proud.  I was now in charge of monitoring advertising spending and schedules for competitors in the “spirits” category (no, not ghostly or religious spirits…hard liquor spirits), for a downtown advertising agency.  What an honor.  I had crucial, surely-world-altering responsibilities.  Humanity would definitely progress and drinkers would be more emotionally fulfilled if they chose my client’s brand of whiskey for their imbibing needs.  And to make that happen, it was essential that we kept them “in the know” about the other liquor companies’ marketing.  I was contemplating this as I reached my destination, my chest swelling with pride.

I stopped and expertly parallel-parked my sparkly gold gem at the lively corner that offered a bevy of pubs and restaurants to college students (Washington Universitywas only four blocks away) and neighborhood residents.  I looked with great excitement across the busy street at the building I came to visit.  It was three stories tall, skillfully crafted over 70 years ago, with multi-hued caramel-colored brick.  A grand stone courtyard reigned in front, with a garage tucked underneath.  The structure impressed me.  The rusty air-conditioning units in all the windows did not.  I chose to ignore that flaw.

I exited my car, climbed the concrete steps to the courtyard, and entered the filmy glass-paneled door at the southeast corner.  I checked out the entryway floor.  It was black and white tile with a ribbon-like pattern that had been popular in the ’20s.  My gaze rose to a row of six greenish-copper, rectangular mailboxes inserted in the rough antique plaster wall.  Each had a hand-written name label affixed at the bottom.  My skin began to tingle with excitement.  I rushed up the staircase (all three floors) and arrived at the solid oak door.  It displayed a glass mini-window, ablaze with orange, green and blue diamonds.  It was open, so I entered to behold the most amazing sight of my life.  An empty apartment!

It boasted hardwood floors, arched doorways, new (although a bit sloppy) white paint, a little phone “nook” in the wall, two bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, a black and white kitchen, and even a “balcony” overlooking the grand alley and dumpsters behind.  Wow, this would be mine!  My three-month, post-college period of living at home with mom and dad was over, baby.  I shouted with arms outstretched, “Goodbye, ’60s wood-frame ranch house, identical to all you other ranch houses on my childhood street!  Hello, apartment brimming with history, character, and charm!  Who cares about my school loan, my car loan, and my salary that equals only slightly more than half my age?  I can afford to live on my own.  I can make it work!”

I decided to call Tina (my high school friend, now a special education teacher who had agreed to be my roommate).  We could sign the lease on Monday.  (She would love it too!) Independence!  Happiness!  Wealth!  “Ice, Ice, Baby…” I danced with joy around my new place.

The next week Tina and I were together at our pad, taking care of our pre-move-in details.  We assessed our furniture status.  Tina had a tannish couch, loveseat, and chair she bought from a fellow teacher, who had in turn, purchased it from a fraternity house.  That would do.  (We just wouldn’t think about what crusty, nasty stains might still cling to the nubby fabric despite frenzied steam-cleaning efforts.)  We each had bedroom sets that we could claim.  I could also snag an old dining room table and matching chairs from my folks’ basement (maple veneer and cracked black leather seats, oh yeah) that would fit perfectly in the dining room alcove.  And a TV…we could just get a Best Buy credit card, buy a 19-incher, and pay it off month by month.  We could rent the much-needed AC window unit (for it was still excruciatingly hot outside).  This was not the smartest fiscal decision, since it cost $45 a month.  We could have purchased one, in a similar fashion to our TV, and saved money overall. But hey!  Whatever!

Move in day, a Saturday…with help of friends, Tina and I lugged and angled our treasured pieces up the many steep steps.  We spent all day arranging the few furniture items and filling our surprisingly small closets with our wardrobes.  When all was complete, we looked around.  Sure, the walls were bare.  Sure, the mini-blinds were bent.  Sure, there was a hole in the tub/shower wall…hmm, didn’t notice that before.  Didn’t matter, we were on our own, happy and grown-up.  We didn’t need to lean on mom and dad anymore.  We didn’t have to follow their rules and regulations.  We weren’t forced to defend ourselves about every decision we made and participate in endless, worthless arguments.  As Tina so eloquently stated while she held up the black princess phone that we had nestled in its special nook, “If mom starts to yell, you can just ‘click’ and end the conversation.  Click.  Click.  Click.”  “Click” was the verbal symbol of our new power.

The first few weeks were glorious.  I went to work each day, and, on the drive home, would find myself almost giddy.  Some days I would enter the apartment, change, go running, shower, then “cook” myself dinner (always frozen meals, heated, and then eaten on a tray table in our “media/living room”).  Other days, I would drive home, and then go out with friends to listen to a local band.  The sense of freedom was overwhelming.  There was no one to ask, “Where are you going and when will you be back?”  If we wanted to talk to our folks we could call them; if we didn’t, we wouldn’t.  Simple as that.

Tina and I (and our good friend Visa) continued shopping for the apartment.  There were many additional items we just didn’t know we needed until we really got settled.  We needed cookware, flatware, glasses and a microwave for the kitchen.  We had to get new bedspreads and framed posters for our bedrooms.  I also needed a mirror since I didn’t have a formal “dressing table” like Tina did.  And, lastly, we needed a rug for the living room.  Hardwood floors were great, but a rug was essential to pull the room together.  The whole apartment transformed itself, in a fine fashion, to quite a “shabby chic” look that worked.

Then it happened–the terrible tragedy!  The bills came!  We had the rent, electricity, gas, water, Best Buy and Rent-A-Center charges.  On top of that, I had my car and school loan payments, the monthly fee I paid to park in a garage downtown (ooh…that made me mad, but that’s a different tale), and minimum payments on my Visa card, gas card and a department store card.  I pulled out my handy oversized solar calculator and started adding.  My share of the apartment expenses plus my personal expenses totaled $1,150.  My paychecks (I was paid twice a month) totaled, after taxes, (no kidding), $900.  I wondered where was I going to get the money, the extra $250 each month?  I began to think.  I figured I could try to get a second job, maybe retail or something after work.  That would be difficult though, because I often had to stay late and work weekends at my beloved ad agency.  I could park further away from the office; that would only save me about $30, though.  We wouldn’t need the AC unit after this month…$22.50 saved there.  I did hours and hours of creative accounting, but could not come up with an answer that fully solved my financial dilemma.  I said to myself, “There is no way I can ask Tina to pay more of the rent or anything else…can I…hmm?  No.”  This was not her problem.  What could I do?  There had to be an answer!  It was just the beginning of my new place, my new life of liberty and self-reliance…how could I face it crumbling like this?

I thought and thought and finally came to an emergency decision.  It was radical.  I didn’t like it, didn’t want to face it.  It would have serious repercussions.  I knew I would live to regret it.  But it just had to be done.

Reach. Grasp. Lift.  Dial.  “Mom….”

August 1990. 

I was fresh from college, armed with my degrees in journalism and psychology from the arch-rival of Mizzou, the Universityof Kansas.  After spending the summer in a pseudo-grown-up job (weight loss counselor at a popular 90s program, which was actually quite amusing considering my own weight barely crested at three digits), I was ready to start working in Advertising in Downtown St. Louis!  My work location excited and scared me because, as a suburbs kid, my downtown adventures had been limited and usually related to major league baseball or July 4^th. 

I was ready though. 

Adulthood. Independence. Wealth.

On my big First Day, I arrived at the bright orange, brown and tan-accented offices at the very top of a mirror-like building across from Busch stadium.  I sat down with the Human Resources Director so all the particulars of my new employment adventure could be explained.

Talk about some overwhelming minutiae!  I endured a lengthy on-and-on about office rules and regulations.  The advised starting time was 8:30 a.m. at the latest, with the official moment of departure being 5:30 p.m.  Of course, The HR Director hinted, in order to make the best impression on whomever you were impressing, you were expected to stay late most days, at least until 7:30 p.m.  This would almost adequately demonstrate that you loved and appreciated this wonderful career opportunity that had been bestowed upon you. 

Health and life insurance benefits were then discussed, with strange, almost icky, enthusiasm.  If you died, your beneficiaries (mom and dad for me at that time) received the equivalent of one year’s salary!  “Funny,” I thought, when considering this scant dollar amount, “this could almost pay for my funeral if no one went overboard.” 

At the conclusion of the meeting, I hugged my packets and folders and was ready to start working, to start pushing the career forward, to start creating the most “impactful” advertising plans ever encountered by mankind.  I stood up, my right shoe centered on the piece of duct-tape I noticed stuck to the floor by my chair.  The silver sliver was placed there to cover a rip in the pumpkin-colored carpet–nice.  I turned to leave and then “bam!” a serious adulthood bomb dropped, blinded me, and took my breath away. 

“Oh, one more item to cover…there are many parking options downtown.  The closest is the garage attached to the building.  It costs $55 a month if you park inside.  You can try to get on the list for the rooftop; it’s cheaper, $45 a month.  And there are also parking lots a few blocks down, near the highway exit, that are less expensive.”

What?  I could not believe what I was hearing.  This was something I had never before considered.  Didn’t companies always have parking sections in garages, have specific spots allocated for their employees?  It didn’t work that way?  I had never heard of this “paying for work parking” thing.  I was expected to pay to park my car so I could go to my job?  Expected to pay to come to the office?  Expected to take what at that time was a significant percentage of my monthly income and give it to a facility where, as a county-sheltered, city newbie, I feared that my car (and I) would become victims of scraping, stereo-stealing or just plain robbery?  EXPECTED TO PAY TO WORK!  I thought not.  No, this would not do.

I decided to take a stand.  I took a deep breath and planned to speak up and hold true to my belief that paying to work was inherently wrong.  The company should pay me for the work I would be doing, not the other way around.  I would demand that my new employer buck up.  I truly deserved a no-charge parking “benefit” as much as the one that would make sure that my buriers could send my bones off to the afterworld in a proper manner.

“I have something very important to say,” I stated with an even, firm, and assertive tone. 

“Yes?”

“I’ll need that form for rooftop parking.”