"Smooth Selling in the Showroom"

By Jerry Zezima

As a man who couldn’t sell snow shovels in Alaska, surfboards in Hawaii or beer in Death Valley (I’d drink it first), I never thought I could sell cars to anybody but myself. And because my driveway is short and my garage is full of junk, where would I put them all?

So I decided to visit the best salesman I know, James Boyd, of Hyundai 112 in Medford, New York, to see how it’s done.

James, who’s 42 and has been in the business for 20 years, has sold me my last two cars, both SUVs named for Santa Fe, another place where I couldn’t sell anything, even the artwork for which the city is famous.

“Welcome, JZEE!” James exclaimed when I entered the showroom on a busy weekday afternoon. He calls me by that name (pronounced Jay-Z, like the rapper, except I’m the original) because that’s what is on my license plates, which my wife, Sue, got for me several years ago. “They’re the best I’ve ever seen,” James said. “Now, what can I do for you? Do you want another car?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But since I’m retired, and have nothing better to do, and need to get out of Sue’s hair, I thought I’d try to sell cars.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” said James, who then excused himself to take care of some of the many customers he had that day.

While he was gone, I struck up a conversation with two of them, Vickie and Bret, who were there to pick up a car James had sold them a couple of days before.

“James is very good,” Bret said. “He’s friendly, knowledgeable and professional.”

“We planned to go to another dealership after this,” Vickie added, “but we met James and we never left this one.”

Just then, James came back to his desk to pick up some paperwork.

“You’re supposed to be making the plates,” he told me.

“I’ll probably end up doing it in prison,” I said. “And I should have a plate in my head. By the way, do I get a commission for talking with these nice people?”

“We’ll see about that,” James said before dashing off again.

“You’ll owe him money,” Bret said.

“Could I be a salesman?” I asked.

“Sure,” Vickie said. “You chat up customers, you have a good personality and a great sense of humor, and you’re outgoing. You could sell anything.”

Vickie should know because she works in sales at a home improvement store.

I decided to try out my sales technique on Bret when Vickie said he would be getting their old car and she’d get the new one.

“Why should you drive the old one when you can have a beautiful, brand-new car just like Vickie got?” I told him.

“No!” he said firmly.

“Think of the prestige,” I said.

“Think of the money,” Bret replied.

When James returned again, I asked, “Who’s your best customer?”

“You, JZEE!” he said.

“And now I want to be your best salesman,” I said, though I knew I could never be as good as James because, as he has told me, he loves his job and enjoys working with people, and that the secret of his success is having a good sense of humor, not putting pressure on customers, being straightforward and working hard to make them happy.

“Did you sell Bret a car?” James asked.

“I’m trying,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what,” James said as he handed Vickie the keys to her new car and the delightful couple started to leave. “If Bret buys one, you can have the commission.”

“What do you say, Bret?” I said.

“I’ll think about it,” he replied.

“They’re going fast,” I said.

“OK,” Bret said. “I’ll come back.”

“And when you do,” I said, “just ask for JZEE.”

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima

"A Shot and a Beer"

By Jerry Zezima

For anyone who is nervous about getting the coronavirus vaccine, I will allay your fears by saying that I recently got my first injection and suffered no ill effects aside from the lightheadedness I have had since birth.

On the negative side, you can’t, no matter how hard you try, get a shot and a beer.

I found this out when I went to Stony Brook University on Long Island, New York, and saw many helpful volunteers, security officials and health care professionals but not, unfortunately, a bartender.

Of course, the fact that it was 9:30 in the morning may have had something to do with it.

I got the idea to ask for a cold one from my buddy Tim Lovelette, who said that when he got his first shot, he asked if he could have a brew, too.

“I said, ‘Where’s my beer?’ They were giving me a shot and I even offered to pay for the beer, but they wouldn’t give it to me,” Tim said. “For my second shot, I’ll bring my own.”

I should have thought of that when I went for my first one, although my wife, Sue, who got her first shot 10 days earlier and accompanied me for moral support, would have said that I was being even more ridiculous than usual.

When we pulled up to a spot where a cop was directing traffic for people with appointments, I said, “I brought my wife in case I pass out.”

He nodded and said, “Good idea.”

We parked the car and walked into the building where shots were being given.

A young woman put a digital thermometer to my forehead to take my temperature.

“Is my head empty?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Obviously, this isn’t an X-ray machine,” I said and moved on to a table where I had to show my paperwork. After that, Sue and I walked down a corridor and met a volunteer who asked, “Is this your first shot?”

“It’s my ninth,” I responded.

“Wow,” she said. “You’ll really be protected.”

We moved on to another table and met Elana, who asked if I am allergic to anything.

“Only to myself,” I answered.

“You’re a standup comic,” Elana said.

“If I sit down,” I told her, “no one can see me.”

“But we can still hear him,” Sue chimed in.

“Can I get a shot and a beer?” I asked.

“No,” Elana said. “It’s a bit too early for beer, but some people have a little whisky to calm their nerves.”

“Are guys wimps when it comes to needles?” I wondered.

“We all know that,” Elana replied. “But don’t worry, this will be painless.”

She was right, as I found out when I met Tina, who would be giving me an injection.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Old enough to know better,” I said. “But if you must know, I’m 67.”

“You look great,” Tina said. “What’s your secret?”

“I eat like a horse, drink like a fish and get absolutely no exercise,” I said. “That’s all there is to it.”

“In which arm do you want me to give you a shot?” Tina asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m ambidextrous. I’m incompetent with both.”

“Pick one,” she said.

“My left,” I said as I rolled up my sleeve. “It’s a good thing I’m not an octopus or I’d never make up my mind.”

It was over in a flash.

“It didn’t hurt,” I said.

“Of course not,” Tina replied.

“Can I get a beer?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Tina replied again.

It figured. Still, I felt so good about getting my first shot that I went home with Sue and relaxed before having lunch. Afterward, I celebrated with a beer. It really hit the spot.

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima

"A Hello to Arms"

By Jerry Zezima

In an impressive act of bravery, I recently stood six feet away and, while wearing a bright red face mask that made my nose itch, watched my wife, Sue, get her first coronavirus shot. As I will happily tell Dr. Anthony Fauci when he calls to congratulate me, I didn’t even faint.

Of course, Sue deserves credit, too, because she suffered no ill effects aside from a headache that was probably caused by me. But it was just the first step in my superhuman fight to eradicate the virus. And it won’t end until Sue and I have had both of our shots.

My first one will happen soon, but it was a long time coming because it took weeks for us to get appointments. And they wouldn’t have happened without the help of our daughters, Katie and Lauren, who went online and got us registered.

Our longtime friend Tim Lovelette knows the feeling: His older son, Marshall, got appointments for him and his wife, Jane.

“That’s why God gave us kids — to keep us alive,” Tim said. “Otherwise, we would have been dead long ago.”

Tim and Jane got their first shots in an abandoned Circuit City building on Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

“It went smooth as silk,” Tim reported. “And we both feel fine.”

Hank Richert, another longtime friend, had an even better experience: He and his wife, Angela, who live in the Carolinas, have already gotten both of their shots. And they were given, of all places, at the Charlotte Motor Speedway.

“We made it to the finish line,” Hank joked.

And he didn’t need help from either of his sons to get appointments.

“Our medical group set it up for us,” said Hank, who has a Ford Mustang GT convertible but instead drove his Hyundai Santa Fe to the speedway.

“We actually got to drive on the racetrack,” Hank recalled. “They funneled us into a garage where race cars are serviced. We got to a station, rolled down the window, handed over our paperwork, stuck out our arms and got our shots. That was the first time. I had a shot on a Saturday evening and Angela had hers the next morning. The second time, we got our shots on the same day. It was easy-peasy.”

“Did they wave the checkered flag when you left?” I asked.

“No,” answered Hank, who said he and Angela felt fine after both shots, “but it would have been a nice touch.”

On the morning of Sue’s initial injection, I revved up my Hyundai Santa Fe, an SUV that in this case stood for Shot Utility Vehicle, and drove to Stony Brook University on Long Island, New York.

We pulled up to a spot where a police officer sat in her patrol car.

“My wife has an appointment for a vaccine,” I said, pointing to Sue.

“Hello, wife!” the cop chirped. Then she told me what to do: “Make a U-turn, go to the end of the road, turn right and follow the signs.”

“You’re a cop and you just told me to make a U-turn?” I said incredulously.

“It’s legal,” she assured me. “And you won’t go over a double yellow line, so I can’t give you a ticket.”

When I got to the second spot, another cop told me to follow the road and added, “Watch out for potholes.”

“I bet Hank and Angela didn’t have to do that at the speedway,” I told Sue.

We parked the car and walked into the building where vaccines were being given. About 10 minutes later, we arrived at a station where Sue turned over her paperwork, rolled up her sleeve and got her shot.

“It was easy,” she said afterward. “Everything was well-organized. And I didn’t feel a thing. Next,” she added, “it’s your turn.”

When it is, I’ll know just what to say: “Paging Dr. Fauci!”

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima

"Under the Influence"

By Jerry Zezima

I have very little influence, even in my own home, which is the only place where I am a household name, but that won’t stop me from achieving my new and extremely dubious goal of being one of the most influential people in the world.

That’s right: I want to be an influencer.

Until recently, I didn’t know that influencers existed. Then I started reading about alleged celebrities who possess no discernible talent but are rich and, even more important, famous for being famous, despite the curious fact that they are not famous enough for me to have ever heard of them.

Still, they are making boatloads of money, which they presumably use to buy boats, by endorsing products that their zillions of social media followers will buy, thus giving them (the influencers) even more money.

I may not be rich, or have zillions of social media followers, or possess any discernible talent beyond the frightening ability to make stupid jokes at the drop of a hat, which I will pick up for you and put on my own head, but I do have one thing most influencers sorely lack: an excellent reputation.

I recently found this out when I saw that MyLife, an American information brokerage firm that gathers personal info on people through public records and other sources, has given me a score of 4.22 out of 5, which is 6 percent above the national average.

When I told my wife, Sue, about this impressive news, she said, “Do they have the right person?”

It was a good question because in order to get a full report, I will have to pay a fee that could be more than I will make as an influencer. Nonetheless, I know that my reputation is higher than that of most people, which makes you wonder who the hell they are and whether they are incarcerated.

Because I am a free man, and worth every penny, I have looked into products I could influence shamefully gullible people to purchase.

In my extensive research, which has so far covered approximately a minute and a half, I have discovered that influencers like to hawk jewelry. Aside from my wedding ring, which I got in 1978, I don’t wear jewelry.

Influencers, most of whom are decades younger than I am, also peddle skin-care products such as moisturizers. As a bona fide geezer, I don’t think even a tub of Turtle Wax would help remove my wrinkles.

So I came up with a product that not only is a boon to mankind, but one I use all the time: beer.

I once made my own beer, Jerry’s Nasty Ale, which went down smooth and came back up the same way. I don’t dare make another batch, so I decided to contact a company that produces a beer that has both excellent quality and a national reputation.

That’s why I called Samuel Adams (the brewery, not the dead patriot, who doesn’t answer his phone) to ask if I could be an influencer.

“We don’t have a formal influencer program,” said Brittany Zahoruiko, who oversees public relations for the company. “We’d have to take it on a case-by-case basis.”

“Did you say ‘case-by-case’?” I asked delightedly.

“I think I did,” Brittany replied, suddenly realizing she had made a beer pun. “I didn’t even mean to.”

In my case, being a Sam Adams influencer probably won’t work out.

But I know someone else who would be a good influencer for any product because her reputation is even better than mine: Sue.

On MyLife, she scored 4.76 out of 5, which is 12 percent above the national average.

“That’s twice as good as yours,” Sue said before asking me to take out the garbage.

“Yes, dear,” I replied. “In our house, at least, you have a lot of influence.”

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima

"A Shot in the Dark"

By Jerry Zezima

After weeks of trying to get the coronavirus vaccine, during which my wife, Sue, and I spent almost all of our waking hours online, on the phone or on edge, I am happy and utterly flabbergasted to announce that our efforts were worth a shot, even though we haven’t gotten it yet.

That’s because we finally got appointments for our initial injections. And we owe it all to our daughters, Katie and Lauren, who had been needling us (sorry, but it’s true) to keep at it. Ultimately, after realizing their parents were either unlucky or incompetent, they signed us up themselves.

The real reason we were unable to get appointments for so long is because we live in New York, a state that had been a global hot spot for the virus and then became a model for how to deal with it, but which now, in arranging vaccine distribution, is a total shot show.

Sue and I began our interminable search for an appointment when we registered on the state’s COVID-19 website. Because we don’t have any underlying conditions (we soon developed overlying conditions that included raging headaches, jittery nerves and intestinal spasms that could be calmed only with over-the-counter medications such as wine), we were not in the first group of people eligible for the vaccine.

We were classified as 1b, which initially included people 75 and older but which was lowered for those 65 and up.

“1b or not 1b? That is the question,” I told Sue.

“Here’s the answer,” she said. “We’re both 67, so we qualify.”

We thus embarked on our long day’s journey into night, getting up with the chickens (the only ones we have are in the freezer) and staying up to the witching hour (or something that rhymes with it) just to see if we could get appointments on the state website.

We also called the “special” hotline number, which turned out to be a cold line because Sue once got a person who said, essentially, that it would be a cold day in hell before we got vaccinated.

“Good luck!” the woman said before hanging up.

The rest of the time, we were directed to the state website, where we had to reinsert our registration information only to find out that no appointments were available at any of the sites in our area.

The only two places in New York State where appointments were available were hundreds of miles away, both near the Canadian border.

“It might be easier to renew our passports and get vaccinated in Canada, eh!” I said with a horrible French-Canadian accent.

Sue shook her head. That was my reaction, too, when I cleverly figured out that even if we got appointments at one of those upstate sites, they might not be on the same day, which would involve two long round trips, and we’d have to go back for our second shots, which would involve two more.

So we registered with two national pharmacy chains where, of course, no appointments were available because they didn’t even have vaccines.

In the meantime, Katie and Lauren kept telling us to go back on the state and pharmacy websites every day, all day, stopping only to eat or go to the bathroom, and constantly click, even after seeing that no appointments were available, in case something opened up.

Two things became disturbingly clear: (a) we were in grave danger of getting carpal tunnel syndrome and (b) the pandemic would be over before we got vaccinated.

Then, miraculously, on the same day, Katie and Lauren, who had been searching, too, got appointments for us. They are right around the corner at Stony Brook University.

Sue and I are grateful to our daughters for helping us get our first shots, which will be given soon.

Until then, we are celebrating with shots of our own: blackberry brandy for me, cinnamon whisky for Sue.

And we don’t even need an appointment.

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima

"Eggings Over Easy"

By Jerry Zezima

I have always been considered a good egg, even though most of my jokes are rotten. That’s why I squawked when I found out that chicken-hearted punks had recently egged a bunch of cars in my neighborhood.

One of those vehicles belongs to my son-in-law, who had parked it in my driveway. Feathers ruffled, I called the local police precinct and was connected to a cop whose puns are as criminal as mine.

Officer Vasilecozzo, who works in dispatch, took my complaint over the phone.

“Can you crack the case?” I asked.

“I think so,” he replied, presumably with a straight face, “but I wouldn’t put all my eggs in one basket.”

“These miscreants have obviously run a-fowl of the law,” I told him.

“I’ll have to scramble to catch them,” Officer V said.

“What if they’re poachers?” I wondered.

“Then they’re on the run,” he responded.

“You sound like a hard-boiled detective,” I said.

“You’re just egging me on,” said Officer V.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to henpeck you.”

“Let’s end this game of chicken,” he said.

“OK,” I said. “The beak stops here.”

“Good,” said Officer V, who began peppering me with questions. “Do you have a ring camera?” he asked.

“Why,” I wanted to know, “are we dealing with a crime ring?”

“If you don’t cut this out,” he said, “I’m coming over there to wring a confession out of you. Now what else can you tell me?”

Risking incarceration, I said, “There are spent shells in my driveway. And the back of my son-in-law’s car is covered in sticky residue. It looks like the work of hardened criminals.”

“Or,” Officer V said, “they could just be kids on bikes.”

I told him that my wife, a fan of TV cop shows, had done some investigating of her own and discovered on her daily walks that only red vehicles had been targeted.

“A red car up the street was egged,” I said. “And a red truck around the corner was also hit.”

“What color is your son-in-law’s car?” Officer V asked.

“Red,” I said.

“He must be seeing red,” the cop quipped.

“He’s blue in the face,” I remarked.

Officer V said he would file a report and asked me to get back to him if anything else happened.

That night, my son-in-law’s car was egged again. The next day, I called the precinct and spoke with Officer V.

“You must be shellshocked,” he said.

“I’m walking on eggshells,” I told him. “I’d like to see these guys fry.”

“That would never pan out,” he assured me.

“The eggs stink,” I said. “If this were a cop show, it would be ‘Law & Odor.’ ”

Officer V said his favorite cop show is “Lucifer.”

“I haven’t seen that one,” I said.

“It’s really good,” he told me. “But so far, none of the episodes have been about egg throwers.”

“What are you going to do about the ones in my neighborhood?” I asked.

“We’ll send out a patrol car,” Officer V promised. “Maybe the police presence will be enough to deter them from continuing their messy activities.”

“Will you let me know if you make any arrests?” I said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If we catch these guys, the yolk will be on them.”

Officer V’s plan seems to have worked because there haven’t been any further eggings.

When I called back to thank him, Officer V declined to take credit and said a coordinated effort between police and the community is what helps stem such quality-of-life crimes.

“Don’t be so modest,” I told him. “This is really a feather in your cap.”

“I appreciate it,” said Officer V. “But more than likely, these guys just chickened out.”

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima

"They Do an Ice Job"

By Jerry Zezima

When it comes to shoveling snow, I am a wuss, which stands for “wait until spring starts.”

Unfortunately, I have never been able to convince my wife, Sue, of this brilliant philosophy in the two-plus decades we have lived in our house.

Sue knows I have been perpetrating snow jobs my whole life. In fact, I was born during a blizzard. So whenever we’ve had a winter storm, or a nor’easter, or a “snow event,” as meteorologists like to say, I have bundled up like I was going on an Arctic expedition and dug out the cars, cleared the front walk and shoveled the driveway without collapsing into a snowdrift and being found frozen stiff the next morning like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.”

I used to have a small snow blower that turned out to be the Little Engine That Couldn’t. My former neighbor Ron would often come over to help me with his large snow blower and kindly gave it to me when he moved, but it, too, has gone to the Great Snowy Beyond.

So I’ve had to rely on my trusty shovel, which is a glorified soup spoon. I used it to get rid of the eight inches of wet, heavy snow we got during a pre-Christmas storm. After having a shot of blackberry brandy to stave off coronary thrombosis, I finally decided to hire someone to plow the driveway so I could stay inside and get plowed myself.

That brave someone is Justin Felix, 19, the wunderkind operator of North Coram Snow Removal on Long Island, New York.

Justin proved to be a lifesaver (wintergreen, of course) because we recently got 15 inches of snow that could have stopped a polar bear in its tracks.

Assisting Justin were his father, Nick, 48, a banker who co-founded the side business with Justin several years ago, and Justin’s girlfriend, Kate Stevens, 18, who worked just as hard and efficiently as the guys.

In fact, Kate wielded a shovel with lightning speed, clearing the front walk in less time than it takes me to put my boots on.

“What’s your secret?” I asked.

“I just lift and go,” Kate responded.

“If I tried that,” I told her, “I’d have to be lifted into an ambulance so I could go to the hospital.”

Justin and Nick, meanwhile, each manned a three-stage snow blower that, said Nick, “can cut through ice.”

“The ice isn’t as thick as my skull, which would probably break the machine,” I noted.

Justin smiled and fired up his snow blower, which blew snow (hence, the name) directly into my face when I was stupid enough to stand in the way.

“I have brain freeze,” I explained.

Justin, an enterprising young man who also is an investor and works for an affiliate marketing company, started in snow removal when he was 15.

“I wanted to help neighbors and make a little bit of money, too,” Justin said.

“When I was that age,” I told him, “I didn’t even help around the house.”

That probably makes me the laziest of North Coram’s dozen or so customers, some of whom are fellow geezers who have thrown their backs out while trying to throw snow.

“I’ve also heard some cursing when snowplows leave huge piles at the end of their driveways,” Justin said.

I didn’t curse, which I have been known to do in such extreme situations, but I did help by moving the cars so the terrific trio could finish clearing my driveway.

“Fantastic job!” I gushed as I paid Justin a very reasonable amount of cold cash. “You just saved me from having a heart attack.”

“Next time there’s a storm,” he promised, “we’ll be back.”

“Take it from a real flake,” I said. “There’s no business like your snow business.”

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima