This was 1982 and way ahead of my time. I was in Palo Alto and applying for secretarial jobs at those drab colorless new tech enterprises. Hushed cement bunkers with soft spoken staff in conservative outfits. My guffaws broke the windows. I was not hired by anyone, my feather-light resume resoundingly discarded in my wake.

Six months earlier a friend and I set off from NYC to travel the earth. After one month we were no longer speaking and when, on Patmos after a moped accident (I swear I had nothing to do with it) she warbled about needing to visit her ailing mother somewhere in California. I was thrilled, “I’ll help you pack,” I said. And on I went East with my adventures, first stop, India. Take that Columbus!

I did not discover the meaning of life, and here I was, half a year later, re-entering the Real World via California, and lo, Gia’s mother’s bungalow in the outskirts of Palo Alto. We lounged around at her mother’s and we dreamed up get-rich-quick schemes. We ate a lot of ice cream and played with Gia’s mother’s brand new microwave oven, blowing up eggs and melting sneakers. Disgusted, Gia’s mother pushed us out of doors. On our strolls to the nearest Baskin Robbins we noticed real estate flags on lawns. Clearly a thriving business and eventually we hit on a bankable idea.

We printed up flyers presenting ourselves as a catering company, specifically designed to cater to the multitude of open house showings.

One day the phone rang and we got a job. We ran off to the supermarket to buy a tray of cubes of cheeses and from a warehouse we rented chairs and tables and linens and stemware etc. Then we stood on the side of a highway and hitchhiked, which required flagging down a truck, slowly traveling with the party equipment and souring food, to the job site, a model home. We asked the truck driver to pretend he was our employee when we unloaded all the gear.

The event happened, in a surreal blur of earnest questions we couldn’t answer, and our evidently bumbling lack of expertise, but we survived the experience. The realtor lady handed us a check for an amount that didn’t come close to clearing our costs. Thank heavens we were never hired again so we abandoned the get-poor-quick scheme.

What are the odds of moving to Palo Alto and not becoming a billionaire. One in a million, that’s me!

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