Several days before Thanksgiving in 1977, I lost my job at Doyle, Dane and Bernbach, one of the original, creatively driven ad agencies on Madison Avenue. It was an incredible shock, although I knew an agency wide cut was coming, I never figured it would slice me, but it did. There I was, days before a holiday that celebrates our divine bounty, out of work, no severance and no bank. We must throw in a wife, two children and a mortgage grabbing me by the throat.

I left work after visiting with the personnel department. They were all dressed in black and virtually reading from a script to each demolished soul, crushed by the news not so discreetly shared only hours before. It was my stomach that took it the hardest, like a snake tied in knots, crushing itself to get undone.

The next six months or so was my forced exposure to the life of the professional maverick, always trying to look around the corner before you got there. The pressure was brutal, but I tried to exhibit a silent confidence that all would work out. I’ll come back to the calm demeanor business in a while.

At some point, early in my professional exile, I went to a party somewhere in Brooklyn. A friend of friend, who heard I was out of work, approached me. He told me he knew a guy and I wish I could say “guy” out loud because it would have that “forgettaboudit” connotation. We could buy some LP’s, 8 tracks and cassettes for next to nothing and make some quick money unloading them on record stores. Back when people wore loincloths and carried clubs, there were record stores everywhere and a major part of the music subculture.

Now, it is time to introduce you to Mario Curatola, a member of a successful, family owned trucking business. Yes, Mario was the guy, who had this fabulous opportunity and it was waiting for the right people.

After a brief phone call, a meeting was arranged in Plainview Long Island at a secured parking area for beheaded, truck trailers. The meeting was in the afternoon and I made sure to be there on time. After a while, two vehicles pulled in, kicking up clouds of skinny dirt that blew everywhere. One of the cars was a black Cadillac sedan. Several very large guys in dark suits got out and then passenger side was opened for our hero. He was around 5’6”, wiry and wearing some serious gold rings on his fingers.

After a brief introduction, we walked over to a non-descript trailer. Mario opened the lock and miracle of miracles, there were stacks of music, filling about a third of the trailer. There was some story about the truck being headed one way and never quite getting to its destination. The price for this treasure was $13K. We thanked him and he told us to be in touch before the next weekend.

I had no idea what kind of money would be involved, but his quoted figure was more than I had. My decision was a simple one. I spoke with Mario to share the only choice I could make and let’s say it didn’t go well. He informed that the moment I witnessed the contents of the trailer, I bought them and it was not possible to “renege “. After the brief call, I realized I’d gotten myself in way over my head. Imagine me asking my overbearing mother-in-law and my easily shocked mother for money to buy stolen music from someone with dubious credentials because my life was likely at risk. God bless them, they put up the dough.

We rented a van and drove out to exit 46 on the Long Island Expressway to take possession of some really shitty music, like an old time country artist, Don Williams. There was a cover band, singing the Pointer Sisters. It was a quick exchange with Mario and I looked forward to never seeing him again, another miscalculation.

We drove our invaluable cargo to my mortgaged home in Glen Cove and it took over half of the garage. The idea of having stolen property sitting next to an old Buick Skylark, the family car, put extra strain on an already fragile marriage. Now, how do you go about selling music that “fell off the truck” to record stores in the City? You call them on the phone and speak cryptically, that is how. I was also put in touch with someone in South Carolina, who would buy everything we had. We spoke on the phone and something went wrong, which I no longer remember and he began to threaten me. I had no choice, but to call Mario and share my predicament. He told me to have him come up and arrange a meeting at a diner just off our favorite exit and that would be 46. The guy would not be heard from ever again.

Here is where we catch up with my portraying a calm demeanor, like Michael  When I got home, I called Mario and asked him to call from a pay phone. Imagine how that would work in today’s electronic labyrinth? He asked me to meet him out at that parking lot around midnight, which I did. The black Caddy pulled in just like the first time. However, this time, the big guys got out of the car and asked me to sit in the back seat with them, with Mario in the front. He leaned back to tell me that if he didn’t like me, he would have already killed me. I looked to my left and right, bookended by two mountainous dark suits and didn’t doubt him for a minute. We were done at that point. In the end, I made my money back and was left with a great story to share.