Dear Friends,
Well, I sure took long enough. My last FUN was an epic nineteen days ago, which is the longest break I've taken since I started up the HUN late last year. I guess this is the part where I make an excuse. To be fair, I've only had a computer for about a week now, but the real reason is that I wanted to write a success story. I wanted to let all of my friends and family know what a competent guy I am and impress everyone with... well, I didn't think that far ahead. But I never reached that point. In fact, I've related the following to a couple of people: I entered this situation confident in my ability to handle my life and succeed. The fact that I was comfortable with what I was doing was frightening to me; I grew up in a bible-thumping family, and I knew that "pride goes before the fall." As certain problems arose and I began to lose certainty, I found that I became more relaxed. When God is in control, good things happen. When I'm in control, not so much.
There's a lot of ground to cover, so here's the agenda: first, I'll tell you the story of my move-in. Then I'll give a status quo and finish with whatever comes to mind (I'm planning to edit this when I've actually finished the newsletter). I shall begin my story a few hours after I arrived, after the taxi had dropped me off at the Greyhound bus depot.
I stepped onto the bus without knowing what to expect. I tried to remember the lessons of Junior High: not the back of the bus, or I was a trouble-maker; not the front, or I was a teacher's pet (or a bus driver's pet, which is quite significant since I imagine teacher's as having monkeys for pets, whereas I imagine a bus driver might have a pet lizard, and I'd much rather be a monkey than a lizard, though when it comes to it I usually just avoid the front of the bus). Seat positions were, then, what clothing became to me later: an oversimplified moral barometer that I gave up much later than I should have.
A neutral position in the middle placed me across from a woman finishing a novel. Finishing: so few pages remained that she may have been reading the "about the author" section. Wanting to be friendly, I turned to her and smiled, saying, "I don't think that will last you the whole bus ride." She looked somewhat offended and told me, "I know, I just need it every half hour or so. I've been smoking for almost fifty years now." Blink, blink. It took me a solid five seconds to notice the oxygen tube running to her nose and down to a small tank. I blustered and stammered and apologized but she didn't seem convinced of my gentility until I lowered myself to taking interest in her novel, which was obviously a harlequin romance of the most stereotypic variety. Yes, of course I had heard of Jennie Adams (though not favorable, I did not add). No, I hadn't read any of her books. No, I didn't read many romance novels. Yes, I was single. No, I wasn't interested in older women.
Just kidding.
The trip was long, but I had lots of decompressing to do. I was grateful for the opportunity to watch scenery go by and drain my cell phone battery. Around ten, I arrived in Tampa and was instantly full of excitement and energy. My new home. With skyscrapers and coffee shops and the ocean and a whole world of opportunity. The enormity of the moment buoyed me far above my concerns. I gave Chris (my landlord) a call, and he picked me up. I liked him instantly; he is honest and straight-forward, very down to earth and completely reliable. He informed me on the way that Leslie (my roommate) was still at work, but that Steve (Leslie's nephew) would be staying the weekend.
Steve. What an innocuous name. A blond, freckled, demure name. This was the first image on Google images. I rode a Greyhound bus into a town I've never visited to live in a house I've never seen to live with a roommate I've never met. I had no money, no job, and no prospects. But at least the person waiting for me was a friendly person named Steve.
Silly me. Steve was a goth/punk skater in the thorny thickets of adolescence. Straight, jet-black hair hung in greasy mats, and he peered at me, the new arrival, from beneath his uncut bangs. "Sup, Chris," Steve said to the man who had suddenly become my social body guard. A brief introduction. A short tour. I gave Chris first and last month's rent in an envelope because I didn't think I could do it if I actually saw the money leaving. He disappeared as if Steve and I were a long-separated married couple with a lot of "catching up" to do.
He wasn't so bad, it turns out. There wasn't a lot of common ground, but, like all, adolescents, all he wanted was somebody to listen. I listened. He took to me immediately. I waited up for Leslie until about 6AM, during which Steve kept up a near-constant monologue until he fell asleep around three. I finally gave up and went to my bed, exhausted. Unbeknown to me, Leslie arrived at about ten after sleeping a few hours at a friend's house and fell asleep immediately. This it was that both of us woke up just after noon, in precisely the conditions that anybody would want to meet a new roommate.
That is to say, we were both a mess. But she was friendly and personable, if a little groggy, and I was about the same, so it worked out well. We both got cleaned up and headed over to the Easter festivities. I will say little of that except that the family was well-balanced and friendly, and on a whole I enjoyed the event. It was very laid-back, and I spent most of the time eating and chatting and reading my new four-translation bible. Not a bad first day; not a bad Easter.
It also gave me a good chance to get to know Leslie in a low-pressure environment. Leslie is a twenty-three years old bartender with a precocious little chihuahua named Roxie. Leslie loves Roxie, despite the fact that she was a gift from P.O.D. ("Prince of Darkness," Leslie's name for her ex-fiancé, Shannon). They are rarely separated, and they suit each other well.
My roommate, landlord, and house all worked out extremely well. I feel very happy about the whole situation. The biggest issue has been making money. Without money or a car, my options are terribly limited, and that has proved a significant barrier. As it happened, I ran across an ad for becoming a poker dealer. As an avid poker player, I though I would attend the interview and see what I thought.
Here's the deal: the local Greyhound race track wants to open a large poker room. To that end, they are offering free training (it usually costs about $1500, a fact which I have confirmed independently) for the next two months. Of a couple hundred interviewees, sixty were chosen (myself among them) to receive this training. Of those sixty, forty will be chosen to be dealers in the new poker room. The training is 4-9PM M-F, and is taught by three poker dealers that are so accomplished that I actually recognized them. They have all worked at Vegas casinos like the Mirage and the Bellagio, and two have worked final tables at the WSOP (World Series of Poker). They are strict, demanding, and extremely good at what they do. I was hooked.
I've been attending the class for about a week now, and it's amazing. I'm excited about the opportunity, and I feel confident in my ability to be in the top ten percent. That is significant because the best of the dealers will be lent to poker tours (read: all-expense paid trips to places like Vegas and places all over Europe). It is a tip-based profession, and poor (slow) dealers can expect to make around $20/hr; excellent dealers make as much as $35, but our instructors say that can take a couple years to achieve. That's fair.
My plans is to work as many shifts as I can, and use the money I make to invest in real-estate. I want to deal for five or six years and invest heavily, then begin to live off real-estate deals. I'm excited.
The problem is that, until July 1st when the poker room opens, I don't have any way of making money. I am completely broke, and I have bills to pays. Thanks to a hard schedule to work around and a lack of transportation, it's hard to find much. Basically, I'm hoping to find some minimum wage job to tide me over for a couple months.
And that's where I am right now. That's how I'm doing. I'll try to get my next update out in a more timely manner.
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See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives.
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
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