Steve, Cher & Daycare: a memory upon retirement

Sunday, December 22nd, 2013

We live in an academic community in the small city of Durham, North Carolina; could be named Dukeham for the significance of Duke University to our local economy. Sometimes referred to with the “New Jersey of the South” moniker, but I’ve heard that as many students come from Florida. I don’t believe it.

As a consequence of the influx of these out of state, private tuition sources, Jersey or Miami, $58k per year per student including room and board, high achieving professors are recruited. Throw into the pot the doctors and scientists from the Medical Centers (only two cities have two such large and renown medical centers, ours with Duke and UNC, and the Bay Area with Stanford and Cal Berkeley) and pre-school for infants and toddlers costs plenty around town.

In the beginning, we carted our infant son to the other side of Chapel Hill, a 90 minute round trip twice per day, because that’s where the best-we-could-find pre-school was. Foolishly, we had waited until he was born to solicit invitations for our son’s attendance and our related funds. This is like trying-out for the middle school soccer team in order to get some exercise, have some fun and learn an internationally popular sport. One would be lucky to get an orange slice as a booby prize before a squadron of mini-vans with insulted parents escorted you from the field.

For awhile, we enjoyed the variety from routine and the car-time with the Howard Stern radio program. Then the call came that Our Child (OC) fell from his high chair, cut his head and ‘needed us to pick him up.” “Can’t we meet you at the doctors office?”, Mother implored. “Uh, no. We don’t have a car seat for a baby.” Quite the memorable occasion was the next hour as we motored over to the school then to the Emergency Room. Turns out, OC was ok – a few stitches now hidden by an eyebrow. Mother recovered also.

We dug out the phone book (remember? still had those in 1997) as well as the related tip sheets so that we could renew the begging of day-care directors. We found a sincere program at a Catholic school that was well managed and very diverse, although nobody was like us. Couldn’t enroll OC until he was 2, three months from now / then, and as spots in the “program” were going fast, our chances of securing one later were kind of like walking-on to that aforementioned middle school soccer team.

Luckily, I attended Holy Name of Jesus, a Catholic school in New Orleans, and felt that I should employ this ADMG connection. Knowing the lingo of the Vatican, I asked, “can we start paying now and send our child later, after his second birthday?” Our request was processed up the chain of command or being. By the time we got home, we had a positive reply, i.e. acceptance, with address for the check, recorded on our answering machine (still had those in 1997).

Alas, not enough natural light, the diversity was too diverse – gratefully, no high chair flights- so, with much guilt (Once a Catholic, Always a Catholic), we met with Miss Rosa, the school’s Director, to confess and to accept the blame (O a C, A a C). She understood, suggesting that we contact The Lakewood Avenue Children’s School as that program seemed to be more like us. Our kind of market regulated diversity as we were about to learn.

We followed this advice, met that Director who became a dear friend, and enrolled. $900 per month in 1998 dollars moving to $1,200 over three years. We later learned that we were given a Disney-like Golden Entrance Pass bypassing the application queue as the wait list exceeded 100. Maybe she was moved by the sight of a begging mother and her clueless to the ways of the world husband.

LACS was quite the set-up: in a renovated home, large back yard, vegetable garden, rabbit hut, fox predators 🙁 6 teachers, 32 children in 3 grade levels and parents ranging from big time science prize winners; plenty of doctors; former and current lovers; trust fund hippies; the mayor. Once for a party game, we counted how many different last names identified the kids. I recall circa 18 and there were twins and siblings in the program. It was the kind of pre-school that you wish your college had been like.

Now for the good part. The teachers were smart, kind and capable. Turn-over was slight as they paid above the average with health benefits. LACS won a national recognition award and a citation in the Wall St Journal, pre-Murdoch the Fox.

Of our six teachers, Steve was the sole male. Fit in well with the rest of the teaching team and was especially popular on the days that he brought Mr. Happy, his pet snake, to school. I was content because mom was happy and OC was buckled in.

One spring day, Steve announced his resignation from LACS. Selected parents in the know, yours truly excluded, were atwitter- meant something different then. OC’s mother had seen Steve perform in Raleigh, the state capital on the other side of the Research Triangle Park. His celebrity impersonations were so good that Las Vegas made him an offer that he could not refuse. With minimum fanfare and less explanation, he cordially and, in high regard, headed West to what I’ve come to classify as that hell-hole in the desert.

About the same time that Steve arrived in LV, I did, too, as IBM negotiated a multi-year contract for thousands of off-season room-nights. Consequently, seemingly every sales conference and many client events were hosted in The Venetian, at Treasure Island or The MGM Grand. A couple of times it made sense for me to stay the weekend there because I was due back the following week. After 6 or 8 seemingly surreal, week-long trips there, I shaped my own Rat Pack world of dinners at Brennan’s, exercise at the Canyon Ranch Spa and roaming the Frontier Mall. I never managed to feel like James Bond at the baccarat table. “I bet $15.00, Goldfinger” doesn’t have the requisite aplomb.

Somewhere in the middle of this period of professional purgatory, I stood in the long, incredibly long taxi line at the Vegas airport for the short ride to The Strip. Arrival at that airport is like being sent down a chute into a perverse wonderland of big luggage, odd people, glittering advertisements, exits without identity.

Anonymity amidst the chaos begins upon airport exit with thousands of riders queuing for hundreds of taxis. Oddly or maybe perversely, for Vegas, the dispatcher solicited passengers headed to the same locations. Bellagio? Mandarin? IBM conference? were examples of his sorting pattern. Things happened fast at this point. Two of us were paired and pointed to taxi down the queue. “Which one did he say,” asked my newly assigned companion. I replied, “the one with Cher on top, that’s was my son’s pre-school teacher.” I think he replied “nice ass” as this was him/Steve/Cher in her Bob Mackie outfit. Arm in arm with Steve in the mobile billboard atop the taxi were Judy Garland, Joan Rivers and Mariah Carey. How’s Mr. Happy, I wondered.

I caught Steve’s act three or four times during my Vegas incarcerations, usually joined by an adventurous or equally desperate IBM colleague. He always provided me with front row seats, once next to the bejeweled and bewigged Joan Collins. Astounding and fun were the impersonations and at every visit I was invited after the show to have a drink with Steve-Cher-Celine (he did her too) and “Michael Jackson” from Greensboro, NC. Just guys making a buck.

Steve and his partner lived away from The Strip, a necessary survival technique it seems. By day, Steve had resumed his work in pre-school education. Vegas, Baby!

It worked out for us, too, back in Durham, especially when OC entered kindergarten in the public school system. We added the former Lakewood tuition to the mortgage payment for our small home in Forest Hills- the mortgage payment was the smaller of the two- enabling the purchase of a much bigger place in Duke Forest adjacent to – irony alert – Duke University’s West Campus. Actually, next to their golf course and their Inn which is next to their West Campus.

Steve is still out there with the same gig at a different venue. I hope that Cherilyn Sarkisian,The Other Cher, finds a program for eternal life, or lifts, so long as it’s good for Steve. Owen will be off to college soon; I’m retiring from IBM at the end of the month. The beat goes on.

Since you ask:

cher2 StevenWayne