ANGEL CAKES, THE GLORIFIED STOCKBOY

I've been called all sorts of names over the years, from Tee-Tee, short for Tiny Tom, a chubby little speedster tearing up the elementary school playground, to Tom-Tom or Tommy Gun on the prison yard. Names have never really bothered me. Except once. And it came at a difficult time in my life where I had serious doubts about becoming a teacher.

Disillusioned about the whole state teacher certification process, I decided to leave Oakland University. They could stick my worthless degree in the mail, and I'd transfer my educational credits elsewhere. Of course, even though teachers are certified by the state, each school has a different program, which meant most of my educational credits were no better than a dog turd on the sidewalk--You had to step around it and move on.

Lacking the necessary funds to continue with my coursework, and waiting to be accepted at Madonna College, I decided to become another working stiff in America. I figured my past experience as a stockboy for four years would help me find something in the grocery business. It wasn't long and I struck out on the road as an official swing man, the new kid on the block, substituting for different cookie/cracker sales representatives as they took their much needed vacations.

Armed with a telezon unit--a nifty calculator-looking-device with a magic wand attached to it, I read bar codes and communicated cookie and cracker orders over the telephone. One computer communicating with another. I blazed a trail from Port Huron to Detroit. My new job title seemed laughable--What do you do for a living?--Oh, I'm a cookie/cracker sales representative. I wasn't selling anything. I was merely filling orders, stocking shelves, and building mammoth displays. I felt more like a glorified stockboy.

After covering a few routes, I earned an embarrassing nickname. I allegedly ordered too many of those pink marshmallow-coconut treats. Stores called the district manager wanting credit for them. At our monthly sales meeting, coworkers complained about having a shitload of Angel Cakes at their stores. I explained that perhaps it was a computer glitch. "My parents have a rotary phone," I said, as if that had anything to do with it.

I suspect, no matter where I appeared, the store managers, cashiers, and even the stockboys were told to call me "Angel Cakes." Here comes Angel Cakes. How are we doing today, Angel Cakes? I knew it was time to toughen up and re-enroll in school and finish what I had started. I guess an Angel was looking down on me.