The fire in the paper factory was to blame. Definitely.

It was almost midnight one day in April as we were walking home. Walking not by choice or lack of public transport; walking because we were totally broke. Penniless and miserable. Our first year in London and the visions of instant riches and parties with girls in short skirts remained just that, visions.

At first, we were doing reasonably well...I had a decent job in a factory, but then the fire hit and my wages were reduced and I got restless. Michal was getting a bit fed up too, so we started to look for another jobs. We never imagined how easy it would be.

The ad in the paper said:"Do you want to make £50 per week? Guaranteed! No experience necessary! Call...." So we did, and to our surprise, after a short interview we both got the jobs. We gave our notices at the paper factory that Friday, said our goodbyes and made sure that everyone knew we'd won the jackpot. We were off to better things leaving the poor schmucks behind.

The new company was based in Paddington, in Central London. From our digs in Croydon, getting there meant taking a commuter train, the subway and a bus. An hour and a half journey, at the least. But that was no big deal since the money was so good. Soon we'd have a limo with a driver, we thought.

To start with, things looked good. Our new jobs involved door-to-door selling of a revolutionary new gadget. A plastic lens that attached to the front of a television so the screen appeared bigger. A high-tech product; the lens came complete with little bits of string and wire to shackle it to the TV. They taught us everything about it; good for the eyes, unbreakable, improves the picture, the usual spiel.

We were in training for two days. We didn't mind sitting in a dingy Paddington basement with a bunch of other wannabees 'cos we were getting paid for it. After the training, we were divided into teams of eight or so, and driven in rickety vans to far flung London neighborhoods. "You'll do better in a poorer area," the marketing gurus assured us, "poor people strive to have better things" they said. We'd start at about 9 am, drive an hour to reach our target area, each of us assigned a street to work and we were off. Knocking on doors, trying to entice beady-eyed housewives in curlers with a cigarette stuck to their lower lip, to let us come back later to do a demonstration. The theory was that the housewives could not buy anything without hubby bein' there also.

Makin' 'pointments. That took us into 5 pm, a quick break and a "Come-to-Jesus" pep talk from our team leader and off we go again, armed with our samples. We'd have 20 minute appointments from 6 until 10 pm. That's twelve demonstrations to do. Doesn't sound like much, but man, it was tough going. More often then not, we'd interrupt someone's dinner or they'd be watching their favorite show and the first we'd do, is turn the TV off - "to have their full, undivided attention" the gurus said.

After a while it all became a blur, the houses were all the same, people were all alike, their boiled cabbage smelled as vile. I spent twenty minutes extolling the virtues of this piece of plastic to one lonely man I'll never forget - good for the eyes - when he politely said: "Sounds noyse, son, but ah just lissen to the telly, because ah am bloind...". Exit stage left, cringing. But mostly people listened quietly and at some point asked, "How much is this thing?"

Hah! We, the pros, we had the answer ready.
"Next year, our company will introduce the Brightscreen to the market at $300. This year, we are offering it at an introductory price of only $150. As part of this campaign, we've reduced the price to $75, but tonight and tonight only, I'm authorized to sell just one for $35. And I've picked you folks... ". In context $35 was about two weeks average salary in those days. It was an expensive piece of plastic.

About 10 pm, we'd gather for our ride home, exchanging stories along the way...we all had them. You know the one about the door-to-door salesman greeted by a horny housewife in a negligee? Urban myth. Never happened to any of us. Back at seedy headquarters by 11 pm and, then for Michal and I, another hour on trains and buses to get home. A fucking long day it was, but we didn't mind 'cause we were being paid.

So, after a week of this we were off to the dusty headquarters to get our hard-earned wages. Next week, they said, we hold a week back. That was not unusual in the UK at the time, so we did not question it. Another grueling week followed, and on Friday we were at the office again, wanting to be paid because we were totally, stone broke. How many did you sell, they asked. None, Michal and I replied, grinning proudly. Then there's no money for you, they said. We were on commission only and we didn't know it. That was the end. We walked home that evening. Twenty dejected, bitter, miles through exotic sounding places like, Clapham Junction, Balham, Tooting Bec. It was a long way to go. We spent a miserable weekend chewing the bark off the trees and on Monday we went back to the paper factory and begged our jobs back. We were re-hired, but as always, it was not the same. I was about to commit a crime.

It wasn't easy to go back to the old paper factory. We left only two weeks earlier, to become rich and successful, only to return with our tails between our legs. We accepted the humiliation because we had no choice. No money either. We were glad to have jobs again. Michal was assigned to his old machine, and I was assigned to the night shift again. This time, working on my own, performing tasks that were left each day for me by the supervisor. It was actually quite good. I had more options and freedom in how I worked. It was actually possible to accomplish everything I was expected to do in about two hours and then rest for the remainder of the night, midnight to 6 am. Rest, well, sometimes I'd read or explore the darkened, deserted factory. One night, I almost got into serious trouble.

I do not have a criminal mind. Inquiring perhaps, but not criminal. Yet, I've committed a couple of criminal acts and the debt to society remains unpaid.

Early one morning, I'm getting a cup of coffee from the vending machine. As I am waiting for the foul, brown liquid to hit the cup, my bored mind is performing a bit of engineering acrobatics. I figure, if I lift the tray the polystyrene cup falls into, I might be able to access the box where the coins logically must be. After a bit of tinkering, I am standing there with an open top metal box about the size of a gallon of milk, filled with coins. I've broken into the vending machine with my bare hands! As a reward for my nimble thinking, I scooped up a handful of the coins a rolled them up in a piece of paper and stuffed it into my overall pocket.

I shared my booty with Michal, and from then on our early mornings were occupied with sorting and counting coins. Soon we discovered the problems associated with money laundering. We could go to the local stores only so many times saying, "I've just broken my piggy bank, do you mind taking these?", handing over a handful of silver. We had to travel far to exchange our coins for goods or paper money.

Was there any remorse? No! We came from a society that accepted pilferage and petty thievery as the norm. The old Czechoslovak maxim, if you don't steal from the state, you're stealing from your family, was an actual way of life. Since the cornerstone of the communist credo was common wealth and the people owned everything, logically one was only stealing from oneself or reclaiming what was his anyway. These are weak arguments but that was the society we lived in; where favors and services were readily exchanged for goods that were most likely pilfered from a factory or an office. An entire sub-economy had developed based on this kind of barter.

So we also felt that we were taking from a faceless giant corporation, and they deserved it anyway for being stupid and designing a vending machine that was far from secure. Pretty shaky justification, I admit.

I was careful not to take too much each night. I wasn't greedy and the additional income allowed us to live a bit better. Not luxuriously by any means but not living on Heinz Baked Beans on toast for a month because we needed new pair of Levi's.

My criminal forays continued for several weeks. Practice makes perfect, and in time, I could half empty a container of coins in a matter of seconds. I could probably even do it with someone standing right behind me. Undetected. The beast sucked me in, and one night I took more than I should. When I returned later in the day to pick up my wages, I noticed a group of people standing around the vending machine. I sauntered over and overheard: "It musta been a bloke wi' a small 'and". And I stood there, with my hands spread out like shovels, saying, "I don't 'ave small 'ands".

A padlock was installed that very day on the vending machine. It was no longer possible to remove the coins container. But "a bloke wi' a small 'and" could still reach inside the container and remove coins by the handful. My only concession to the new security measure... I bought a pair of gloves. And the nightly raids continued.

But soon, it was all over. Even seasoned criminals take a break and in the summer of 1970, Michal and I went to Switzerland, Austria, Italy and France for a vacation. Not financed by my personal crime wave, but the generosity of one of my relatives in the travel industry.

Everything changed when we returned to London...

© 2007 Karel Kriz and Bouncing Czech Productions

karel@bouncingczech.com

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