I was almost a Playboy

WARNING: READ/LOOK AT THE IMAGE AFTER YOU READ THE POST:

Today is Hugh Hefner's 83rd birthday. There was a time when the Fosco name was almost synonymous to Hef's Playboy fortune. But, as luck would have it, Foscos are skeptical folk, often choosing the road much traveled.

Let me explain: My grandfather, Albino Fosco (that's right, his name was Albino. My grandmother, however, most often called him Al or Albie) was a worker. He held a variety of jobs throughout his life, including a stint as a gas station attendant, which is the job this story revolves around. Years before "self service" became the norm, "full service" was what gas stations were all about. People would pull up to the pump, look at the nicely dressed attendant, and often say, "fill 'er up." Customers never had to get out of their cars to pump gas, wipe the dead bugs off the windshield, buy a pack of cigarettes, check the pressure on the tires, or check under the hood.

That job belonged to my grandfather.

Since people often go to the same gas station on a regular basis, customers were often friendly with Albino. They knew him on a first name basis, possibly would ask about his children (my dad and my uncle. My aunt came along 13 years later), and just "shoot the breeze."

I believe it was a job my grandfather enjoyed, if only because of the commiserating with his loyal customers. My grandfather used to speak fondly of his time as a gas station attendant, and often spoke about one customer, in particular.

The customer, a young art student, would come to the station several times a week. He didn't look like much. He wore shabby clothes, and he always looked like he was in need of a good meal. The thing my grandfather could never get past was that this guy never filled his tank. He would always ask for fifty, thirty-five, or twenty-five cents worth. He never uttered the words, "fill 'er up."

This bothered my grandfather, and he immediately formed an opinion of this guy. His opinion: Starving Artist. One day, Starving Artist came into the gas station and made his usual request. After my grandfather finished his work, he went to collect the money.

Starving Artist looked at my grandfather and said, "Al, I am thinking of starting a magazine and I am looking for investors. You interested?"

"How much and what kind of magazine?" my grandfather asked.

Starving Artist replied, "I'm looking for people to invest $1,000 and I can't tell you what kind of magazine unless you invest."

My grandfather looked at his young customer and recalled his preconceived option of the man. He thought to himself, 'this guy's not worth anything. He can't even afford to buy a full tank of gas. I'm not giving him $1,000. No way.'

Did I mention that Foscos are skeptics? Albino politely refused the offer and Starving Artist never returned.

My grandfather loved telling this story. There's always that "a-ha" moment in it when the identity of Starving Artist is revealed. It's at that point that people often shake their heads, their mouths drop, and they always say. "No Way!"

It's a hard tale not to love and an equally hard tale to doubt. So, several years after my grandfather died, I wrote a letter, seeing if I could somehow verify his claim. I'm sure you've figured it out already, but on March 10, 2003, Starving Artist sent me the letter from above.

It's the last sentence that stings the most.