Friday, March 22, 2013
Past Tense, Imperfect
I picked up my close friend Leon for lunch. We both have homes in similar communities in Delray Beach. We decided for a change of pace to
eat at Poppies rather than at either of our community cafes’. We were shown to a semi private area in the rear of the restaurant. I slid into the bench close to the wall and Leon sat opposite me. We looked at the menu and ordered.
Just then the hostess sat a woman at the table directly next to me. As she slid into her seat I made some quick observations. She was a nice looking voluptuous red head. She was on the style of Arlene Dahl. It was evident that she had some excellent facial plastic surgery. Her left hand had a plain wedding ring and the back of her wrists had many liver spots. She wore a scarf around her neck. I devised this all from a cursory glance as she was being seated. I guessed she had to be somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy six to seventy nine years old.
Leon and I were aware that our conversation was no longer private and we never addressed each other by name, not by plan but that’s what I always do in restaurants when I feel my conversation is being monitored by a non speaking couple or a solo diner. We spoke about small family matters indicating that we were family men, and both wearing wedding rings. I noticed Leon averted his gaze from her. She looked straight ahead as she ate.
We discussed at length our reactions to the highly acclaimed and touted HBO show “Kings Point” which had aired the night before. I found it very interesting and commented that the participants represented themselves to be much younger than what they appeared to be. Many people would be upset or depressed by it. I found it to be a well done documentary.
Leon then excused himself and went to the men’s room for an inordinate amount of time. He sometimes does that so I was not alarmed. The lady at the next table was gathering up her belongings after checking her bill.
At that time I said to her “I hope you enjoyed the conversation between two gentlemen, who had a nice conversation without profanity of any kind on topical issues”. She replied, “The part that interested me was that “Kings Point” show. I am so depressed by it. I am no kid either and my husband still works. I have no idea about finances. I can’t use a computer, have no patience for it and if anything happens to him I will be helpless. I married when I was very young and had no time for extra learning. God forbid I should ever have to move to a place like that Kings Point”. I told her that she has to have a serious sit down with her husband and get educated. I advised her to make a list of questions and she wrote down what I told her to learn.
She went on to tell me what she called her “life story”. She dropped out of the University of Maryland in mid semester of her freshman year and went home to marry her high school sweetheart. They had four sons one after the other. They live in various states with their own families.
She went on to say she lived in an ungated community in Boca. I told her about my background as well. She was in this area today for a medical appointment. She remarked “how we shared life stories in just a few minutes”. I told her, “my name is Bernie” and she said, “I’m Gail, a pleasure to meet you”.
That’s when Leon came back and we said goodbye to her. He asked me a few questions about her and then came “the rest of the story” as the late Paul Harvey would have said.
Leon said that he thought he recognized her voice more than her looks, as someone he knew years ago. He wanted to know if she spoke about herself, where she came from, attended college or anything else. I answered, “as a matter of fact she went to your alma mater, Maryland and she may have been there when you were based on the ages of her sons which she mentioned to me”. I told him he doesn’t look like he did then either.
He turned the proverbial white as a sheet and said. “I left the table for fear that she may recognize me. I haven’t seen or heard about her since she quit school freshman year”. Her name was Gail Feintuch or something that sounded like that. We went out a few times and stupidly had unprotected sex.
We were not exclusive and I think one of my fraternity brothers might have been intimate with her as well. She called me one day and told me she missed her period. I asked her what I was supposed to do about it. I was just a stupid scared kid. For all I know she had an abortion or gave away the kid”.
I did not tell Leon that she told me her name or anything else to create anguish for anyone. Chances are she married her unsuspecting boy friend, had her first son early or she married a good sport who carried it off for her as a good man who loved her very much might. We will never know.
The oldest son, who she said was the most successful, lived in Seattle Washington. He is an actuary. Strangely enough Leon was an actuary as well. The apple may not have fallen far from the tree. These details were not wasted on, nor repeated by me.
The only reason I can write this now is because my dear friend Leon suffered a heart attack last Friday evening and died Saturday morning. I hope this encounter was not a contributing cause. I lost a good friend. How sad for everybody!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Banger and Shvenga Lodges
In the summer of 1957 Patti Page had a hit song called, “Old Cape Cod” and it seemed to be sung and hummed by everyone for what felt like forever. It was made all the more popular because it was where Senator John F. Kennedy’s family had their summer compound.
I had just started work full time in the place where I would spend my entire work life. I had worked there the previous summer just to get the feel of the business and I liked it. I
had just come out of a funk after a disappointing romantic adventure and I wanted to get away, but all of my closest friends were either in the army or at reserve training camp or just unavailable. Somehow a friend of my cousin Arnold’s called me and offered to go away with me and share room and and auto expenses.. We would be “on the road” and go as we felt inclined to. This fellow was a young man named Ben. He was a short stocky guy who was pleasant and personable but a bit of a “bull thrower.” We met with Arnie over a pizza and beer and spoke about possible vacation plans.
We decided to throw our lot together and start out by going to Moodus Connecticut to a place called Banner Lodge, but known in young peoples circles known as Banger Lodge. It was said facetiously that if you can’t get “banged” there you could get your money back. Everyone who went there was either looking for romance (mostly the females) or to plain out get laid (mostly the males AND females). It was a place with a reputation for a lot of fornication going on.
I recently came across a picture of myself coming out of a swimming pool at that time and I saw that I really was slim, nice looking and at the peak of youth coming into manhood. I love that picture and it is a favorite of mine even thought his period of my life was not particular happy or wonderful.
We drove to Moodus on a nice summer day and listened to Patti Page singing on several radio stations about the glories of old “Cape Cod.”
Ben and I got our cabin, went to a socializing area and started perusing the new arrivals.
We met several girls who had come all the way from Detroit Michigan to Moodus to have a good time. We had dinner at the same table as them and then saw some kind of a show together.
The girls were cousins. Doris was quite chubby, tall and dark with long curly hair. She definitely was just meant for Ben; at least that’s what I told him. The other gal, Arlene was average height with a very nice figure but not at all pretty. Pretty wasn’t necessarily what I was there for. In retrospect we probably should have split up and gone to two different cabins as couples. Instead all four of us went back to the girls’ cabin.
Every so often I heard a body slam as rotund Doris turned over and body slammed Ben against the wall. I made out with Arlene for hours but didn’t expect things to go along that quickly and was not prepared to go all the way in a room full of people even though it was pitch dark.
I remember telling her what I did for a living and my company name and a few other details I was sorry about the next week. The Detroit tigers were both secretaries for an insurance firm and were planning to go to New York City the next week. While we were making out I sort of loosely promised to show her around the big city. I never gave her my phone number.
When the sun came up Ben and I went back to our own sleeping quarters to change and wash up for breakfast.
At the open breakfast dining room we sat at a table and one “garmento” type announced and guffawed that he heard two guys shacked up with two babes from Detroit and “din’t even ‘bang’ them.” I just looked down into my eggs and continued eating.
Ben went over to talk to a couple of fellows and then came back and broke the news to me. He had met up with a fellow who must have been “fond of sand dunes and salty air,
quaint little villages here and there “. Maybe he liked, “the taste of lobster stew, served by a window with an ocean view.” He was “sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod.”
What ever, the S.O.B. left me high and dry to have all the expenses by myself. He was gone never to be seen or heard from again within a half hour. Maybe he heard the mythological Siren calling him from off the New England coastline and got washed up in a sail boat. I hope not.
I decided that I don’t want to get stuck with the girls from Detroit and that I would do a quick checkout and follow plan #2 which I had laid out for myself. At least something got laid out this trip even if it was only a plan.
I decided to head home and convince my friend Joel to head up to the Jewish Alps or Catskills area to a similar establishment called Shawanga Lodge. This place was nick- named by its Jewish clientele as Shevenga Lodge. Shevenga means pregnant, which did and can, happen at such a place where the purpose is similar to that which I pointed out about Banner Lodge. It was easy to sway Joel to go upstate with me and try our luck up there with a different bevy of unclaimed treasures who were for the most part a lot older and more experienced than we were.
When I called home my mother asked me,
“Who the heck is this Arlene person who keeps calling the house every four hours looking for you?”
I told my mother,
“Just tell her that I was called up for active service in my Army reserve unit and am being shipped overseas to Korea and to stop calling.”
Arlene was smarter than I gave her credit for and managed to get my home phone number.
I guess she got back to Motown eventually after realizing that I was her “Mr. Right.”
As the moon rose over a big outdoor dance arena at Shawanga Lodges people started dancing to the beat of Pablo Kaduchis and his Mambo Five or some other name like that. I danced a few dances and then went over to the prettiest girl /best dancer and asked her to dance. She looked at me straight in the eye and said.
“I saw you dancing and I would not dance with you” and turned on her heels away from me.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I never forget a slight in my life and still use that as an example of hurt feelings as I am a very sensitive person.
Then I remembered the girls I left high and dry without so much as a goodbye in Connecticut and felt perhaps I got my comeuppance for being Mr. Cool or perhaps Chicken of The Sea.
Is there a lesson to be learned? I spent the rest of the evening talking to an “older girl” I spent some time with who kept smoking cigarettes and blowing smoke out of her nostrils. She was from Brooklyn as I was. She saw what happened to me and told me that it is never good to go over to the prettiest girl. A plainer girl will appreciate you much more than someone who thinks she is hot stuff. She was sincere and a nice person whose name was Millie. I have found her advice to be true to a certain extent. I think over the years I learned never to say anything hurtful to anyone if it can be avoided.
I never look back on my dating days as fun. They were all learning experiences which enabled me to appreciate what I have when I finally met and married my second wife.
But it is fun to recall these various anecdotes and relive them in my mind, before I get too old to dream.
Now for the rest of the story as Paul Harvey says. Lately I have been listening to Sirius radio while driving in my car and listening to an oldies station. Lo and behold, they have been playing Patti page singing, “Old Cape Cod.”
Recently we were at a dear friends’ house for dinner prior to attending a big high school reunion of our Brooklyn, N.Y. high school, held in Boynton Beach, Florida. Larry graduated six months ahead of me and I looked through his senior year book. I saw a face I remembered from Shawanga Lodge. It was that gal Millie who spoke nicely to me. She was just six months ahead of me in school! I am amazed that I recognized her since I met her almost five or six years after that picture was taken and now it is fifty four years later.
She was not at the reunion.
In the summer of 1957 Patti Page had a hit song called, “Old Cape Cod” and it seemed to be sung and hummed by everyone for what felt like forever. It was made all the more popular because it was where Senator John F. Kennedy’s family had their summer compound.
I had just started work full time in the place where I would spend my entire work life. I had worked there the previous summer just to get the feel of the business and I liked it. I
had just come out of a funk after a disappointing romantic adventure and I wanted to get away, but all of my closest friends were either in the army or at reserve training camp or just unavailable. Somehow a friend of my cousin Arnold’s called me and offered to go away with me and share room and and auto expenses.. We would be “on the road” and go as we felt inclined to. This fellow was a young man named Ben. He was a short stocky guy who was pleasant and personable but a bit of a “bull thrower.” We met with Arnie over a pizza and beer and spoke about possible vacation plans.
We decided to throw our lot together and start out by going to Moodus Connecticut to a place called Banner Lodge, but known in young peoples circles known as Banger Lodge. It was said facetiously that if you can’t get “banged” there you could get your money back. Everyone who went there was either looking for romance (mostly the females) or to plain out get laid (mostly the males AND females). It was a place with a reputation for a lot of fornication going on.
I recently came across a picture of myself coming out of a swimming pool at that time and I saw that I really was slim, nice looking and at the peak of youth coming into manhood. I love that picture and it is a favorite of mine even thought his period of my life was not particular happy or wonderful.
We drove to Moodus on a nice summer day and listened to Patti Page singing on several radio stations about the glories of old “Cape Cod.”
Ben and I got our cabin, went to a socializing area and started perusing the new arrivals.
We met several girls who had come all the way from Detroit Michigan to Moodus to have a good time. We had dinner at the same table as them and then saw some kind of a show together.
The girls were cousins. Doris was quite chubby, tall and dark with long curly hair. She definitely was just meant for Ben; at least that’s what I told him. The other gal, Arlene was average height with a very nice figure but not at all pretty. Pretty wasn’t necessarily what I was there for. In retrospect we probably should have split up and gone to two different cabins as couples. Instead all four of us went back to the girls’ cabin.
Every so often I heard a body slam as rotund Doris turned over and body slammed Ben against the wall. I made out with Arlene for hours but didn’t expect things to go along that quickly and was not prepared to go all the way in a room full of people even though it was pitch dark.
I remember telling her what I did for a living and my company name and a few other details I was sorry about the next week. The Detroit tigers were both secretaries for an insurance firm and were planning to go to New York City the next week. While we were making out I sort of loosely promised to show her around the big city. I never gave her my phone number.
When the sun came up Ben and I went back to our own sleeping quarters to change and wash up for breakfast.
At the open breakfast dining room we sat at a table and one “garmento” type announced and guffawed that he heard two guys shacked up with two babes from Detroit and “din’t even ‘bang’ them.” I just looked down into my eggs and continued eating.
Ben went over to talk to a couple of fellows and then came back and broke the news to me. He had met up with a fellow who must have been “fond of sand dunes and salty air,
quaint little villages here and there “. Maybe he liked, “the taste of lobster stew, served by a window with an ocean view.” He was “sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod.”
What ever, the S.O.B. left me high and dry to have all the expenses by myself. He was gone never to be seen or heard from again within a half hour. Maybe he heard the mythological Siren calling him from off the New England coastline and got washed up in a sail boat. I hope not.
I decided that I don’t want to get stuck with the girls from Detroit and that I would do a quick checkout and follow plan #2 which I had laid out for myself. At least something got laid out this trip even if it was only a plan.
I decided to head home and convince my friend Joel to head up to the Jewish Alps or Catskills area to a similar establishment called Shawanga Lodge. This place was nick- named by its Jewish clientele as Shevenga Lodge. Shevenga means pregnant, which did and can, happen at such a place where the purpose is similar to that which I pointed out about Banner Lodge. It was easy to sway Joel to go upstate with me and try our luck up there with a different bevy of unclaimed treasures who were for the most part a lot older and more experienced than we were.
When I called home my mother asked me,
“Who the heck is this Arlene person who keeps calling the house every four hours looking for you?”
I told my mother,
“Just tell her that I was called up for active service in my Army reserve unit and am being shipped overseas to Korea and to stop calling.”
Arlene was smarter than I gave her credit for and managed to get my home phone number.
I guess she got back to Motown eventually after realizing that I was her “Mr. Right.”
As the moon rose over a big outdoor dance arena at Shawanga Lodges people started dancing to the beat of Pablo Kaduchis and his Mambo Five or some other name like that. I danced a few dances and then went over to the prettiest girl /best dancer and asked her to dance. She looked at me straight in the eye and said.
“I saw you dancing and I would not dance with you” and turned on her heels away from me.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I never forget a slight in my life and still use that as an example of hurt feelings as I am a very sensitive person.
Then I remembered the girls I left high and dry without so much as a goodbye in Connecticut and felt perhaps I got my comeuppance for being Mr. Cool or perhaps Chicken of The Sea.
Is there a lesson to be learned? I spent the rest of the evening talking to an “older girl” I spent some time with who kept smoking cigarettes and blowing smoke out of her nostrils. She was from Brooklyn as I was. She saw what happened to me and told me that it is never good to go over to the prettiest girl. A plainer girl will appreciate you much more than someone who thinks she is hot stuff. She was sincere and a nice person whose name was Millie. I have found her advice to be true to a certain extent. I think over the years I learned never to say anything hurtful to anyone if it can be avoided.
I never look back on my dating days as fun. They were all learning experiences which enabled me to appreciate what I have when I finally met and married my second wife.
But it is fun to recall these various anecdotes and relive them in my mind, before I get too old to dream.
Now for the rest of the story as Paul Harvey says. Lately I have been listening to Sirius radio while driving in my car and listening to an oldies station. Lo and behold, they have been playing Patti page singing, “Old Cape Cod.”
Recently we were at a dear friends’ house for dinner prior to attending a big high school reunion of our Brooklyn, N.Y. high school, held in Boynton Beach, Florida. Larry graduated six months ahead of me and I looked through his senior year book. I saw a face I remembered from Shawanga Lodge. It was that gal Millie who spoke nicely to me. She was just six months ahead of me in school! I am amazed that I recognized her since I met her almost five or six years after that picture was taken and now it is fifty four years later.
She was not at the reunion.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Coast is Clear
The Coast is Clear
Many of us have heard the late Cab Calloway sing his famous song about Minnie the Moocher, who was a “Low down hootchie –kootcher. Well I’m going to tell you about Manny the Moocher, may he rest in peace. He worked at my business firm for almost twenty years and retired about fifteen years ago.
Manny Belinsky was a grade “B”mechanic trying to repair heating systems in the metropolitan area of New York. He was a tremendous blowhard and braggart and had marginal ability when he came to us. He improved while working for us as we had some good men who showed him his mistakes.
We hired him when we were desperately short of men. He commuted from Long Island and was let go from many oil companies because of his ineptitude, laziness and slovenly appearance. But desperate times call for desperate measures. When he started working for us, he said “I found a home.”
He was quite heavy and often couldn’t fit in his working space. Many home builders put the gas or oil burner of the furnace or boiler too close to a wall to gain square footage of living space. He made up for his lack of ability to fix things with his scare tactics to sell new equipment to the customer. Sometimes he lost the sale and we lost the customer. More often than not he sold something. He was not on commission but eventually a certain amount of the clientele caught on to him and he was unwelcome in their homes on future calls.
Somehow he ingratiated himself with my partner and me because he never refused to help when we were very busy and he was willing to put in time when others would not.
On one of the first calls he went to, he made a mistake and added cold water to a hot steam cast iron boiler in the home of a woman who would later on become my own mother in law. He didn’t admit his mistake at the time but one of the other fellows snitched later on.
The other personnel in the company refused to go out for a coffee break or lunch with him because he had a “condition.” The “condition” was that he had very low pockets on his pant trousers and very short arms. In other words, he never, ever stuck his hands in his pockets to pay for anything at the end of a meal or when anyone approached the cashier. I could never figure out how he got away with it, because most people would not stand for it.
Manny knew I liked fishing and he told me he would love to go with me one day and get a paid day out of basements. He invited me to go fishing using a neighbor’s boat. Once we left the dock he took off his shirt and it was as if an announcement was made:
”Attention all Green flies! We have some prime meat to land on right off Jones Beach . Look for the fat man with blond hair and enjoy!” I couldn’t believe it. He never felt a thing as these marina monsters landed on him and bit away. I was petrified of those biting insects because they give one “helluva” mean stinging bite.. He never even flinched and was covered with welts. We did catch a few flounder so it wasn’t a total loss.
As time went on he had trouble with his hips due to his enormous weight which enabled him to go on service calls that involved standing only. After a hip was replaced he saw the handwriting on the wall and convinced his wife to move to Florida with him. She quickly found a good position as a skilled bookkeeper and he moved into his late mothers apartment.
His mother had passed away a few years prior and both of his brothers were successful professionals who didn’t care that he managed her finances. Somehow he conned them both and had access to her money and the deed to her home in an area of Delray Beach called Kings Point. So, like so many of my employees who retired before me, he moved to Florida in about 1995.
I retired in 2000, and wanted to live in Florida. I found out from my cousin Ann who lived in Huntington Towers that she had seen Manny and his wife at several low end restaurants. I made her swear never to tell him that I had bought a home in Florida when I did in 2001. I also told the other former employees whose whereabouts were known that they dare not tell Manny the Moocher that I was here.
I once had the payroll department of my old place call up the union local to see if he was still alive and collecting his pension. I was amazed that he was still alive since he was so grossly overweight and had diabetes. He never had high blood pressure when I knew him.
I was always afraid of running in to him at Home Depot as it was the place that was near both Manny and me to buy tools and materiel. I once had a cab driver who was chatty tell me about a guy in his development who was a slob and a bull thrower who could empty out a room by just entering it because people wanted to avoid him. I asked if his name was Manny Belinsky, and indeed it was. I gave him a huge tip and told him to forget my name and where he picked me up.
Recently I had out of town guests visiting me and we were sitting around the pool in our community. During a break in conversation I remembered that I had not checked my answer machine in my Long Island residence and dialed the number. I had one message and it was from Dora Belinsky asking me to call her. I didn’t know when the message was left. I called up my former business partner to ask him if he heard anything about Manny the Moocher and the call that I received in New York. He said that Manny must have died and that I should confirm it. I borrowed my guest’s telephone which had a Massachusett’s area code to return Dora’s call. That way she would not have to know that I am nearby. She informed me that Manny had died that very day and figured that since he was fond of me that I would want to know.
I asked what he died of and she told me that he was seventy seven years old and had everything wrong with him and wanted to die. I asked where the funeral would be held and she told me that it was going to be locally in Florida. I thanked her for calling and told her that I would pass the word on to the “office.” The Belinsky’s did not realize that I had retired almost eight years ago.
I am sorry when anyone passes on and felt bad about it. For the life of me I can’t figure out why I was called. We had not communicated for the last twelve years or exchanged family information on life’s happenings.
At any time of the day or night I can now feel free to go to Home Depot without looking around to see if the coast is clear, but I really haven’t thought about that for awhile. I realize that my fear of running into him was silly. I could have said that I was visiting Ann or anything else without admitting that I lived here.
Many of us have heard the late Cab Calloway sing his famous song about Minnie the Moocher, who was a “Low down hootchie –kootcher. Well I’m going to tell you about Manny the Moocher, may he rest in peace. He worked at my business firm for almost twenty years and retired about fifteen years ago.
Manny Belinsky was a grade “B”mechanic trying to repair heating systems in the metropolitan area of New York. He was a tremendous blowhard and braggart and had marginal ability when he came to us. He improved while working for us as we had some good men who showed him his mistakes.
We hired him when we were desperately short of men. He commuted from Long Island and was let go from many oil companies because of his ineptitude, laziness and slovenly appearance. But desperate times call for desperate measures. When he started working for us, he said “I found a home.”
He was quite heavy and often couldn’t fit in his working space. Many home builders put the gas or oil burner of the furnace or boiler too close to a wall to gain square footage of living space. He made up for his lack of ability to fix things with his scare tactics to sell new equipment to the customer. Sometimes he lost the sale and we lost the customer. More often than not he sold something. He was not on commission but eventually a certain amount of the clientele caught on to him and he was unwelcome in their homes on future calls.
Somehow he ingratiated himself with my partner and me because he never refused to help when we were very busy and he was willing to put in time when others would not.
On one of the first calls he went to, he made a mistake and added cold water to a hot steam cast iron boiler in the home of a woman who would later on become my own mother in law. He didn’t admit his mistake at the time but one of the other fellows snitched later on.
The other personnel in the company refused to go out for a coffee break or lunch with him because he had a “condition.” The “condition” was that he had very low pockets on his pant trousers and very short arms. In other words, he never, ever stuck his hands in his pockets to pay for anything at the end of a meal or when anyone approached the cashier. I could never figure out how he got away with it, because most people would not stand for it.
Manny knew I liked fishing and he told me he would love to go with me one day and get a paid day out of basements. He invited me to go fishing using a neighbor’s boat. Once we left the dock he took off his shirt and it was as if an announcement was made:
”Attention all Green flies! We have some prime meat to land on right off Jones Beach . Look for the fat man with blond hair and enjoy!” I couldn’t believe it. He never felt a thing as these marina monsters landed on him and bit away. I was petrified of those biting insects because they give one “helluva” mean stinging bite.. He never even flinched and was covered with welts. We did catch a few flounder so it wasn’t a total loss.
As time went on he had trouble with his hips due to his enormous weight which enabled him to go on service calls that involved standing only. After a hip was replaced he saw the handwriting on the wall and convinced his wife to move to Florida with him. She quickly found a good position as a skilled bookkeeper and he moved into his late mothers apartment.
His mother had passed away a few years prior and both of his brothers were successful professionals who didn’t care that he managed her finances. Somehow he conned them both and had access to her money and the deed to her home in an area of Delray Beach called Kings Point. So, like so many of my employees who retired before me, he moved to Florida in about 1995.
I retired in 2000, and wanted to live in Florida. I found out from my cousin Ann who lived in Huntington Towers that she had seen Manny and his wife at several low end restaurants. I made her swear never to tell him that I had bought a home in Florida when I did in 2001. I also told the other former employees whose whereabouts were known that they dare not tell Manny the Moocher that I was here.
I once had the payroll department of my old place call up the union local to see if he was still alive and collecting his pension. I was amazed that he was still alive since he was so grossly overweight and had diabetes. He never had high blood pressure when I knew him.
I was always afraid of running in to him at Home Depot as it was the place that was near both Manny and me to buy tools and materiel. I once had a cab driver who was chatty tell me about a guy in his development who was a slob and a bull thrower who could empty out a room by just entering it because people wanted to avoid him. I asked if his name was Manny Belinsky, and indeed it was. I gave him a huge tip and told him to forget my name and where he picked me up.
Recently I had out of town guests visiting me and we were sitting around the pool in our community. During a break in conversation I remembered that I had not checked my answer machine in my Long Island residence and dialed the number. I had one message and it was from Dora Belinsky asking me to call her. I didn’t know when the message was left. I called up my former business partner to ask him if he heard anything about Manny the Moocher and the call that I received in New York. He said that Manny must have died and that I should confirm it. I borrowed my guest’s telephone which had a Massachusett’s area code to return Dora’s call. That way she would not have to know that I am nearby. She informed me that Manny had died that very day and figured that since he was fond of me that I would want to know.
I asked what he died of and she told me that he was seventy seven years old and had everything wrong with him and wanted to die. I asked where the funeral would be held and she told me that it was going to be locally in Florida. I thanked her for calling and told her that I would pass the word on to the “office.” The Belinsky’s did not realize that I had retired almost eight years ago.
I am sorry when anyone passes on and felt bad about it. For the life of me I can’t figure out why I was called. We had not communicated for the last twelve years or exchanged family information on life’s happenings.
At any time of the day or night I can now feel free to go to Home Depot without looking around to see if the coast is clear, but I really haven’t thought about that for awhile. I realize that my fear of running into him was silly. I could have said that I was visiting Ann or anything else without admitting that I lived here.
Forty Five Years of Heat
Forty Five Years of Heat
At twenty years of age, right after graduating from college, I entered our family home heating oil and service business in Brooklyn, N.Y. We had a customer base of about 1200 homes, small businesses, and multiple family residences. We were a service business where it was “hands on” by the owners. We knew our clients and they knew us.
My father was, “the Mr. Cohn” who the customers wanted to speak with when they had a heating problem and many years later it was me who stepped into those hard to fill shoes of his. Eventually I became the “Mr. Cohn” at Boro Fuel.
Dad retired in 1972.
When I was in college I had seen a quotation from Goethe which said,
“What you inherit from your fathers, you must earn to possess.” It is true and I never forgot it. I had seen many businesses similar to mine fall by the side because of inept management by the next generation.
I learned enough to find my place in the industry, become a respected owner, and enable the business to thrive despite fierce competition from within the industry. The deregulation of natural gas opened the home heating market for new gas heating sales by the utilities. This was the largest single negative factor impacting our business. Regional and national oil heating associations still spend vast amounts of money on advertising to slow the progression of the gas inroads.
Our customer base was so concentrated that we had to run one oil trunk every four blocks in our part of Brooklyn. This consisted of Boro Park and nearby Flatbush and Bensonhurst. At our peak we ran seven oil trucks and had five service technicians. Each truck had between 3500 to 5000 gallons and was refilled two or three times a day. Our clientele was mostly Jewish and Italian. They were for the most part loyal customers who came to you if they had a complaint and you rectified it. It kept the customer and us happy. We always met the customers demand at least halfway. If we did not give them something for their efforts we “won the battle but lost the war” and usually the customer as well.
Most of these people were tough, hard nosed, and obstinate. They bickered for the best price and the best service with a very demanding attitude but they were loyal customers. They had came to America and were determined to make a better life for their children. They were hard working honest people. We kept no inventory, there was no spoilage and the product disappeared into thin air and had to be replenished constantly. It was a beautiful business until the mid 1990's when marketing conditions changed.
Early on I decided to get to know the customers and spent several days on the truck with an oil delivery man. I am glad I did not deliver on my own as my mind wandered. I never would have paid attention to the “whistle”, or vent alarm, which signaled the driver to stop pumping when the tank was almost full. At my fathers suggestion I went door to door to try and get new accounts. This gave me an appreciation of how difficult it is to get a satisfied customer to change companies. Later on I went with a mechanic repairing and cleaning oil burners. I also helped install several boilers and learned more in the basement than I could have learned from books or in the office. It was an integral part of my learning how to be a heating man. It gave me the understanding and knowledge that only “hands on” can do. I never drove one of those massive oil trucks more than a few feet. It is like driving a railroad car. The driver actually counts the people approaching to cross in front of the truck and makes sure the same number of people comes out on the other side of the truck cab. When sitting up that high all you see are tops of heads. A lot of judgment is needed especially going in reverse gear to park such a large vehicle. Thank goodness, we never had a pedestrian accident.
I started from the ground level which I really felt gave me an appreciation and understanding of all aspects of the business. I obtained my own installer license and was certified to file plans and do work in New York City. It is a difficult license to obtain involving a written and practical (hands on) test.
I was ready for the office where I was to spend most of my time.
My desk was right up front close to the cashier’s window. Many customers came into pay because they either lived nearby or just liked to have a place to go to. Some just preferred to pay by cash. Sometimes they came in to try and bargain for a better price (every time).
A new customer, Mr. Assouline, came in to ask for a brick. I said to follow me and brought him to the garage where we had our installation supplies. I showed him common red brick, combustion chamber soft high temp brick, split bricks, refractory bricks, perhaps ten types in all. I asked him,
“Which do you need?” He replied,
“No, no, I need a ‘brick’ in the price of what you are charging me for the oil.”.
That was one of the funnier events.
I had many tradesmen for customers, but house painters and butchers were especially tough people to please. In particular I had three house painters who were known to be top quality painters who worked alone. Each owned three or four multiple dwellings that we serviced. They were hard workers and perfectionists. Today they would be called anal retentive.
Mr. Brisman would walk into the office and say in a heavy accent,
“First I want from you a smile and then a hello” each and every time he came in. Then he would pay his bills. After the smile and hello his gruff, brusque manner took over. Our office staff consisted of three bookkeepers, two senior bosses and the two junior bosses.
Mr. Taubin, another one of these house painters, always came in wearing a beret of one type or another. He sported a big moustache, wore eyeglasses halfway down his nose and used to say to Bill our male bookkeeper,
“Hallo Beel, how do you fill?” I loved his accent. He would crook a beckoning finger at you and say what he wanted. He took up considerable time because he made the bookkeeper recalculate each and every delivery slip by hand. He did not trust adding machines or later on computers. When the computation was finished, he would then take his figures out of his pocket and see if the tally was exactly the same was as his. If it was off by a penny he wanted to know why. When he called up on the telephone he refused to listen to music or our infomercial and would not be placed on hold. The office staff was instructed to lay the phone receiver down on the desk with the phone line “open.” He threatened that if he was placed on hold he would cancel his accounts. I didn’t doubt him for a minute. He was one of a kind, an original back breaker.
The last member of this trio was Mr Steinberg who owned two six family houses in Bensonhurst. He demanded that I come to his house when he got his rents and he paid his bill after I had a “glass of tea” with him. He remarried an appropriate woman after his wife passed on. His new wife told me,
“I had my own house and I did business with the Cirillo Brothers. They always did right by me. I tried to get Benny to switch”.
I let her know that the Cirillo Brothers had a fine company but Mr. Steinberg had the installation of oil heat done by us and he loved our service. I assured her that she would be very happy with us as well. She was just letting us know that she had some power and wanted to be respected. We gave her the respect and included her on any business decision he had to make regarding his oil account. I knew he was beginning to “lose it” when one day he said,
“Your daddy and your uncle look so much alike, which one is your poppa, your daddy or your uncle?”
The butchers were another story. They were a humorless bunch. However, some fancied themselves to be Romeos and tried to “hit” on the housewives. Perhaps they thought WW2 was still on. Several butchers owned multiple houses that we delivered oil to. Mr. Taub, I was told years after he died, propositioned my mother, step-mother and both mothers -in law. I think he propositioned any female. I guess once in awhile he got lucky. You can be sure he wasn’t lucky with the aforementioned ladies. One of my mothers card playing friends, Doris, called him up after getting “loaded” one New Years eve and said,
“Hey Taub, your schmuck should be as hard as your chuck!” I think she knew. He was a miserable person and very nasty as well.
Another butcher who left a lasting impression on me was Jack Fogel. One day I said to Mr. Fogel, when I went to his house on an estimate,
“How are you my friend?” as I had seen my father do with him in prior years. Mr. Fogel had been a heroic guerilla in the Warsaw Ghetto and I had great respect for him. He asked me,
“Have I ever sat down and had a cup of coffee in your house?”
“No,” I replied.
“Have you ever had a cup of coffee in my house?”
I again said,”No.”
“Than I am not your friend, I am your customer; your father, ‘Willie’, he was my friend.”
He taught me a lesson in humility.
I have remembered that story and told it countless times, including most recently to a roofer who was cheating me on a roof tile repair job , courtesy of Hurricane Wilma..
When he called me,
“My friend”, my hackles went up and I told him why he is NOT my friend, among other reasons.
Some of our clientele did not use the post office or banks. We were the “bank of Boro Fuel.” When their social security check came they would call up and say,” I got it.”
We immediately knew by the voice if it was Mrs Zander , Mrs Buccafusco or one of the dozen or so who insisted that we bring them the exact change for their check and pick up their payment. We stopped personal collections years ago.
Mrs Buccafusco, a skinny old crone with wire frame glasses was a nervous woman. Her late husband had been had an opera star in Italy and she had pictures of him in costume on the walls of her home. She never failed to point them out to me every month that she had an oil bill. When she did not owe money she still tried to get us to come and cash her check.
One day when I had to bring her change and pick up her check (very early in my career, I might add, before I rebelled against such tasks) she said to me,
“You know my granddaughter; she’s going to get married. She’s going to marry one of your kind”.
“Oh” I quickly asked,
“Do you mean a man, a tall person, or perhaps an earthling? I really don’t know what you mean”. In reality I knew very well.
“Come on, you know what I mean. He’s a Jew, BUT NICE!”
‘”Oh”, I said “Well thank God for that.”
I don’t think I would answer differently today.
When Mrs. Bertha Zander would call up, she would say,
“Please, you’ve got to come right away, I gotta give you your money, it’s not mine. Hurry up.”
Rain or snow or whatever, we had to run on that collection. She too was another old skinny lady who wore her hair in a bun and a house dress with an apron over it, as you would expect. On the top of her newspaper covered soggy staircase was at least six or eight yellow glass gallons of what was known as Javelle water or what we call Chlorine bleach today. The house reeked of it. She washed the hallway and staircase of that six family house multiple times each day. I don’t think her linoleum covered stairs ever saw daylight. She would hand over the money, look up toward heaven while wringing her hands and exclaim,
“Denks Gott!, denks gott, now I don’t owe nobotty nottink., Oy I am sooo heppy I can sleep tonight”.
We had lots of characters for customers. The more memorable ones earned nicknames like,
“Deaf Greenberg” who spoke so loudly that whoever answered the phone had to hold it a foot away from their head. There was “Dots Levine” who preceded every phone order with “Dots Levine” calling. Mrs Wein used to say this is Mrs. Wein, Boro. The same (stupid) office person always thought she said, this is Mrs. Weinboro and answered, “Yes Mrs. Weinboro”. Another lady started every call with,” Well, this is Miss Indelicato”. There was a lawyer, “Say, this is Nathan Ginsberg” etc. He had a voice just like Jim Backus (Mr. Magoo). After awhile I knew all the regular callers by voice before they got the second syllable out. I had a great deal of patience for the ones my Dad referred to as naked Santa Clauses, or “Nude-niks”. I always told the customers who thought they were pestering me,
“Never apologize, you are paying my salary and I am here to help you.” I tried to mean it even if
my patience was wearing thin.
One poor soul, Mr. Lamstein, kept calling every two minutes that he is cold and has no heat. The dispatcher kept telling him to stop calling or he will not send anyone. This did not help at all. We finally called up his daughter to tell him to stop calling. She told us that her father doesn’t realize what he is dong and that she would go over and take care of the matter. That was when we realized he was senile or had Alzheimer’s disease. So we now had an, “in office” buzzword, not meant unkindly, for people having the,”Lamstein Syndrome.” These were but a few of the more colorful and memorable people I had as customers.
Memories, memories, there were so many characters that came in to our street level office. There were con men, schemers, dreamers, beggars, hustlers, streetwalkers, bull throwers and sales people galore. Eventually we put in a buzzer system and intercom to screen who we admitted. The neighborhood changed as well as our clientele. The area became seedy. Many of the old customers sold to builders and the new houses used gas heat. Our customer base changed from mostly Jewish and Italian to more than three fourths Asiatic, Latino, and African-American. The Italian -Americans went to Staten Island and the secular Jewish customers to Long Island. The Orthodox Jews moved heavily into Boro Park.
Today the office personnel reflect the ethnicity of the customers. They have the “United Nations”
working there, and rightfully so.
I don’t miss work at all. I worked in the oil business for many years and was beginning to feel burnt out. The fifty six mile round trip that I was making every day since 1972 became more arduous as more people fled the inner city. I occasionally have nightmares about some aspect of the business usually involving an environmental problem.
I put in over 45 years on the job doing everything from credit and collection, buying oil, buying boilers, plumbing fittings, controlling parts inventory and checking in serviceman and drivers. I answered many phone calls myself, handled all sales, advertising, customer retention and solicitation of new accounts and real estate leads. I also bought and equipped all of our oil delivery and service trucks and company cars, and priced the service charges. My partner and I wore many hats. He mostly took care of the bookkeeping, billing and payables as well as dispatching. The new owner has eight people in the office doing what we did. We worked from seven A.M. until we closed whether it was six, seven or eight o’clock at night, sometimes six or seven days a week as needed. That work ethic is not there today. Maybe we were not as smart, but we worked hard and saved our money.
I have never looked back and have been to Brooklyn perhaps three times since I retired. I am so very happy to wake up here in sunny Florida. I turn on the TV as I get ready to go fishing or for an early swim. I hear Al Roker or some other weather person say how cold it is in New York. I am delighted to have gotten out when I did. I doubt that I would still be alive if I stayed in that business. I earned my retirement.
,
I am a past president of the New York Oil Heating Association. Each year we published a directory and it lists all the past presidents. Only a few who served before me are still alive and too many who served after me are gone as well. It became a very difficult business and I made the vow that I would not be carried out feet first. Dad retired only after he had a major heart attack at age 62. I retired at age 62 and didn’t want to tempt fate.
The nature of the business has changed. We used to buy and resell heating oil Today, you have to be a commodities buyer and hedge oil futures. Insurance rates have soared since 9-1-1. At one time it was fun to go to work, but not anymore. Severe price spikes became rampant in 1999 and the business was too volatile. The year ending before I retired we had our first negative balance sheet because of price guarantees. I felt the future of the industry was bleak. More and more companies were being swallowed up in the economic times of the business “roll up”.
Suddenly the largest buyer of oil companies ran into trouble and was considering going into Chapter 11. That company set the standard for a fuel company buy out price. I decided to get out while I can before the business became worth very little. I told my partner that I wanted to retire. He said he would not stay without me. I told him that since I was active in the dealers association that I would find a buyer. I found two companies who wanted to acquire us. We eventually sold to my partner’s son who had entered the business several years before. It was a logical move for him since he got his father to guarantee my buy out. He knew the business and is still being tested in the matter of business survival.
I sold my interest in my beloved building that we were housed in to my partner. That was a mixed blessing. I loved that piece of property but didn’t want to be tied to it. I had a five year payout which was completed in June2005 for which I am very grateful. The industry has shrunk further and is more precarious than ever.
I got out at a time of life when I could still enjoy whatever God given years I may have. I like to think like Mrs. Zander,
“Denks Gott, I don’t owe nobotty nottink”.
At twenty years of age, right after graduating from college, I entered our family home heating oil and service business in Brooklyn, N.Y. We had a customer base of about 1200 homes, small businesses, and multiple family residences. We were a service business where it was “hands on” by the owners. We knew our clients and they knew us.
My father was, “the Mr. Cohn” who the customers wanted to speak with when they had a heating problem and many years later it was me who stepped into those hard to fill shoes of his. Eventually I became the “Mr. Cohn” at Boro Fuel.
Dad retired in 1972.
When I was in college I had seen a quotation from Goethe which said,
“What you inherit from your fathers, you must earn to possess.” It is true and I never forgot it. I had seen many businesses similar to mine fall by the side because of inept management by the next generation.
I learned enough to find my place in the industry, become a respected owner, and enable the business to thrive despite fierce competition from within the industry. The deregulation of natural gas opened the home heating market for new gas heating sales by the utilities. This was the largest single negative factor impacting our business. Regional and national oil heating associations still spend vast amounts of money on advertising to slow the progression of the gas inroads.
Our customer base was so concentrated that we had to run one oil trunk every four blocks in our part of Brooklyn. This consisted of Boro Park and nearby Flatbush and Bensonhurst. At our peak we ran seven oil trucks and had five service technicians. Each truck had between 3500 to 5000 gallons and was refilled two or three times a day. Our clientele was mostly Jewish and Italian. They were for the most part loyal customers who came to you if they had a complaint and you rectified it. It kept the customer and us happy. We always met the customers demand at least halfway. If we did not give them something for their efforts we “won the battle but lost the war” and usually the customer as well.
Most of these people were tough, hard nosed, and obstinate. They bickered for the best price and the best service with a very demanding attitude but they were loyal customers. They had came to America and were determined to make a better life for their children. They were hard working honest people. We kept no inventory, there was no spoilage and the product disappeared into thin air and had to be replenished constantly. It was a beautiful business until the mid 1990's when marketing conditions changed.
Early on I decided to get to know the customers and spent several days on the truck with an oil delivery man. I am glad I did not deliver on my own as my mind wandered. I never would have paid attention to the “whistle”, or vent alarm, which signaled the driver to stop pumping when the tank was almost full. At my fathers suggestion I went door to door to try and get new accounts. This gave me an appreciation of how difficult it is to get a satisfied customer to change companies. Later on I went with a mechanic repairing and cleaning oil burners. I also helped install several boilers and learned more in the basement than I could have learned from books or in the office. It was an integral part of my learning how to be a heating man. It gave me the understanding and knowledge that only “hands on” can do. I never drove one of those massive oil trucks more than a few feet. It is like driving a railroad car. The driver actually counts the people approaching to cross in front of the truck and makes sure the same number of people comes out on the other side of the truck cab. When sitting up that high all you see are tops of heads. A lot of judgment is needed especially going in reverse gear to park such a large vehicle. Thank goodness, we never had a pedestrian accident.
I started from the ground level which I really felt gave me an appreciation and understanding of all aspects of the business. I obtained my own installer license and was certified to file plans and do work in New York City. It is a difficult license to obtain involving a written and practical (hands on) test.
I was ready for the office where I was to spend most of my time.
My desk was right up front close to the cashier’s window. Many customers came into pay because they either lived nearby or just liked to have a place to go to. Some just preferred to pay by cash. Sometimes they came in to try and bargain for a better price (every time).
A new customer, Mr. Assouline, came in to ask for a brick. I said to follow me and brought him to the garage where we had our installation supplies. I showed him common red brick, combustion chamber soft high temp brick, split bricks, refractory bricks, perhaps ten types in all. I asked him,
“Which do you need?” He replied,
“No, no, I need a ‘brick’ in the price of what you are charging me for the oil.”.
That was one of the funnier events.
I had many tradesmen for customers, but house painters and butchers were especially tough people to please. In particular I had three house painters who were known to be top quality painters who worked alone. Each owned three or four multiple dwellings that we serviced. They were hard workers and perfectionists. Today they would be called anal retentive.
Mr. Brisman would walk into the office and say in a heavy accent,
“First I want from you a smile and then a hello” each and every time he came in. Then he would pay his bills. After the smile and hello his gruff, brusque manner took over. Our office staff consisted of three bookkeepers, two senior bosses and the two junior bosses.
Mr. Taubin, another one of these house painters, always came in wearing a beret of one type or another. He sported a big moustache, wore eyeglasses halfway down his nose and used to say to Bill our male bookkeeper,
“Hallo Beel, how do you fill?” I loved his accent. He would crook a beckoning finger at you and say what he wanted. He took up considerable time because he made the bookkeeper recalculate each and every delivery slip by hand. He did not trust adding machines or later on computers. When the computation was finished, he would then take his figures out of his pocket and see if the tally was exactly the same was as his. If it was off by a penny he wanted to know why. When he called up on the telephone he refused to listen to music or our infomercial and would not be placed on hold. The office staff was instructed to lay the phone receiver down on the desk with the phone line “open.” He threatened that if he was placed on hold he would cancel his accounts. I didn’t doubt him for a minute. He was one of a kind, an original back breaker.
The last member of this trio was Mr Steinberg who owned two six family houses in Bensonhurst. He demanded that I come to his house when he got his rents and he paid his bill after I had a “glass of tea” with him. He remarried an appropriate woman after his wife passed on. His new wife told me,
“I had my own house and I did business with the Cirillo Brothers. They always did right by me. I tried to get Benny to switch”.
I let her know that the Cirillo Brothers had a fine company but Mr. Steinberg had the installation of oil heat done by us and he loved our service. I assured her that she would be very happy with us as well. She was just letting us know that she had some power and wanted to be respected. We gave her the respect and included her on any business decision he had to make regarding his oil account. I knew he was beginning to “lose it” when one day he said,
“Your daddy and your uncle look so much alike, which one is your poppa, your daddy or your uncle?”
The butchers were another story. They were a humorless bunch. However, some fancied themselves to be Romeos and tried to “hit” on the housewives. Perhaps they thought WW2 was still on. Several butchers owned multiple houses that we delivered oil to. Mr. Taub, I was told years after he died, propositioned my mother, step-mother and both mothers -in law. I think he propositioned any female. I guess once in awhile he got lucky. You can be sure he wasn’t lucky with the aforementioned ladies. One of my mothers card playing friends, Doris, called him up after getting “loaded” one New Years eve and said,
“Hey Taub, your schmuck should be as hard as your chuck!” I think she knew. He was a miserable person and very nasty as well.
Another butcher who left a lasting impression on me was Jack Fogel. One day I said to Mr. Fogel, when I went to his house on an estimate,
“How are you my friend?” as I had seen my father do with him in prior years. Mr. Fogel had been a heroic guerilla in the Warsaw Ghetto and I had great respect for him. He asked me,
“Have I ever sat down and had a cup of coffee in your house?”
“No,” I replied.
“Have you ever had a cup of coffee in my house?”
I again said,”No.”
“Than I am not your friend, I am your customer; your father, ‘Willie’, he was my friend.”
He taught me a lesson in humility.
I have remembered that story and told it countless times, including most recently to a roofer who was cheating me on a roof tile repair job , courtesy of Hurricane Wilma..
When he called me,
“My friend”, my hackles went up and I told him why he is NOT my friend, among other reasons.
Some of our clientele did not use the post office or banks. We were the “bank of Boro Fuel.” When their social security check came they would call up and say,” I got it.”
We immediately knew by the voice if it was Mrs Zander , Mrs Buccafusco or one of the dozen or so who insisted that we bring them the exact change for their check and pick up their payment. We stopped personal collections years ago.
Mrs Buccafusco, a skinny old crone with wire frame glasses was a nervous woman. Her late husband had been had an opera star in Italy and she had pictures of him in costume on the walls of her home. She never failed to point them out to me every month that she had an oil bill. When she did not owe money she still tried to get us to come and cash her check.
One day when I had to bring her change and pick up her check (very early in my career, I might add, before I rebelled against such tasks) she said to me,
“You know my granddaughter; she’s going to get married. She’s going to marry one of your kind”.
“Oh” I quickly asked,
“Do you mean a man, a tall person, or perhaps an earthling? I really don’t know what you mean”. In reality I knew very well.
“Come on, you know what I mean. He’s a Jew, BUT NICE!”
‘”Oh”, I said “Well thank God for that.”
I don’t think I would answer differently today.
When Mrs. Bertha Zander would call up, she would say,
“Please, you’ve got to come right away, I gotta give you your money, it’s not mine. Hurry up.”
Rain or snow or whatever, we had to run on that collection. She too was another old skinny lady who wore her hair in a bun and a house dress with an apron over it, as you would expect. On the top of her newspaper covered soggy staircase was at least six or eight yellow glass gallons of what was known as Javelle water or what we call Chlorine bleach today. The house reeked of it. She washed the hallway and staircase of that six family house multiple times each day. I don’t think her linoleum covered stairs ever saw daylight. She would hand over the money, look up toward heaven while wringing her hands and exclaim,
“Denks Gott!, denks gott, now I don’t owe nobotty nottink., Oy I am sooo heppy I can sleep tonight”.
We had lots of characters for customers. The more memorable ones earned nicknames like,
“Deaf Greenberg” who spoke so loudly that whoever answered the phone had to hold it a foot away from their head. There was “Dots Levine” who preceded every phone order with “Dots Levine” calling. Mrs Wein used to say this is Mrs. Wein, Boro. The same (stupid) office person always thought she said, this is Mrs. Weinboro and answered, “Yes Mrs. Weinboro”. Another lady started every call with,” Well, this is Miss Indelicato”. There was a lawyer, “Say, this is Nathan Ginsberg” etc. He had a voice just like Jim Backus (Mr. Magoo). After awhile I knew all the regular callers by voice before they got the second syllable out. I had a great deal of patience for the ones my Dad referred to as naked Santa Clauses, or “Nude-niks”. I always told the customers who thought they were pestering me,
“Never apologize, you are paying my salary and I am here to help you.” I tried to mean it even if
my patience was wearing thin.
One poor soul, Mr. Lamstein, kept calling every two minutes that he is cold and has no heat. The dispatcher kept telling him to stop calling or he will not send anyone. This did not help at all. We finally called up his daughter to tell him to stop calling. She told us that her father doesn’t realize what he is dong and that she would go over and take care of the matter. That was when we realized he was senile or had Alzheimer’s disease. So we now had an, “in office” buzzword, not meant unkindly, for people having the,”Lamstein Syndrome.” These were but a few of the more colorful and memorable people I had as customers.
Memories, memories, there were so many characters that came in to our street level office. There were con men, schemers, dreamers, beggars, hustlers, streetwalkers, bull throwers and sales people galore. Eventually we put in a buzzer system and intercom to screen who we admitted. The neighborhood changed as well as our clientele. The area became seedy. Many of the old customers sold to builders and the new houses used gas heat. Our customer base changed from mostly Jewish and Italian to more than three fourths Asiatic, Latino, and African-American. The Italian -Americans went to Staten Island and the secular Jewish customers to Long Island. The Orthodox Jews moved heavily into Boro Park.
Today the office personnel reflect the ethnicity of the customers. They have the “United Nations”
working there, and rightfully so.
I don’t miss work at all. I worked in the oil business for many years and was beginning to feel burnt out. The fifty six mile round trip that I was making every day since 1972 became more arduous as more people fled the inner city. I occasionally have nightmares about some aspect of the business usually involving an environmental problem.
I put in over 45 years on the job doing everything from credit and collection, buying oil, buying boilers, plumbing fittings, controlling parts inventory and checking in serviceman and drivers. I answered many phone calls myself, handled all sales, advertising, customer retention and solicitation of new accounts and real estate leads. I also bought and equipped all of our oil delivery and service trucks and company cars, and priced the service charges. My partner and I wore many hats. He mostly took care of the bookkeeping, billing and payables as well as dispatching. The new owner has eight people in the office doing what we did. We worked from seven A.M. until we closed whether it was six, seven or eight o’clock at night, sometimes six or seven days a week as needed. That work ethic is not there today. Maybe we were not as smart, but we worked hard and saved our money.
I have never looked back and have been to Brooklyn perhaps three times since I retired. I am so very happy to wake up here in sunny Florida. I turn on the TV as I get ready to go fishing or for an early swim. I hear Al Roker or some other weather person say how cold it is in New York. I am delighted to have gotten out when I did. I doubt that I would still be alive if I stayed in that business. I earned my retirement.
,
I am a past president of the New York Oil Heating Association. Each year we published a directory and it lists all the past presidents. Only a few who served before me are still alive and too many who served after me are gone as well. It became a very difficult business and I made the vow that I would not be carried out feet first. Dad retired only after he had a major heart attack at age 62. I retired at age 62 and didn’t want to tempt fate.
The nature of the business has changed. We used to buy and resell heating oil Today, you have to be a commodities buyer and hedge oil futures. Insurance rates have soared since 9-1-1. At one time it was fun to go to work, but not anymore. Severe price spikes became rampant in 1999 and the business was too volatile. The year ending before I retired we had our first negative balance sheet because of price guarantees. I felt the future of the industry was bleak. More and more companies were being swallowed up in the economic times of the business “roll up”.
Suddenly the largest buyer of oil companies ran into trouble and was considering going into Chapter 11. That company set the standard for a fuel company buy out price. I decided to get out while I can before the business became worth very little. I told my partner that I wanted to retire. He said he would not stay without me. I told him that since I was active in the dealers association that I would find a buyer. I found two companies who wanted to acquire us. We eventually sold to my partner’s son who had entered the business several years before. It was a logical move for him since he got his father to guarantee my buy out. He knew the business and is still being tested in the matter of business survival.
I sold my interest in my beloved building that we were housed in to my partner. That was a mixed blessing. I loved that piece of property but didn’t want to be tied to it. I had a five year payout which was completed in June2005 for which I am very grateful. The industry has shrunk further and is more precarious than ever.
I got out at a time of life when I could still enjoy whatever God given years I may have. I like to think like Mrs. Zander,
“Denks Gott, I don’t owe nobotty nottink”.
Mister Invisible
Mister Invisible
I’m sick and tired of it and I won’t take it anymore. I know I’m a small and dainty guy and hard to see but enough is enough. I used to like to go to “The Boys Farmers Market” with my wife for the sheer fun of seeing good merchandising. Alright, I’ll admit it; I like to graze as I walk around like the other mavens who sample all the goodies that are available for tasting. Heck, there are even some folks who go there to have a free lunch snacking on the samples.
More to the point I stopped going there last season because I was recuperating from a partially torn Achilles heel tendon and I was afraid of being banged into by some citizen pushing her wagon. I got into the habit of dragging my wagon behind me as I tried to navigate around the unorganized traffic flow. Last year when I still shopped there one
woman hit me not once , not twice , but three times in a row. I turned around and yelled at her. I bellowed ,
“Hit me with your wagon one more time and you will be wearing it over your head!” She screamed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
I told her to be careful, not sorry.
This year I have boycotted the place entirely. The parking lot is usually bedlam as well.
Recently I went with my wife to the new garden furniture in the shops of San Marco. I reluctantly walked with Paula to get the “one” (read nineteen) item she needed from Publix. Since it was a Saturday at about 2 o’clock in the afternoon I figured we can get in and out quickly. Paula turned a corner and here I was standing in an aisle all by myself when a matron came along and banged into me and looked at me as if I had three heads. She then said “oops”. I thought “oops “was something that Velma and Mama Morton sang about in the show “Chicago.” In the song “Whatever Happened to Class? They sang,
What happened to old values?
And good breeding
Now, no one even says “oops” when they’re
Passing their gas
Whatever happened to class?
So I held my nose and quickly moved away in case she was a Chicago aficionado and let one fly. I thought to myself, it seems she was supposed to say something like “I’m sorry” or “excuse me” or the like (at least for the bumping me part of the equation). I guess I would have said “Oh that’s o.k.” ( I have another ankle and/or more toes on the other side). But it’s not okay to get constantly run over by these denizens of the canned goods aisle. Slightly resentful I moved one aisle over to hide behind my wife when another roller derby queen banged into me. I’m telling you, we were the only ones in the aisle as well. She at least was a bit contrite.
I said to myself, “I’m out of here.” I will go super market shopping only if I have steel toed boots on. It’s not for the faint of heart. Going back to “Chicago” maybe I’m Mr. Cellophane and people look right through me. How embarrassing.
Recently I entered the clubhouse at my home base of Valencia Falls and was coming into the café through the rear screened door where three women were chatting. I said in “sotto voce”
“excuse me”
Then a little louder,
“EXCUSE ME! “
Then finally ,
“Excuse me means I want to get around you!”
They finally moved aside. When I sat down to eat my lunch a nice woman who I recognized from the morning water exercise class came over to me and said,
“Bernie, I know you are a nice guy but I was with some guest friends and you shook up one of my friends by admonishing her. She’s very nice too.
“Go make nice to her” she sweetly said.
Being a softy I asked her what her friends name was and then I walked over to her and said,
“Esther, I didn’t mean to yell at you, but I just wasn’t being heard and the three of you were blocking the entrance. I am sorry I took out on you, for something else that happened earlier on (all the sins of mankind, my ritual circumcision when I was eight days old was terrible, or was it the fall of Chunking during WW2), I sardonically thought. She smiled and said,
“No problem”
Her friend Barbara, my pool companion (who never spoke to me before this )smiled victoriously to her group.
Onward and forward we go. This should be everyone’s biggest problem.
I’m sick and tired of it and I won’t take it anymore. I know I’m a small and dainty guy and hard to see but enough is enough. I used to like to go to “The Boys Farmers Market” with my wife for the sheer fun of seeing good merchandising. Alright, I’ll admit it; I like to graze as I walk around like the other mavens who sample all the goodies that are available for tasting. Heck, there are even some folks who go there to have a free lunch snacking on the samples.
More to the point I stopped going there last season because I was recuperating from a partially torn Achilles heel tendon and I was afraid of being banged into by some citizen pushing her wagon. I got into the habit of dragging my wagon behind me as I tried to navigate around the unorganized traffic flow. Last year when I still shopped there one
woman hit me not once , not twice , but three times in a row. I turned around and yelled at her. I bellowed ,
“Hit me with your wagon one more time and you will be wearing it over your head!” She screamed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
I told her to be careful, not sorry.
This year I have boycotted the place entirely. The parking lot is usually bedlam as well.
Recently I went with my wife to the new garden furniture in the shops of San Marco. I reluctantly walked with Paula to get the “one” (read nineteen) item she needed from Publix. Since it was a Saturday at about 2 o’clock in the afternoon I figured we can get in and out quickly. Paula turned a corner and here I was standing in an aisle all by myself when a matron came along and banged into me and looked at me as if I had three heads. She then said “oops”. I thought “oops “was something that Velma and Mama Morton sang about in the show “Chicago.” In the song “Whatever Happened to Class? They sang,
What happened to old values?
And good breeding
Now, no one even says “oops” when they’re
Passing their gas
Whatever happened to class?
So I held my nose and quickly moved away in case she was a Chicago aficionado and let one fly. I thought to myself, it seems she was supposed to say something like “I’m sorry” or “excuse me” or the like (at least for the bumping me part of the equation). I guess I would have said “Oh that’s o.k.” ( I have another ankle and/or more toes on the other side). But it’s not okay to get constantly run over by these denizens of the canned goods aisle. Slightly resentful I moved one aisle over to hide behind my wife when another roller derby queen banged into me. I’m telling you, we were the only ones in the aisle as well. She at least was a bit contrite.
I said to myself, “I’m out of here.” I will go super market shopping only if I have steel toed boots on. It’s not for the faint of heart. Going back to “Chicago” maybe I’m Mr. Cellophane and people look right through me. How embarrassing.
Recently I entered the clubhouse at my home base of Valencia Falls and was coming into the café through the rear screened door where three women were chatting. I said in “sotto voce”
“excuse me”
Then a little louder,
“EXCUSE ME! “
Then finally ,
“Excuse me means I want to get around you!”
They finally moved aside. When I sat down to eat my lunch a nice woman who I recognized from the morning water exercise class came over to me and said,
“Bernie, I know you are a nice guy but I was with some guest friends and you shook up one of my friends by admonishing her. She’s very nice too.
“Go make nice to her” she sweetly said.
Being a softy I asked her what her friends name was and then I walked over to her and said,
“Esther, I didn’t mean to yell at you, but I just wasn’t being heard and the three of you were blocking the entrance. I am sorry I took out on you, for something else that happened earlier on (all the sins of mankind, my ritual circumcision when I was eight days old was terrible, or was it the fall of Chunking during WW2), I sardonically thought. She smiled and said,
“No problem”
Her friend Barbara, my pool companion (who never spoke to me before this )smiled victoriously to her group.
Onward and forward we go. This should be everyone’s biggest problem.
And Away We Go
And Away We Go
In the Hebrew religion there is a prayer put to song called “La Dor Va Dor”, from “generation to generation” and it is sung in a sweet rhythmic melody. I thought about it the other day and was thinking that some of us, specifically me goes from “crisis to crisis”. Like Rosanna Anna Danna said on Saturday Night Life, “If it’s not one thing it’s another”.
I suppose that’s why in Florida when a new shopping center or strip mall goes up, we all know what happens after the keystone stores go in such as the latest Publix and Walgreen’s. The next place that opens is the pain management center followed by a chiropractor, podiatrist, and doctor’s office of some kind. In the remaining space you can probably find a coffee shop, bagel store and beauty salon. There will probably be some low scale or upscale restaurant as well. The moderately priced restaurants are usually doomed to a short life in the “off season”. At least in the latest economy that’s what I have observed.
In any swimming pool in Florida or café the conversations go on about what happened to someone ,who they use as a doctor, which doctor is the best for “X” condition and what hospital they are affiliated with. Then the medicine list starts with , “What do you take for high blood pressure and the paraphrasing of “ My dog ‘s better than your dog, my dog’s better than yours” . Just the words are changed to. “My diuretic is better than yours is, my diuretic is better than yours”. I knew we all said we wouldn’t get like that, but like Pogo said “We have seen the enemy and the enemy is us”. I suppose that is part of human nature and the process we go through. We have become our parents.
In the last few years my wife and I have had many operations, broken or repaired feet, tendons, digestive issues, blood pressure problems and for good measure a bout of cancer and MOHS surgeries. Welcome to Florida, the sunshine state where most of the natives over fifty five years old can’t eat grapefruit because it exacerbates their statin drug’s abilities in an uncontrolled manner. It is strange because for twenty years I went to work and took my Lipitor, not at night like I was later told to followed by a whole grapefruit for breakfast almost every day, except when grapefruit was out of season. I was none the worse for it. A little lack knowledge is sometimes all right.
At any rate what is one days crisis when it is over is best suppressed by our blessed bodily process that enables us to go on and function in our normal manner and eagerly forget what was bothering us. That we can pick up the daily Sun Sentinel and see who has the best coupons to get our mega dose of salt for dinner tonight.
In the Hebrew religion there is a prayer put to song called “La Dor Va Dor”, from “generation to generation” and it is sung in a sweet rhythmic melody. I thought about it the other day and was thinking that some of us, specifically me goes from “crisis to crisis”. Like Rosanna Anna Danna said on Saturday Night Life, “If it’s not one thing it’s another”.
I suppose that’s why in Florida when a new shopping center or strip mall goes up, we all know what happens after the keystone stores go in such as the latest Publix and Walgreen’s. The next place that opens is the pain management center followed by a chiropractor, podiatrist, and doctor’s office of some kind. In the remaining space you can probably find a coffee shop, bagel store and beauty salon. There will probably be some low scale or upscale restaurant as well. The moderately priced restaurants are usually doomed to a short life in the “off season”. At least in the latest economy that’s what I have observed.
In any swimming pool in Florida or café the conversations go on about what happened to someone ,who they use as a doctor, which doctor is the best for “X” condition and what hospital they are affiliated with. Then the medicine list starts with , “What do you take for high blood pressure and the paraphrasing of “ My dog ‘s better than your dog, my dog’s better than yours” . Just the words are changed to. “My diuretic is better than yours is, my diuretic is better than yours”. I knew we all said we wouldn’t get like that, but like Pogo said “We have seen the enemy and the enemy is us”. I suppose that is part of human nature and the process we go through. We have become our parents.
In the last few years my wife and I have had many operations, broken or repaired feet, tendons, digestive issues, blood pressure problems and for good measure a bout of cancer and MOHS surgeries. Welcome to Florida, the sunshine state where most of the natives over fifty five years old can’t eat grapefruit because it exacerbates their statin drug’s abilities in an uncontrolled manner. It is strange because for twenty years I went to work and took my Lipitor, not at night like I was later told to followed by a whole grapefruit for breakfast almost every day, except when grapefruit was out of season. I was none the worse for it. A little lack knowledge is sometimes all right.
At any rate what is one days crisis when it is over is best suppressed by our blessed bodily process that enables us to go on and function in our normal manner and eagerly forget what was bothering us. That we can pick up the daily Sun Sentinel and see who has the best coupons to get our mega dose of salt for dinner tonight.
An Unforgettable Character
An Unforgettable Character
I remember a feature in “Readers Digest called “The Most Unforgettable Character I Ever Met.” We all have had our share of characters come and go in our lives who had wonderful attributes and at the same time were flawed like all of us.
From time to time I think about some of the former employees of my family owned business. One of the oil truck drivers was a hard worker named Tony Raimo. He worked in the off season as a boiler installation man and did whatever we asked him to do i.e. truck maintenance if there were no deliveries of oil to be made. He was the second driver on the seniority list for over twenty five years before Frank Mastrando retired, after a stroke. Tony became the numero uno or shop steward. We ran between six to nine drivers during the winter season. Tony always did more deliveries than any other man and never said,” No” if a call came in to deliver oil on overtime or emergency. He would work endless hours because he was, “hungry for the buck.” He had the key to the premises and would let himself in and out. All of our men got paid for every minute they worked at Teamster union contract wages and conditions.
However,Tony was an exceptional miser like one of our mechanics Jimmy Conoglione. They never went to a restaurant or bought a ready made sandwich. These two who sometimes worked together would buy a package of cream cheese and an Italian hero bread and make their own sandwich and have it along with their thermos’ of coffee they brought from home.
Tony wore blue dungarees and fashioned a belt and suspenders from clothes line. When he needed eyeglasses he told me that he got them from his friend who worked at the local funeral home who took them from “someone who wouldn’t need them anymore.” He never took Frances his wife out, EVER. He never went to a physician outside of the Veterans Administration facilities.
When we had our company celebration prior to New Years Eve, he stayed around until cleanup time and then took all the leftover sandwiches, pretzels, chips, candies and anything else home for his wife. He swept up all the aforementioned items into a paper sack together! They would have it at night while TV programs of the New Year were being ushered in at Times Square. Fran never saw the inside of a restaurant or ever had “take out” food. Her only past time was going to doctors offices and perhaps church bingo.
He owned a three family house in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn and lived across the street from a small apartment house. He doubled as the janitor there washing the floors and taking out the trash barrels and doing small plumbing jobs. He also told me that he gave people who needed it “third mortgages” at high of course, interest rates. No one was stupid enough to default on him.
Physically he bore a great resemblance to the actor William Bendix, famous for the “Life of Riley” television series. He was medium height, thickly built, wide necked and as strong as a bull. I remember him breaking up the concrete slabs of our sidewalk and thick reinforced garage slabs with either a hand sledge or electric hammer like child’s play.
When he was delivering oil to a customers home if they weren’t standing nearby he would go through their trash can looking for metal or newspapers which he would accumulate and sell at the junk yards. Most of our workers would collect scrap and take them off the job when they changed pipes and valves during installations. They were supposed to turn them in at the shop and we would sell it a few times a year and split with everyone proportionately. He collected aluminum when it had very little value.
Obviously Tony was a child of the depression and must have suffered greatly. When a large part of our home delivery neighborhood became Orthodox Jewish Tony started wearing a skull cap to ingratiate him with the Jewish customers for tips. When someone complained to the office we made him stop by telling him it was disrespectful. One time when a customer was standing near the truck watching the oil meter, the customer sneezed. Tony said to him in perfect Yiddish,
“ Ver Gehargit.” The customer asked him where he learned that so well. Tony replied that his boss Joe Cohn, my uncle always told him that when he sneezed. The customer told him it would be better to say , “Gezundheit” or “God bless you.”
I don’t know if Tony ever found out that “Ver Gehargit” meant “get murdered,” which is a Yiddish curse. Uncle Joe said it to be cute.
What I will never forget Tony for follows:
It was a sub zero Sunday night, December 15th when union contract negotiations broke down and a strike was called for midnight. I called him at home and asked him to fill all the oil trucks. The union had called for ratification but the rank and file rejected the contract. No other driver would come when I called. I stayed in the office while he went and filled up our five empty trucks at the piers. He loaded over thirty thousand gallons of oil until the last truck was returned just before midnight.
We off loaded that oil for seven days and delivered it in forty, five gallon cans all week in rented U-Haul trucks. Our men worked in plain clothes without company logos so as not to be seen by other union workers or shop stewards driving around. That way our customers would not be cold. We did not lose any customers to non –union shops. We delivered forty eight thousand gallons that week and had only one truck left with oil when the contract was ratified. Normally we delivered more than that each day in such weather. In my forty four years in the business we only had two strikes and they were both horribly stressful. I hated and feared that more than any other aspect of the business.
Whenever we bought new equipment Tony was the driver who was awarded the new oil truck to break in. He would go over the specifications with the bosses and the salesman prior to ordering. All trucks are custom made. We used to have long nosed trucks but eventually went over to “cab over engine” where the engine was under the drivers’ seat. It gave more parking space and greater maneuverability.
Tony took out his new White Motors C.O.E. and on the way back from loading it the first time announced over his two way radio for the all to hear that he wanted his old truck back as this one “hurt my rectum.” A pillow solved the problem.
There came a time that Tony had a lot of pension money coming to him and he had a heart condition and decided to take it easy and retire from truck driving. He was retired for several years and one day his police detective son called to tell us that on Sunday morning Tony went out to pick up old newspapers at newsstands with his station wagon. He was shoving a pile of papers into the back of the wagon when he was struck with a fatal heart attack. The store owner saw his feet hanging out in the street from the rear of the wagon for a long time and called 911.
Fran was left with a lot of money and lived for many years but did not improve her living style to the best of my knowledge. But, I never forgot Tony and what a hard, loyal worker he was from a bygone era. They don’t come like that anymore.
Tony and Fran had two sons. One became one of New York Cities most highly decorated detectives and still lives in that house in Brooklyn. He is retired now.
His younger son is very entrepreneurial and devised the idea of a combination car wash and quick oil change facility. He had two of them when he sold out and moved to Florida. He imports quarry material, is a multi millionaire living off the intracoastal in a five million dollar house in an exclusive enclave. He invited me to a Christmas party with my wife to show me how he had “made it.” To keep up the looking like an actor tradition of his Dad, this guy is a dead ringer for Robert De Niro. Unlike his Dad, this fellow knows how to live and enjoy life.
He has a beautiful wife and two children almost of college age. I was happy to see that he was able to escape his environment and live a good life.
I remember a feature in “Readers Digest called “The Most Unforgettable Character I Ever Met.” We all have had our share of characters come and go in our lives who had wonderful attributes and at the same time were flawed like all of us.
From time to time I think about some of the former employees of my family owned business. One of the oil truck drivers was a hard worker named Tony Raimo. He worked in the off season as a boiler installation man and did whatever we asked him to do i.e. truck maintenance if there were no deliveries of oil to be made. He was the second driver on the seniority list for over twenty five years before Frank Mastrando retired, after a stroke. Tony became the numero uno or shop steward. We ran between six to nine drivers during the winter season. Tony always did more deliveries than any other man and never said,” No” if a call came in to deliver oil on overtime or emergency. He would work endless hours because he was, “hungry for the buck.” He had the key to the premises and would let himself in and out. All of our men got paid for every minute they worked at Teamster union contract wages and conditions.
However,Tony was an exceptional miser like one of our mechanics Jimmy Conoglione. They never went to a restaurant or bought a ready made sandwich. These two who sometimes worked together would buy a package of cream cheese and an Italian hero bread and make their own sandwich and have it along with their thermos’ of coffee they brought from home.
Tony wore blue dungarees and fashioned a belt and suspenders from clothes line. When he needed eyeglasses he told me that he got them from his friend who worked at the local funeral home who took them from “someone who wouldn’t need them anymore.” He never took Frances his wife out, EVER. He never went to a physician outside of the Veterans Administration facilities.
When we had our company celebration prior to New Years Eve, he stayed around until cleanup time and then took all the leftover sandwiches, pretzels, chips, candies and anything else home for his wife. He swept up all the aforementioned items into a paper sack together! They would have it at night while TV programs of the New Year were being ushered in at Times Square. Fran never saw the inside of a restaurant or ever had “take out” food. Her only past time was going to doctors offices and perhaps church bingo.
He owned a three family house in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn and lived across the street from a small apartment house. He doubled as the janitor there washing the floors and taking out the trash barrels and doing small plumbing jobs. He also told me that he gave people who needed it “third mortgages” at high of course, interest rates. No one was stupid enough to default on him.
Physically he bore a great resemblance to the actor William Bendix, famous for the “Life of Riley” television series. He was medium height, thickly built, wide necked and as strong as a bull. I remember him breaking up the concrete slabs of our sidewalk and thick reinforced garage slabs with either a hand sledge or electric hammer like child’s play.
When he was delivering oil to a customers home if they weren’t standing nearby he would go through their trash can looking for metal or newspapers which he would accumulate and sell at the junk yards. Most of our workers would collect scrap and take them off the job when they changed pipes and valves during installations. They were supposed to turn them in at the shop and we would sell it a few times a year and split with everyone proportionately. He collected aluminum when it had very little value.
Obviously Tony was a child of the depression and must have suffered greatly. When a large part of our home delivery neighborhood became Orthodox Jewish Tony started wearing a skull cap to ingratiate him with the Jewish customers for tips. When someone complained to the office we made him stop by telling him it was disrespectful. One time when a customer was standing near the truck watching the oil meter, the customer sneezed. Tony said to him in perfect Yiddish,
“ Ver Gehargit.” The customer asked him where he learned that so well. Tony replied that his boss Joe Cohn, my uncle always told him that when he sneezed. The customer told him it would be better to say , “Gezundheit” or “God bless you.”
I don’t know if Tony ever found out that “Ver Gehargit” meant “get murdered,” which is a Yiddish curse. Uncle Joe said it to be cute.
What I will never forget Tony for follows:
It was a sub zero Sunday night, December 15th when union contract negotiations broke down and a strike was called for midnight. I called him at home and asked him to fill all the oil trucks. The union had called for ratification but the rank and file rejected the contract. No other driver would come when I called. I stayed in the office while he went and filled up our five empty trucks at the piers. He loaded over thirty thousand gallons of oil until the last truck was returned just before midnight.
We off loaded that oil for seven days and delivered it in forty, five gallon cans all week in rented U-Haul trucks. Our men worked in plain clothes without company logos so as not to be seen by other union workers or shop stewards driving around. That way our customers would not be cold. We did not lose any customers to non –union shops. We delivered forty eight thousand gallons that week and had only one truck left with oil when the contract was ratified. Normally we delivered more than that each day in such weather. In my forty four years in the business we only had two strikes and they were both horribly stressful. I hated and feared that more than any other aspect of the business.
Whenever we bought new equipment Tony was the driver who was awarded the new oil truck to break in. He would go over the specifications with the bosses and the salesman prior to ordering. All trucks are custom made. We used to have long nosed trucks but eventually went over to “cab over engine” where the engine was under the drivers’ seat. It gave more parking space and greater maneuverability.
Tony took out his new White Motors C.O.E. and on the way back from loading it the first time announced over his two way radio for the all to hear that he wanted his old truck back as this one “hurt my rectum.” A pillow solved the problem.
There came a time that Tony had a lot of pension money coming to him and he had a heart condition and decided to take it easy and retire from truck driving. He was retired for several years and one day his police detective son called to tell us that on Sunday morning Tony went out to pick up old newspapers at newsstands with his station wagon. He was shoving a pile of papers into the back of the wagon when he was struck with a fatal heart attack. The store owner saw his feet hanging out in the street from the rear of the wagon for a long time and called 911.
Fran was left with a lot of money and lived for many years but did not improve her living style to the best of my knowledge. But, I never forgot Tony and what a hard, loyal worker he was from a bygone era. They don’t come like that anymore.
Tony and Fran had two sons. One became one of New York Cities most highly decorated detectives and still lives in that house in Brooklyn. He is retired now.
His younger son is very entrepreneurial and devised the idea of a combination car wash and quick oil change facility. He had two of them when he sold out and moved to Florida. He imports quarry material, is a multi millionaire living off the intracoastal in a five million dollar house in an exclusive enclave. He invited me to a Christmas party with my wife to show me how he had “made it.” To keep up the looking like an actor tradition of his Dad, this guy is a dead ringer for Robert De Niro. Unlike his Dad, this fellow knows how to live and enjoy life.
He has a beautiful wife and two children almost of college age. I was happy to see that he was able to escape his environment and live a good life.
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