I clearly saw the writing on the wall when Maury on pay day explained with eyes looking away and hands shaking terribly, "I don't have the money to pay you. Sorry."
Mother told me to quit; I couldn't. I thought if I worked harder, I could save the business. However, Maury mailed more than one rubber check to Standard Oil for his monthly lease payments and his checks to the local fuel distributor bounced higher than a dozen super balls on speed. Events soon turned for the worse. And fast. The truck driver who delivered our gasoline one night pushed a hose down into the large ground tanks and sucked whatever fuel was in them back into the truck's tank. Before he left, he told me, "If I were you, I'd be looking for another job."
Less than an hour later, a Standard Oil representative driving a Standard Oil pickup truck displayed his picture identification card, telling me he was there to change all door locks. Once he was finished with that task, he asked where the lights and gas tank switches were located. I dutifully showed him. "You're going to have to leave now," he told me. I stood outside the station as he turned off all lights and switches, locked each and every door, including the one on the exterior ladies' bathroom. After that, he double checked them all by shaking their handles.
Maury had lost his station, and I had lost my job in one fell swoop. When I returned home earlier than expected, I told my mother the bad news. "Don't worry," she told me, "I talked to Larry at the A&P, and he said he could use an extra stock clerk and carry out boy." Larry was Mister Larry Brennan, the manager of the A&P, the only corporate supermarket in town. With his salary, he was able to afford an expensive home, located among other expensive houses. The Brennans did not live in a working class neighborhood as did the Smullens. Interestingly, my older brother Bill had dated Mr. Brennan's daughter, Barbara. I had the distinct feeling she thought she was a tad better than just about anyone else.
First, I had to telephone A&P and make an appointment with Mr. Brennan, who turned out to be a rather jovial individual with glasses, balding head, and a ready smile. He was not overly impressed with himself. "Call me Larry," he said. Unlike his daughter, he did not put on airs. After I filled out the written application, he seemed interested in my work record. "Seems like you're not afraid to put your nose to the grindstone."
"No, sir."
"No, what?"
"No, Larry."
He grinned. "Okay," he said, "you start Saturday morning. Report here by eight O'clock with a white shirt and a black bow tie."
"I don't have a black—"
"You can buy one at Penney's or Schnabel’s or Aton's Dad and Lad stores. We supply the aprons." All employees at the store wore white work aprons.
I hadn't realized Saturday mornings and early afternoons were the busiest times of the week for grocery shopping. I reported to the little office that was built two feet above the main floor where Larry could look out on his domain from many angles. "Brown," he called out.
Wearing white apron, white shirt, and black bow tie, Richard Brown reported to the office.
"This is George Smullen," said Larry.
"Yeah, I know him and his brother," said Brown.
I had met Richard in school some time ago. He was about two years older than I. Dick Zwicke, a friend of mine called Richard, "Brillo Pad" because Brown's hair was a mass of tight curls.
"Show him how to pack bags, will you?" said Larry.
"Yes, sir," said Brown.
As we headed to the checkout counters, Richard said, "You can call me Sinner. By the way, you'll be working with Big Red."
"Big Red? Okay."
Big Red turned out to be an extremely tall, red-haired, and very pretty woman. She had a ready smile, dusky voice, and unfortunately she was the fastest checkout lady at the A&P.
"Okay," said Sinner, "here's how you pack a bag." He grabbed a number of cans with both hands. "You put the cans on the bottom and then lighter stuff on top. Never, ever put bread or grapes or bananas on the bottom. All you have to do is what I'm doing."
I've never seen hands move so speedily. Whatever he picked up and dumped into a large brown bag was a blur. "See? It's easy," he said, grinning at another packer, Bill Rokus, a tall string bean of a fellow, the same age as Brown. He and Sinner were best of friends, it turned out.
I worked at about one-fifth their speed. Big Red kept pushing cans and other goods toward me.
"You've got to move faster," urged Sinner.
"I'm trying."
"Try harder." Chuckling, he continued to help. Once the bags were filled and loaded on a two-story cart on wheels, he said, "Follow her (the customer). She'll show you where to put the bags." Tipping the two-wheeled car back toward me, I pushed.
I loaded bags on cars' back seats or in trunks or on top of pickup trucks' boxes. Then, I had to race back to Big Red's station with the cart. Naturally, she hadn't waited for my return in order to begin. Cans and other articles galore were waiting for me, and she had started checking out yet another customer's groceries. Rokus and Brown would help me but only temporarily.
I did manage that first day to become a bit more adept at packing bags but I thought I'd never be as fast as Sinner or Rokus. I hadn't realized the physical part of work at a supermarket would be so wearing. I was totally bushed when Larry approached and said, "Time for your meal break. Be back in an hour." It was 4 p.m.
Exhausted, I ate at a downtown restaurant next to the Wisconsin Theater. I ordered pork hocks and sauerkraut.
Mother told me to quit; I couldn't. I thought if I worked harder, I could save the business. However, Maury mailed more than one rubber check to Standard Oil for his monthly lease payments and his checks to the local fuel distributor bounced higher than a dozen super balls on speed. Events soon turned for the worse. And fast. The truck driver who delivered our gasoline one night pushed a hose down into the large ground tanks and sucked whatever fuel was in them back into the truck's tank. Before he left, he told me, "If I were you, I'd be looking for another job."
Less than an hour later, a Standard Oil representative driving a Standard Oil pickup truck displayed his picture identification card, telling me he was there to change all door locks. Once he was finished with that task, he asked where the lights and gas tank switches were located. I dutifully showed him. "You're going to have to leave now," he told me. I stood outside the station as he turned off all lights and switches, locked each and every door, including the one on the exterior ladies' bathroom. After that, he double checked them all by shaking their handles.
Maury had lost his station, and I had lost my job in one fell swoop. When I returned home earlier than expected, I told my mother the bad news. "Don't worry," she told me, "I talked to Larry at the A&P, and he said he could use an extra stock clerk and carry out boy." Larry was Mister Larry Brennan, the manager of the A&P, the only corporate supermarket in town. With his salary, he was able to afford an expensive home, located among other expensive houses. The Brennans did not live in a working class neighborhood as did the Smullens. Interestingly, my older brother Bill had dated Mr. Brennan's daughter, Barbara. I had the distinct feeling she thought she was a tad better than just about anyone else.
First, I had to telephone A&P and make an appointment with Mr. Brennan, who turned out to be a rather jovial individual with glasses, balding head, and a ready smile. He was not overly impressed with himself. "Call me Larry," he said. Unlike his daughter, he did not put on airs. After I filled out the written application, he seemed interested in my work record. "Seems like you're not afraid to put your nose to the grindstone."
"No, sir."
"No, what?"
"No, Larry."
He grinned. "Okay," he said, "you start Saturday morning. Report here by eight O'clock with a white shirt and a black bow tie."
"I don't have a black—"
"You can buy one at Penney's or Schnabel’s or Aton's Dad and Lad stores. We supply the aprons." All employees at the store wore white work aprons.
I hadn't realized Saturday mornings and early afternoons were the busiest times of the week for grocery shopping. I reported to the little office that was built two feet above the main floor where Larry could look out on his domain from many angles. "Brown," he called out.
Wearing white apron, white shirt, and black bow tie, Richard Brown reported to the office.
"This is George Smullen," said Larry.
"Yeah, I know him and his brother," said Brown.
I had met Richard in school some time ago. He was about two years older than I. Dick Zwicke, a friend of mine called Richard, "Brillo Pad" because Brown's hair was a mass of tight curls.
"Show him how to pack bags, will you?" said Larry.
"Yes, sir," said Brown.
As we headed to the checkout counters, Richard said, "You can call me Sinner. By the way, you'll be working with Big Red."
"Big Red? Okay."
Big Red turned out to be an extremely tall, red-haired, and very pretty woman. She had a ready smile, dusky voice, and unfortunately she was the fastest checkout lady at the A&P.
"Okay," said Sinner, "here's how you pack a bag." He grabbed a number of cans with both hands. "You put the cans on the bottom and then lighter stuff on top. Never, ever put bread or grapes or bananas on the bottom. All you have to do is what I'm doing."
I've never seen hands move so speedily. Whatever he picked up and dumped into a large brown bag was a blur. "See? It's easy," he said, grinning at another packer, Bill Rokus, a tall string bean of a fellow, the same age as Brown. He and Sinner were best of friends, it turned out.
I worked at about one-fifth their speed. Big Red kept pushing cans and other goods toward me.
"You've got to move faster," urged Sinner.
"I'm trying."
"Try harder." Chuckling, he continued to help. Once the bags were filled and loaded on a two-story cart on wheels, he said, "Follow her (the customer). She'll show you where to put the bags." Tipping the two-wheeled car back toward me, I pushed.
I loaded bags on cars' back seats or in trunks or on top of pickup trucks' boxes. Then, I had to race back to Big Red's station with the cart. Naturally, she hadn't waited for my return in order to begin. Cans and other articles galore were waiting for me, and she had started checking out yet another customer's groceries. Rokus and Brown would help me but only temporarily.
I did manage that first day to become a bit more adept at packing bags but I thought I'd never be as fast as Sinner or Rokus. I hadn't realized the physical part of work at a supermarket would be so wearing. I was totally bushed when Larry approached and said, "Time for your meal break. Be back in an hour." It was 4 p.m.
Exhausted, I ate at a downtown restaurant next to the Wisconsin Theater. I ordered pork hocks and sauerkraut.
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