Old Timers Day
Thanksgiving has come and gone. We are officially hip deep in the holiday season. Once you've passed a certain point in life, holiday seasons present are inevitably triggers to memories of holiday seasons past. So it was that I happened to be driving up Lincoln Avenue today and I passed a now-shuttered storefront that once housed one of the two deli/small grocery stores I did time in to earn tuition, book and beer money in the late 1980s.
Across the street from that store were high-rise apartment buildings populated by mainly lower-middle-class residents. Blue collar types mainly: postal workers, cab drivers, construction workers and some retirees living on a pension. There were an assortment of interesting and even sordid characters dwelling there. One of them was an older guy whose name none of us in the store new, but who we called Mr. Schaefer. He earned the name via his purchasing habits. Each and every day he would come in and buy two six packs of Schaefer tall boys (16 oz cans for the uninitiated). He would request a paper bag, and each day he would return the paper bag with 12 empty, clean Schaefer tall boys laid sideways in the bag. A clean exchange, occasionally accompanied by some pearl of wisdom. For instance, one time he overheard a co-worker and I discussing hockey. He said to us "You boys like hockey?"
"Yep, sure do."
"I like hockey too."
"Great!"
"You know why I like hockey?" he leaned over the counter conspiratorially and we leaned in to hear. "Because there's no niggers in it!"
We were somewhat taken aback by that response. I said, "uh, OK" and handed him his change. We charged $3.50 for a six plus deposit back then and he typically paid with a crisp ten dollar bill. Disturbingly enough, Mr. Schaefer would make this statement to us over and over again during the course of my employment there whether we were talking about hockey or not when he walked into the store.
Fortunately not all of the denizens of the neighborhood were frugal alcoholic racists. There was another older gentleman that we dubbed Dr. Samuels as he was a dead ringer for the character of the same name on the sitcom "Head Of The Class" which was a minor hit on ABC in those days. He had a small white dog that he'd walk with and he'd always say "C'mon dummy!" to it to get it to move along. One time I asked him what the dog's actual name was and he said "Dummy. I named him after my first wife."
That, my friends, is comedy you don't get on television.
The holidays were always a tough time to have to work. Now that I have a (sort-of) white collar career I get all the biggies off but I still remember having to open the store on Christmas Eve morning and deal with the rush of last minute bread and milk types. Even more so than Thanksgiving or Christmas New Year's was the most poignant time to have to be on a crummy job.
One year on New Year's Eve I was working overnight as an assistant baker at Dunkin Donuts. The shift was usually 10pm-6am so obviously the magic moment would pass early in the night. That day all of us in the kitchen pitched in to buy a few bottles of cheap champagne to ease the pain of having to spend the great world-wide celebration of survival cranking out donuts and muffins for the morning rush. At a bit before 12 we brought the glasses out to share with the lone counter-person, the two ambulance workers who used our parking lot as their base of operations and a few other lonely souls who for reasons unknown found themselves marking the passing of the year at the counter of a donut shop. We toasted each other and the passage of time and then I remember stepping out in the back by the dumpster and looking up at a crystal clear frozen winter sky, reflecting on what had passed and wondering what the year would bring. It was a brief moment of wonderful, sweet loneliness. Then I turned and headed back in to the warmth of the fryers. The moment had passed quickly as it always did and always would, but at least I had enjoyed it for all it was worth.
Enjoy your moments this holiday season everyone, however and wherever you find them.
Across the street from that store were high-rise apartment buildings populated by mainly lower-middle-class residents. Blue collar types mainly: postal workers, cab drivers, construction workers and some retirees living on a pension. There were an assortment of interesting and even sordid characters dwelling there. One of them was an older guy whose name none of us in the store new, but who we called Mr. Schaefer. He earned the name via his purchasing habits. Each and every day he would come in and buy two six packs of Schaefer tall boys (16 oz cans for the uninitiated). He would request a paper bag, and each day he would return the paper bag with 12 empty, clean Schaefer tall boys laid sideways in the bag. A clean exchange, occasionally accompanied by some pearl of wisdom. For instance, one time he overheard a co-worker and I discussing hockey. He said to us "You boys like hockey?"
"Yep, sure do."
"I like hockey too."
"Great!"
"You know why I like hockey?" he leaned over the counter conspiratorially and we leaned in to hear. "Because there's no niggers in it!"
We were somewhat taken aback by that response. I said, "uh, OK" and handed him his change. We charged $3.50 for a six plus deposit back then and he typically paid with a crisp ten dollar bill. Disturbingly enough, Mr. Schaefer would make this statement to us over and over again during the course of my employment there whether we were talking about hockey or not when he walked into the store.
Fortunately not all of the denizens of the neighborhood were frugal alcoholic racists. There was another older gentleman that we dubbed Dr. Samuels as he was a dead ringer for the character of the same name on the sitcom "Head Of The Class" which was a minor hit on ABC in those days. He had a small white dog that he'd walk with and he'd always say "C'mon dummy!" to it to get it to move along. One time I asked him what the dog's actual name was and he said "Dummy. I named him after my first wife."
That, my friends, is comedy you don't get on television.
The holidays were always a tough time to have to work. Now that I have a (sort-of) white collar career I get all the biggies off but I still remember having to open the store on Christmas Eve morning and deal with the rush of last minute bread and milk types. Even more so than Thanksgiving or Christmas New Year's was the most poignant time to have to be on a crummy job.
One year on New Year's Eve I was working overnight as an assistant baker at Dunkin Donuts. The shift was usually 10pm-6am so obviously the magic moment would pass early in the night. That day all of us in the kitchen pitched in to buy a few bottles of cheap champagne to ease the pain of having to spend the great world-wide celebration of survival cranking out donuts and muffins for the morning rush. At a bit before 12 we brought the glasses out to share with the lone counter-person, the two ambulance workers who used our parking lot as their base of operations and a few other lonely souls who for reasons unknown found themselves marking the passing of the year at the counter of a donut shop. We toasted each other and the passage of time and then I remember stepping out in the back by the dumpster and looking up at a crystal clear frozen winter sky, reflecting on what had passed and wondering what the year would bring. It was a brief moment of wonderful, sweet loneliness. Then I turned and headed back in to the warmth of the fryers. The moment had passed quickly as it always did and always would, but at least I had enjoyed it for all it was worth.
Enjoy your moments this holiday season everyone, however and wherever you find them.
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