that said across the front of it:
P ATIMKIN K ITCHEN AND B ATHROOM S INKS
“
Any Size
—
Any Shape
”
Inside I could see a glass-enclosed office; it was in the center of an immense warehouse. Two trucks were being loaded in the rear, and Mr. Patimkin, when I saw him, had a cigar in his mouth and was shouting at someone. It was Ron, who was wearing a white T-shirt that said Ohio State Athletic Association across the front. Though he was taller than Mr. Patimkin, and almost as stout, his hands hung weakly at his sides like a small boy’s; Mr. Patimkin’s cigar locomoted in his mouth. Six Negroes were loading one of the trucks feverishly, tossing—my stomach dropped—sink bowls at one another.
Ron left Mr. Patimkin’s side and went back to directing the men. He thrashed his arms about a good deal, and though on the whole he seemed rather confused, he didn’t appear to be at all concerned about anybody dropping a sink. Suddenly I could see myself directing the Negroes—I would have an ulcer in an hour. I could almost hear the enamel surfaces shattering on the floor. And I could hear myself: “Watch it, you guys. Be careful, will you?
Whoops!
Oh, please be—
watch
itl Watch! Oh!” Suppose Mr. Patimkin should come up to me and say, “Okay, boy, you want to marry my daughter, let’s see what you can do.” Well, he would see: in a moment that floor would be a shattered mosaic, a crunchy path of enamel. “Klugman, what kind of worker are you? You work like you eat!”’ “That’s right that’s right, I’m a sparrow, let me go.” “Don’t you even know how to load and unload?” “Mr Patimkin, even breathing gives me trouble, sleep tires me out, let me go, let me go…”
Mr. Patimkin was headed back to the” fish bowl to answer a ringing phone, and I wrenched myself free of my reverie and headed towards the office too. When I entered, Mr. Patimkin looked up from the phone with his eyes; the sticky cigar was in his free hand—he moved it at me, a greeting. From outside I heard Ron call in a high voice, “You can’t all go to lunch at the same time. We haven’t got all day!”
“Sit down,” Mr. Patimkin shot at me, though when he went back to his conversation I saw there was only one chair in the office, his. People did not sit at Patimkin Sink—here you earned your money the hard way, standing up. I busied myself looking at the several calendars that hung from filing cabinets; they showed illustrations of women so dreamy, so fantastically thighed and uddered that one could not think of them as pornographic. Thé artist who had drawn the calendar girls for “Lewis Construction Company,” and “Earl’s Track and Auto Repair” and “Grossman and Son Paper Box” had been painting some third sex I had never seen.
“Sure, sure, sure,” Mr. Patimkin said into the phone “Tomorrow, don’t tell me tomorrow. Tomorrow the world could blow up.”
At the other end someone spoke. Who was it? Lewis from the construction company? Earl from track repair?
“I’m running a business, Grossman, not a charity.”
So it was Grossman being browbeaten at the other end.
“Shit on that,” Mr. Patimkin said. “You’re not the only one in town, my good friend,” and he winked at me.
Ah-ha, a conspiracy against Grossman. Me and Mr. Patimkin. I smiled as collusively as I knew how.
“All right then, we’re here till five … No later.”
He wrote something on a piece of paper. It was only a big X.
“My kid’ll be here,” he said. “Yea, he’s in the business.”
Whatever Grossman said on the other end, it made Mr. Patimkin laugh. Mr. Patimkin hung up without a goodbye.
He looked out the back to see how Ron was doing. “Four years in college he can’t unload a truck.”
I didn’t know what to say but finally chose the truth. “I guess I couldn’t either.”
“You could learn. What am I, a genius? I learned. Hard work never killed anybody.”
To that I agreed.
Mr. Patimkin looked at
P ATIMKIN K ITCHEN AND B ATHROOM S INKS
“
Any Size
—
Any Shape
”
Inside I could see a glass-enclosed office; it was in the center of an immense warehouse. Two trucks were being loaded in the rear, and Mr. Patimkin, when I saw him, had a cigar in his mouth and was shouting at someone. It was Ron, who was wearing a white T-shirt that said Ohio State Athletic Association across the front. Though he was taller than Mr. Patimkin, and almost as stout, his hands hung weakly at his sides like a small boy’s; Mr. Patimkin’s cigar locomoted in his mouth. Six Negroes were loading one of the trucks feverishly, tossing—my stomach dropped—sink bowls at one another.
Ron left Mr. Patimkin’s side and went back to directing the men. He thrashed his arms about a good deal, and though on the whole he seemed rather confused, he didn’t appear to be at all concerned about anybody dropping a sink. Suddenly I could see myself directing the Negroes—I would have an ulcer in an hour. I could almost hear the enamel surfaces shattering on the floor. And I could hear myself: “Watch it, you guys. Be careful, will you?
Whoops!
Oh, please be—
watch
itl Watch! Oh!” Suppose Mr. Patimkin should come up to me and say, “Okay, boy, you want to marry my daughter, let’s see what you can do.” Well, he would see: in a moment that floor would be a shattered mosaic, a crunchy path of enamel. “Klugman, what kind of worker are you? You work like you eat!”’ “That’s right that’s right, I’m a sparrow, let me go.” “Don’t you even know how to load and unload?” “Mr Patimkin, even breathing gives me trouble, sleep tires me out, let me go, let me go…”
Mr. Patimkin was headed back to the” fish bowl to answer a ringing phone, and I wrenched myself free of my reverie and headed towards the office too. When I entered, Mr. Patimkin looked up from the phone with his eyes; the sticky cigar was in his free hand—he moved it at me, a greeting. From outside I heard Ron call in a high voice, “You can’t all go to lunch at the same time. We haven’t got all day!”
“Sit down,” Mr. Patimkin shot at me, though when he went back to his conversation I saw there was only one chair in the office, his. People did not sit at Patimkin Sink—here you earned your money the hard way, standing up. I busied myself looking at the several calendars that hung from filing cabinets; they showed illustrations of women so dreamy, so fantastically thighed and uddered that one could not think of them as pornographic. Thé artist who had drawn the calendar girls for “Lewis Construction Company,” and “Earl’s Track and Auto Repair” and “Grossman and Son Paper Box” had been painting some third sex I had never seen.
“Sure, sure, sure,” Mr. Patimkin said into the phone “Tomorrow, don’t tell me tomorrow. Tomorrow the world could blow up.”
At the other end someone spoke. Who was it? Lewis from the construction company? Earl from track repair?
“I’m running a business, Grossman, not a charity.”
So it was Grossman being browbeaten at the other end.
“Shit on that,” Mr. Patimkin said. “You’re not the only one in town, my good friend,” and he winked at me.
Ah-ha, a conspiracy against Grossman. Me and Mr. Patimkin. I smiled as collusively as I knew how.
“All right then, we’re here till five … No later.”
He wrote something on a piece of paper. It was only a big X.
“My kid’ll be here,” he said. “Yea, he’s in the business.”
Whatever Grossman said on the other end, it made Mr. Patimkin laugh. Mr. Patimkin hung up without a goodbye.
He looked out the back to see how Ron was doing. “Four years in college he can’t unload a truck.”
I didn’t know what to say but finally chose the truth. “I guess I couldn’t either.”
“You could learn. What am I, a genius? I learned. Hard work never killed anybody.”
To that I agreed.
Mr. Patimkin looked at
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