he found out what I had in mind, he made a deal. He’d turn his back whenever I took a ride if I did him a favor and swiped a sheet of trading stamps for him the next time I went to the cashier’s office.
I pinched a sheet of five hundred stamps and slipped them to the escalator guard. But still no ride. There was more to the deal. Now the guard wanted me to go cash the stamps for him.
This sounded pretty risky, but the guard said, “They won’t recognize you through the window, kid. You’re too new here.”
Well, they recognized me. My sty gave me away. Fired.
After this I was at liberty much too long for comfort. I was getting mighty hungry, so hungry that I even went to Edwards, Engel & Lefkowitz to ask for my old job back. The foreman was still sore at me for having quit without notice and gone over to Wanamaker’s, but the bookkeeper felt sorry for me. He gave me a note to a friend of his named Haverhill, a shipping broker who had an office way downtown near the Battery.
The following Monday I went to work for Mr. Haverhill. This turned out to be the first job I ever took seriously and showed signs of making good at. Yet it was, ironically, the only job I was ever unjustly fired from.
The function of F. M. Haverhill’s office was to obtain customs permits for firms to ship goods abroad. I remember two of the clients well: the Pfauder Tank Company and the Ansonia Clock Company. I remember them well because, after my first day in the office, I did all the work. I took the calls, listed specifications of shipments, went to the steamship companies to get the export permits, and delivered the permits to the clients’ offices.
I was happy to be this busy, and carry this much responsibility. If I say so myself, there was no more efficient shipping brokerage clerk in New York City.
If any problems came up, I took them over to a saloon on West Street, which was where Mr. Haverhill spent his working day. My boss was a tolerant, aristocratic gentleman of the old school. He forgave me my mistakes, and was a patient teacher. He had only one failing. He was a lush.
Although my boss was seldom there, I was never lonely on the job. Haverhill shared office space with a trucking firm. Two cheerful men, a Mr. Wicks and a Mr. Thornton, ran the trucking business, and they treated me as an equal since I ran the brokerage business.
This was a new part of town for me, down by the harbor, and I very soon came to love it. On the Battery, at the very tip of Manhattan, was the Aquarium, a fascinating place, and there was a public swimming pool nearby. Also nearby was a Max’s Busy Bee, one of a chain of marvelous cut-rate diners. Max of the Busy Bees, whatever else he might have been, was the office boy’s best friend. He provided exactly the kind of food we liked the best, at prices we could afford to pay.
At the Busy Bee, smoked salmon on rye sold for three cents per square foot. Lemonade to wash it down cost a penny per pint glass. A jumbo piece of strawberry shortcake, oozing with fresh berries and smothered with whipped cream, was three cents. And while you were eating, countermen would yell out the day’s specials, to keep your appetite whetted: “Take a fresh-baked blueberry pie home to Mother! Nine cents apiece!” “Give the family a treat tonight! Whaddaya say? Today only-chocolate walnut layer cake, double size eleven cents!”
With the boss holed up cozily in his saloon, I could take an hour and a half or two hours for lunch. All I could eat at Max’s Busy Bee. A swim in the pool. A nap in the sun. A stroll through the Aquarium looking at exotic fish. Then back to my desk and my official documents, to take care of my important clients.
This was a job I could work at forever. Could there be a catch to it? There was. There was a duty I hadn’t been told about when I was hired.
While Mr. Haverhill and the trucking firm shared our office space, half and half, they didn’t split the rent half and half. On the
I pinched a sheet of five hundred stamps and slipped them to the escalator guard. But still no ride. There was more to the deal. Now the guard wanted me to go cash the stamps for him.
This sounded pretty risky, but the guard said, “They won’t recognize you through the window, kid. You’re too new here.”
Well, they recognized me. My sty gave me away. Fired.
After this I was at liberty much too long for comfort. I was getting mighty hungry, so hungry that I even went to Edwards, Engel & Lefkowitz to ask for my old job back. The foreman was still sore at me for having quit without notice and gone over to Wanamaker’s, but the bookkeeper felt sorry for me. He gave me a note to a friend of his named Haverhill, a shipping broker who had an office way downtown near the Battery.
The following Monday I went to work for Mr. Haverhill. This turned out to be the first job I ever took seriously and showed signs of making good at. Yet it was, ironically, the only job I was ever unjustly fired from.
The function of F. M. Haverhill’s office was to obtain customs permits for firms to ship goods abroad. I remember two of the clients well: the Pfauder Tank Company and the Ansonia Clock Company. I remember them well because, after my first day in the office, I did all the work. I took the calls, listed specifications of shipments, went to the steamship companies to get the export permits, and delivered the permits to the clients’ offices.
I was happy to be this busy, and carry this much responsibility. If I say so myself, there was no more efficient shipping brokerage clerk in New York City.
If any problems came up, I took them over to a saloon on West Street, which was where Mr. Haverhill spent his working day. My boss was a tolerant, aristocratic gentleman of the old school. He forgave me my mistakes, and was a patient teacher. He had only one failing. He was a lush.
Although my boss was seldom there, I was never lonely on the job. Haverhill shared office space with a trucking firm. Two cheerful men, a Mr. Wicks and a Mr. Thornton, ran the trucking business, and they treated me as an equal since I ran the brokerage business.
This was a new part of town for me, down by the harbor, and I very soon came to love it. On the Battery, at the very tip of Manhattan, was the Aquarium, a fascinating place, and there was a public swimming pool nearby. Also nearby was a Max’s Busy Bee, one of a chain of marvelous cut-rate diners. Max of the Busy Bees, whatever else he might have been, was the office boy’s best friend. He provided exactly the kind of food we liked the best, at prices we could afford to pay.
At the Busy Bee, smoked salmon on rye sold for three cents per square foot. Lemonade to wash it down cost a penny per pint glass. A jumbo piece of strawberry shortcake, oozing with fresh berries and smothered with whipped cream, was three cents. And while you were eating, countermen would yell out the day’s specials, to keep your appetite whetted: “Take a fresh-baked blueberry pie home to Mother! Nine cents apiece!” “Give the family a treat tonight! Whaddaya say? Today only-chocolate walnut layer cake, double size eleven cents!”
With the boss holed up cozily in his saloon, I could take an hour and a half or two hours for lunch. All I could eat at Max’s Busy Bee. A swim in the pool. A nap in the sun. A stroll through the Aquarium looking at exotic fish. Then back to my desk and my official documents, to take care of my important clients.
This was a job I could work at forever. Could there be a catch to it? There was. There was a duty I hadn’t been told about when I was hired.
While Mr. Haverhill and the trucking firm shared our office space, half and half, they didn’t split the rent half and half. On the
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