Do you know what my first job was?
I never really thought about it until I was watching an episode of "The Good Wife" and a black, female applicant at the law firm was asked where she was from. "Baltimore," she replied. "Tough neighborhood" and "You have to be tough to grow up there" were the responses from her interviewers.
To be honest, I wasn't an "inner-city" child. But we weren't exactly out in the suburbs either.
To be sure, there were nothing but row houses where I lived -- just like downtown. I was somewhere around the age of 10 when on Saturdays I would walk to the corner, catch a city bus, ride it downtown and get off at the Enoch Pratt Public Library where I crossed the street to go to the WMCA.
Riding the bus alone, being on my own in downtown Baltimore, and taking swimming lessons in the nude at the WMCA. No one gave any of this a second thought. It didn't make you tough; it's just the way it was.
As a kid, attending Northwood Elementary School, I was beat up a few times.
Once I decided to walk home from school using the other side of Loch Raven Blvd. I couldn't resist going down the slope by the bridge over Chinquapin Run. I was promptly confronted by the biggest kid I'd ever seen, and he proceeded to wrestle me to the ground, punching me in the face until I was able to break free and run away. Lesson learned.
And there was the time -- again walking home from school -- two neighborhood kids caught me alone in the wooded lot next to Northwood Appold Methodist Church. I really didn't know them except that I somehow knew they were from a nearby neighborhood. This time, one kid -- the bigger one -- would hold me down on the ground while his little buddy proceeded to punch me in the face.
Never thought much about it. "Tough neighborhood?" I didn't think so.
But now that I think about it, I remember the day I got mugged.
I was too poor to get an allowance. So in order to get some pocket change I'd walk 12 blocks to Northwood Shopping Center on weekends and station myself just outside of the door to the supermarket. When people came out with their cart, I would ask them if I could push their cart to their car, help them unload groceries, and return the shopping cart for them. In return, shoppers would give me a quarter, nickel or dime. Whatever they had.
This, in fact, was my first job.
Then one day, as the sun was going down, I walked around back to the stairs up to the alley, ready to call it a day. I had made a lot of money (or so I thought) and for some reason I decided to put it all in my sock. It was awkward walking, I remember.
I had barely climbed the stairs before I was confronted by two kids, demanding my money. They must have seen me pushing carts earlier. But I turned my pockets inside out and said something to the effect of "But I don't have any money." And I was let go -- without a beating.
"You have to be tough to grow up there ..." Maybe so. Just never thought much about it.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Sunday, February 15, 2015
I Was The Mob's Newspaper Boy
When we moved to Tampa in January, 1960, we settled into Hyde Park, just off Howard and Bayshore. Dad liked to call it Palma Ceia -- and it probably was, technically. We rented a typical Florida bungalow with a large front porch at 1416 S. Moody Ave. We were right behind Shepherd's Sports Cars, where Bella's Restaurant now stands.
In those days, I probably wasn't getting an allowance. At age 12, I needed a small amount of cash for french fries at the drugstore soda fountain next to Bern's, or magazines about go-carts from the small general merchandise store on Howard and Morrison, where Hugo's now stands.
My bright idea was to shine shoes outside of the drugstore. Somehow my Dad got wind of this and, without actually quashing my entrepreneurial spirit, he diverted my attention by making me a shoe polish box with a "sole" pattern on top where one would place their shoe during a shine. I can remember Dad using a small hatchet to rough out the pattern.
But I still longed for spending money. Somehow -- I'm not sure -- I must have noticed an adult dropping off bundles of newspapers at the nearby Lil' General store. Kids on bikes would then come by and pick up their bundles and, after banding or folding the afternoon Tampa Times, would throw them on their paper route. I imagine I approached the man and asked if I, too, could throw a newspaper route.
I was in luck and was granted a small paper route covering Morrison and Jetton, from Howard west to just across MacDill Avenue. I can't remember the number of houses I had on my route; I wasn't going to get rich, that's for sure. But I took over the route gladly, and performed my first duties as a newspaper man.
Throwing a paper route was actually a lot of work. You had to pick up the bundle and lug it home in a canvas bag wound around the handlebars of your bike. Fortunately for me, Dad had bought me a beautiful, used Schwinn "cruiser" with a wonderful, wide leather seat, a "springer" front end to absorb shocks and nice fat tires. It had fine, broad handlebars, perfect for hanging the bag of newspapers.
The trick to throwing a paper route, as any kid with a route can tell you, is knowing how to fold the paper in thirds, so that it was flat. Although we had rubber bands, we rarely use them. You see, and nicely folded flat newspaper would sail when thrown. And when you threw it just right you could calculate for the curve, or arc, that it was going to make in the air before landing just right on the front porch step. Of course, any miscalculation of this trajectory meant the paper would likely land in the bushes on either side of the front door, making it necessary to stop the bike, get off, retrieve the paper and place it correctly on the stoop.
After a few months of throwing the paper route, I must have become fairly accomplished at landing the paper in the right location most of the time. And, remember, this was done from a moving bike while steering with one hand. Performing this complicated set of actions with impunity meant a smooth run of the route -- smooth enough to get me home before Dad arrived from work. The evening family dinner would proceed on time.
I guess it wasn't long after taking over the route that my route manager approached me one day and told me that one house in particular on Morrison needed special attention. It was a stately home, one of the larger houses in the well-appointed section of New Suburb Beautiful. It was the only house, as I recall, that had two-story, tall white colonial pillars. The red brick also set it apart from all the others since clay for bricks was hard to come by in sandy Florida.
Located on the corner of Morrison and Forest, I was now required to take a detour down the side street, turn up the driveway crowded by tall hedges on either side, ride my bike up to the small back porch and dismount. I would, I was told, take the newspaper, open the screen door, and place it on the sill before closing the screen door.
Well, this would clearly be a disruption to the my well-defined path of travel. I didn't want to do this. Nobody else on my route made such demands. I mean, I had high-powered lawyers, judges and doctors on my route. Who, exactly, was this person that was intent on making my life miserable?
To add insult to injury, this particular customer was what we paperboys called a "pre-pay." OK, sure. I didn't have to knock on the front door and try to collect a month's worth of subscription money. But that also meant that I would not be getting any face-time in order to secure a sweet tip for going through all that trouble.
"No," I told my manager. "I'm not going to do it." I could feel myself getting flushed. "Why should I have to do that for just one customer?" It was my paper route and I was damned well going to throw it the way I wanted.
After our little conversation, I'm sure I did not place the paper inside the backdoor as instructed. And so, the next day -- as I sat on the porch of my house folding papers prior to throwing the route -- the manager pulls up in front and gets out of his car.
"Is your Dad home?" he asks as he comes up the sidewalk. Apparently Dad had come home early from his job down on Tampa's waterfront, because I went back in the house to get him. Dad and the route manager disappeared back in the house for a few minutes. I don't remember even being worried as to why the manager wanted to talk to my Dad. I hadn't done anything wrong, right?
Then they both came out to the porch. The route manager told me that, in no uncertain terms, I would have to place that paper in the back of that house -- or someone else was going to be throwing my route. Dad was silent. I looked to him for support but he was oddly non-committal. I felt the tears welling up as I told my manager that there was no benefit to me in performing these extraordinary tasks. I was mad. But it was to no avail. I wanted to keep my paper route and the financial freedom it gave to me. So I swallowed my pride. And agreed.
We didn't stay long on Moody Avenue. We eventually moved to another rental a block away from Grady Elementary off Henderson. I attended Wilson through 8th grade, riding the bus each way every day. But my paper route days were finished.
Many years later I learned that the red-brick colonial house on the corner was the home of reputed mob boss Henry Trafficante -- and it all became clear. There was no way Henry was going to walk out into his front yard to retrieve a newspaper. No way. And it probably didn't take much to convince my route manager that another form of delivery would be necessary.
As a reporter for The Tampa Times many years later, I got to see Henry escorted into the federal courthouse, charged with some infraction that I'm sure he was never convicted of. But it was then, with a warm glow of satisfaction, that I realized "I was the mob's newspaper boy."
In those days, I probably wasn't getting an allowance. At age 12, I needed a small amount of cash for french fries at the drugstore soda fountain next to Bern's, or magazines about go-carts from the small general merchandise store on Howard and Morrison, where Hugo's now stands.
My bright idea was to shine shoes outside of the drugstore. Somehow my Dad got wind of this and, without actually quashing my entrepreneurial spirit, he diverted my attention by making me a shoe polish box with a "sole" pattern on top where one would place their shoe during a shine. I can remember Dad using a small hatchet to rough out the pattern.
But I still longed for spending money. Somehow -- I'm not sure -- I must have noticed an adult dropping off bundles of newspapers at the nearby Lil' General store. Kids on bikes would then come by and pick up their bundles and, after banding or folding the afternoon Tampa Times, would throw them on their paper route. I imagine I approached the man and asked if I, too, could throw a newspaper route.
I was in luck and was granted a small paper route covering Morrison and Jetton, from Howard west to just across MacDill Avenue. I can't remember the number of houses I had on my route; I wasn't going to get rich, that's for sure. But I took over the route gladly, and performed my first duties as a newspaper man.
Throwing a paper route was actually a lot of work. You had to pick up the bundle and lug it home in a canvas bag wound around the handlebars of your bike. Fortunately for me, Dad had bought me a beautiful, used Schwinn "cruiser" with a wonderful, wide leather seat, a "springer" front end to absorb shocks and nice fat tires. It had fine, broad handlebars, perfect for hanging the bag of newspapers.
The trick to throwing a paper route, as any kid with a route can tell you, is knowing how to fold the paper in thirds, so that it was flat. Although we had rubber bands, we rarely use them. You see, and nicely folded flat newspaper would sail when thrown. And when you threw it just right you could calculate for the curve, or arc, that it was going to make in the air before landing just right on the front porch step. Of course, any miscalculation of this trajectory meant the paper would likely land in the bushes on either side of the front door, making it necessary to stop the bike, get off, retrieve the paper and place it correctly on the stoop.
After a few months of throwing the paper route, I must have become fairly accomplished at landing the paper in the right location most of the time. And, remember, this was done from a moving bike while steering with one hand. Performing this complicated set of actions with impunity meant a smooth run of the route -- smooth enough to get me home before Dad arrived from work. The evening family dinner would proceed on time.
I guess it wasn't long after taking over the route that my route manager approached me one day and told me that one house in particular on Morrison needed special attention. It was a stately home, one of the larger houses in the well-appointed section of New Suburb Beautiful. It was the only house, as I recall, that had two-story, tall white colonial pillars. The red brick also set it apart from all the others since clay for bricks was hard to come by in sandy Florida.
Located on the corner of Morrison and Forest, I was now required to take a detour down the side street, turn up the driveway crowded by tall hedges on either side, ride my bike up to the small back porch and dismount. I would, I was told, take the newspaper, open the screen door, and place it on the sill before closing the screen door.
Well, this would clearly be a disruption to the my well-defined path of travel. I didn't want to do this. Nobody else on my route made such demands. I mean, I had high-powered lawyers, judges and doctors on my route. Who, exactly, was this person that was intent on making my life miserable?
To add insult to injury, this particular customer was what we paperboys called a "pre-pay." OK, sure. I didn't have to knock on the front door and try to collect a month's worth of subscription money. But that also meant that I would not be getting any face-time in order to secure a sweet tip for going through all that trouble.
"No," I told my manager. "I'm not going to do it." I could feel myself getting flushed. "Why should I have to do that for just one customer?" It was my paper route and I was damned well going to throw it the way I wanted.
After our little conversation, I'm sure I did not place the paper inside the backdoor as instructed. And so, the next day -- as I sat on the porch of my house folding papers prior to throwing the route -- the manager pulls up in front and gets out of his car.
"Is your Dad home?" he asks as he comes up the sidewalk. Apparently Dad had come home early from his job down on Tampa's waterfront, because I went back in the house to get him. Dad and the route manager disappeared back in the house for a few minutes. I don't remember even being worried as to why the manager wanted to talk to my Dad. I hadn't done anything wrong, right?
Then they both came out to the porch. The route manager told me that, in no uncertain terms, I would have to place that paper in the back of that house -- or someone else was going to be throwing my route. Dad was silent. I looked to him for support but he was oddly non-committal. I felt the tears welling up as I told my manager that there was no benefit to me in performing these extraordinary tasks. I was mad. But it was to no avail. I wanted to keep my paper route and the financial freedom it gave to me. So I swallowed my pride. And agreed.
We didn't stay long on Moody Avenue. We eventually moved to another rental a block away from Grady Elementary off Henderson. I attended Wilson through 8th grade, riding the bus each way every day. But my paper route days were finished.
Many years later I learned that the red-brick colonial house on the corner was the home of reputed mob boss Henry Trafficante -- and it all became clear. There was no way Henry was going to walk out into his front yard to retrieve a newspaper. No way. And it probably didn't take much to convince my route manager that another form of delivery would be necessary.
As a reporter for The Tampa Times many years later, I got to see Henry escorted into the federal courthouse, charged with some infraction that I'm sure he was never convicted of. But it was then, with a warm glow of satisfaction, that I realized "I was the mob's newspaper boy."
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