Teach
03-04-2015, 04:37 PM
The graffiti on the wall said: "This place is condemned by 'Drunkin' Hines'". As far as I was concerned, the message was the absolutely true. But I knew what I needed to do: "Keep My Eyes On The Prize."
In the early 1960s, when I was a student at Boston University, I held various jobs; yet, the one I'll probably remember the most will be the one I took as a porter at Gilchrist's Department Store, then at the corner of Boston's Washington and Winter Streets.
As I recall, that May, I had just completed my sophomore year in college at BU's School of Education. I quickly needed to find a full-time summer job to supplement my part-time job as a clerk at a local drug store. I would need to earn about $1,000 dollars between late-May and early-September before I began my fall semester courses. I would need that money to pay my tuition. I remember that the job pickings that spring were quite slim.
Well, I decided to apply for a job as a porter at Gilchrist's, a downtown Boston dept. store. I was hired at a rate of $1.20 an hour. I remember going to work that following Monday.
I would soon settle into a routine in my 8 a.m to 5 p.m. job (I would also go to work at the drug store one or two nights a week, plus one or two weekend days).
Well, I remember that we were given time-cards. We would enter the Winter St. employee entrance to have them punched. The lady who did the punching looked like she had been with the store since Gilchrist's had opened decades earlier.
My first job, as I recall, was to clean around the root beer stand in the store's basement level. Talk about sticky. The residue on the counter and the floor around the stand would later remind me of super-glue. Next, I would check the men's latrine. Usually, the latrine was clean, but if it weren't, I needed to get a mop and cleanser to make sure everything was spic 'n span.
Next, I would go upstairs to one of our entrances (usually the one that faced onto Washington Street). I would set up a couple stands and a felt rope (the kind you sometimes see at movie theaters or at fancy clubs). I would then stand there behind the rope until the signal was given for the opening of the store. Usually, there would be a trickle of people who would enter at the store opening; however, there were, on a few occasions, a big sale. It was at times like those that I needed to quickly stand aside to avoid being trampled.
Speaking of being trampled, the store had these bells. Different bell sounds (like Morse Code) indicated that a person or department, e.g., custodial department, needed to call in to their office (My boss was a man named Mr. Wilkinson). Well, I heard the bells that indicated a custodial call. I was told by my boss that someone had spilled perfume all over the floor. I needed to clean it up. I'll never forget the feeling of being nearly trampled as dozens of customers walked behind, alongside, and in front of me as I was scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees.
About 10 a.m., we were given a coffee break. I remember sitting down with the other custodians. One guy, a fellow named Angel had just got his girlfriend pregnant. He had asked her to get an abortion, but because of her religious beliefs, she wouldn't. He told us she said, "My body, my baby. I'm not getting an abortion!" As I recall, a retired Swedish guy who was supplementing his social security checks then philosophically chimed in, "A moment of pleasure, a lifetime of anguish." I'm sure that's just what Angel wanted to hear.
Then, there was this young kid who was fooling around with this girl in the back seat of his car. They had sex. She gets pregnant. He had been living in the Baltimore, MD area but was now on the lam in Boston. He's was hoping to prove that the girl had relations with other guys, as well, and that she was not carrying his baby. I figured, in hindsight, that that would have been a tough sell in a day and age before DNA testing. Oh, another guy in our group had started his own rock band. He had envisioned that he and his group were going to become the next rock stars; however, they hadn't landed any gigs. He was working as a porter at Gilchrist's until his group got their first big break.
Oh, about 10:30 or 11 a.m., I'd go around with this canvas dolly (on wheels). My job was to go to every department on various floors and empty the waste baskets. I'll never forget the men's furnishing department. The underwear boxes would say: "Next to myself I love BVD best."
Well, when the dolly became full, I'd bring it down to the sub-basement where the water elevator was. The store had a compactor that compacted the trash. When the bundle became large, we'd tie bailing wire around it, put it on the water elevator and sent the trash up to the street level. It would then be picked up by some company that converted waste into cardboard boxes or other usable products.
At lunchtime, I sometimes hooked up with a buddy who was working at Putnam Management Company. We often bought $1 subs and a drink.
After lunch, it was back to the work routine. That might have meant a visit to the executive offices on the top floor (I belive the CEO was a man named Mr. Vorenberg) to empty waste baskets (judging from the number of envelopes in the waste baskets, you'd be surprised how much mail these guys would get).
Sometimes, I'd go to bakery area where they made the store's signature macaroon cookies. I might be asked to do some clean up work there.
Invariably, at some time during the afternoon, I would get a call, almost like clockwork, to go top the men's latrine to clean up. The rest rooms were public. Vagrants and bums would often use them. Frequently, the toilets became clogged or they overflowed. That's when they'd call me. I must say it was a humbling experience. The stench was foul. I'd quickly get the mop and wringer-bucket out of the closet and set to work.
By 3 p.m., matters seemed to settle down. There was another break at this time and I'd sometimes say hello to a guy in the rug department (he wrapped rugs for pick up or shipment) named Benny. Some of the guys called him "Benny the Bootlegger" It seemed bizarre. Prohibition had been over for about thirty years.
After the break, there was another pass with the dolly to pick up all the waste baskets and bring the trash to the compactor to prepare for the water elevator ride up to the street.
Well, by 4 p.m. it was just simply "killing time". I would go through the motions of doing some dusting or looking like I was keeping busy. By 4:30 I was changing back into my civilian clothes (we wore grey pants and a grey shirt; the custodial badge of honor). I would sometimes shoot the bull with some of the guys, unless the in in-store bells tolled for me (I felt like Ernest Hemingway). It soon became time to amble over (remember "the stroll") to the card punch area, get stamped out and call it a day.
Once I left the store, it was the Washington MTA station to Ashmont and then upstairs to the Norfolk bus and then home. Although the job was often tedious and sometimes difficult, I knew that this job was just a way-station, a stopping off place, a means to an end. It was just as the later-produced public television Civil Rights series would say: "Keep Your Eyes On The Prize." That's just what I did.
Any menial jobs in your background?
In the early 1960s, when I was a student at Boston University, I held various jobs; yet, the one I'll probably remember the most will be the one I took as a porter at Gilchrist's Department Store, then at the corner of Boston's Washington and Winter Streets.
As I recall, that May, I had just completed my sophomore year in college at BU's School of Education. I quickly needed to find a full-time summer job to supplement my part-time job as a clerk at a local drug store. I would need to earn about $1,000 dollars between late-May and early-September before I began my fall semester courses. I would need that money to pay my tuition. I remember that the job pickings that spring were quite slim.
Well, I decided to apply for a job as a porter at Gilchrist's, a downtown Boston dept. store. I was hired at a rate of $1.20 an hour. I remember going to work that following Monday.
I would soon settle into a routine in my 8 a.m to 5 p.m. job (I would also go to work at the drug store one or two nights a week, plus one or two weekend days).
Well, I remember that we were given time-cards. We would enter the Winter St. employee entrance to have them punched. The lady who did the punching looked like she had been with the store since Gilchrist's had opened decades earlier.
My first job, as I recall, was to clean around the root beer stand in the store's basement level. Talk about sticky. The residue on the counter and the floor around the stand would later remind me of super-glue. Next, I would check the men's latrine. Usually, the latrine was clean, but if it weren't, I needed to get a mop and cleanser to make sure everything was spic 'n span.
Next, I would go upstairs to one of our entrances (usually the one that faced onto Washington Street). I would set up a couple stands and a felt rope (the kind you sometimes see at movie theaters or at fancy clubs). I would then stand there behind the rope until the signal was given for the opening of the store. Usually, there would be a trickle of people who would enter at the store opening; however, there were, on a few occasions, a big sale. It was at times like those that I needed to quickly stand aside to avoid being trampled.
Speaking of being trampled, the store had these bells. Different bell sounds (like Morse Code) indicated that a person or department, e.g., custodial department, needed to call in to their office (My boss was a man named Mr. Wilkinson). Well, I heard the bells that indicated a custodial call. I was told by my boss that someone had spilled perfume all over the floor. I needed to clean it up. I'll never forget the feeling of being nearly trampled as dozens of customers walked behind, alongside, and in front of me as I was scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees.
About 10 a.m., we were given a coffee break. I remember sitting down with the other custodians. One guy, a fellow named Angel had just got his girlfriend pregnant. He had asked her to get an abortion, but because of her religious beliefs, she wouldn't. He told us she said, "My body, my baby. I'm not getting an abortion!" As I recall, a retired Swedish guy who was supplementing his social security checks then philosophically chimed in, "A moment of pleasure, a lifetime of anguish." I'm sure that's just what Angel wanted to hear.
Then, there was this young kid who was fooling around with this girl in the back seat of his car. They had sex. She gets pregnant. He had been living in the Baltimore, MD area but was now on the lam in Boston. He's was hoping to prove that the girl had relations with other guys, as well, and that she was not carrying his baby. I figured, in hindsight, that that would have been a tough sell in a day and age before DNA testing. Oh, another guy in our group had started his own rock band. He had envisioned that he and his group were going to become the next rock stars; however, they hadn't landed any gigs. He was working as a porter at Gilchrist's until his group got their first big break.
Oh, about 10:30 or 11 a.m., I'd go around with this canvas dolly (on wheels). My job was to go to every department on various floors and empty the waste baskets. I'll never forget the men's furnishing department. The underwear boxes would say: "Next to myself I love BVD best."
Well, when the dolly became full, I'd bring it down to the sub-basement where the water elevator was. The store had a compactor that compacted the trash. When the bundle became large, we'd tie bailing wire around it, put it on the water elevator and sent the trash up to the street level. It would then be picked up by some company that converted waste into cardboard boxes or other usable products.
At lunchtime, I sometimes hooked up with a buddy who was working at Putnam Management Company. We often bought $1 subs and a drink.
After lunch, it was back to the work routine. That might have meant a visit to the executive offices on the top floor (I belive the CEO was a man named Mr. Vorenberg) to empty waste baskets (judging from the number of envelopes in the waste baskets, you'd be surprised how much mail these guys would get).
Sometimes, I'd go to bakery area where they made the store's signature macaroon cookies. I might be asked to do some clean up work there.
Invariably, at some time during the afternoon, I would get a call, almost like clockwork, to go top the men's latrine to clean up. The rest rooms were public. Vagrants and bums would often use them. Frequently, the toilets became clogged or they overflowed. That's when they'd call me. I must say it was a humbling experience. The stench was foul. I'd quickly get the mop and wringer-bucket out of the closet and set to work.
By 3 p.m., matters seemed to settle down. There was another break at this time and I'd sometimes say hello to a guy in the rug department (he wrapped rugs for pick up or shipment) named Benny. Some of the guys called him "Benny the Bootlegger" It seemed bizarre. Prohibition had been over for about thirty years.
After the break, there was another pass with the dolly to pick up all the waste baskets and bring the trash to the compactor to prepare for the water elevator ride up to the street.
Well, by 4 p.m. it was just simply "killing time". I would go through the motions of doing some dusting or looking like I was keeping busy. By 4:30 I was changing back into my civilian clothes (we wore grey pants and a grey shirt; the custodial badge of honor). I would sometimes shoot the bull with some of the guys, unless the in in-store bells tolled for me (I felt like Ernest Hemingway). It soon became time to amble over (remember "the stroll") to the card punch area, get stamped out and call it a day.
Once I left the store, it was the Washington MTA station to Ashmont and then upstairs to the Norfolk bus and then home. Although the job was often tedious and sometimes difficult, I knew that this job was just a way-station, a stopping off place, a means to an end. It was just as the later-produced public television Civil Rights series would say: "Keep Your Eyes On The Prize." That's just what I did.
Any menial jobs in your background?