It's Only Me- Chapter 11- Harry and Al's

I entered 1974 unemployed, a bit heartbroken and once again in search of a place to live. Jimmy was still in charge at 2132 and so I went to see him. By this time Michael Held had moved in to take my old room so I was set up in the unused living room.

I made a “pit” style bed out of a mattress surrounded by wooden crates, which also served as my closets, shelves and a desk. The fact that anyone coming or going had to pass through the living room never bothered me. I was always the last one to go to sleep anyway.

Finding a job was more complex- I was still trying to impress my parents so I went looking for another suit and tie type job similar to the one I had as a Buyers Assistant. After 2 weeks of taking the subway into Manhattan I was walking home along Kings Highway when I passed Met Foods/H and A Grocery. They were just off the corner of East 19th Street and around the corner from 2132. There was a sign in the window that said- “Part time bag boy wanted.” I went in and spoke with the owners- two Jewish fellows in their 60’s named Harry and Al. They were the names behind H and A Grocery.

Harry Falkowitz was a short, stout fellow who smoked the classic “big cigar”. Al Sussman was the opposite, tall and thin. They had been introduced to one another after having failed at their own businesses as a Grocer and Printer, respectively. They were ideal partners.

While one was frugal and cheap- the other was generous and gregarious. While one was the center of a happy family the other was a depressed and disappointed man. I liked them both immediately. They evidently felt the same way about me and so I was hired part time at $2.50 an hour which was the minimum wage at the time.

I quickly progressed from bagging groceries to working the register- which was one of those old National Cash Registers. In other words you had to be able to count and make change- unlike today where the machine tells you what to do. You could also work with the drawer open- which came in handy at “rush hour” each evening when people came in to pick up one or two items to complete their dinners. At times like these we would even resort to writing the prices on the grocery bag and add thenm by hand with a pencil I kept behind my ear, adding the items up before placing them in the bag. The bag, once I had written upon it, served as a receipt. In this way we could work as an extra register if needed.

Before long I was "full time" and being paid as follows; $2.50 an hour for the first 15 hours- this put me on the books in case a Labor Department Inspector showed up. The balance of my pay was in cash- about $5 an hour, which was pretty good for 1974. So at the end of each week I had about $200 – which was almost double what I would’ve made at the suit and tie job. My hours were 9AM-7PM Monday through Friday with a half day on Saturdays.

I lived one week to the next, starting out behind. Consequently I always owed my pay before I got it. This posed no particular hardship as Kings Highway was like a little village and I had accounts at every store I used. For instance- groceries I took as needed and it got written down in “the book”. At the end of the week when I got paid I would pay the store back for all that I had taken. Breakfast was free- consisting of a fresh, too hot to handle loaf of Italian bread smeared with 4 ounces of Philadelphia Cream Cheese and washed down with a quart of ice cold milk. Lunch and dinner were both eaten at Minerva’s, the Greek restaurant across the street from the store. I’d eat and they would mark it down. On Friday nights I would pay them off after dinner and we would begin again. I can still taste their Lamb Stew which was Tuesday nights special.

Laundry was done by the Greek woman on the next block twice a week and I paid her on Saturdays. Clothes were usually paid for in cash when I went shopping on Saturday- but if I needed credit there was no problem. All the store owners knew one another and the employees- if I didn’t pay them Harry and Al would and then take it from my pay. I am proud to say that never happened.

What a cast of characters we had working there! There was Ishmael, or “Izzy” as we called him, who was Puerto Rican and hit on all the women that came in the store. And I mean ALL the women- including the Rabbis’ wife! (She seemed pleased at the attention.)

There was Paul, a Jewish fellow who had gone off to Korea for the war engaged to an Italian girl. While he was over there she met and married another man. Her parents never forgave her and when Paul came home they took him in “until he got settled.” He had been there for over 25 years.

Then there was Bob, a vain and arrogant man, which I later realized was just a cover for him. His wife worked in Real Estate and made lots of money and I suppose his arrogance was the only way he could hold onto his pride.

We had 2 Mexicans in the store- Leo and his younger brother Angelo. Leo was legal- Angelo was not. Leo had a family of 5 living above the store next to ours. Angelo had a room nearby. They were both the brothers of Milton Perez, who delivered the groceries in a station wagon bought for him by the store every 2 years. Milton lived in a house 3 doors down from 2132 and his son Joseph would go on to become a Doctor.

We had a dairy manned by another Bob, a gentle and shy fellow who was a real old time dairyman. He was in charge of the walk in cooler where all the dairy items were stored, along with some beer for Paul who had an unquenchable thirst. The cooler was a funny place- we would drink there, hide there, and once Harry walked in with a customer to show her how “fresh our pot cheese really is” , only to find Paul screwing the local prostitute atop a crate of milk! We lost the woman as a customer but Paul stayed on.

Each evening at 5 PM, just before the evening “rush” would begin, Izzy would take a can of beer and go out front to drink it while leaning on the parking meter. All things being equal I would join him and smoke a joint. All the customers knew us and never said a thing. Officer Russo, the beat cop, would stroll by and Izzy would simply lower his can while talking to him. I would cup my joint in my hand, where it would die out. More than once, as Officer Russo would turn to leave, he would look back and say, “Need a light, Kid?” I never did….

Harry was Orthodox and had his family and the Temple. Al had a wife he didn’t like and a printing press. He kept the press in a separate room in his apartment in Far Rockaway, with the door padlocked. It was his own world. When he found out that I wrote he let me in and gave me a copy of his self published “Poems for Grandkids” by A. Zaydeh. A was short for Abraham, or Al, which was his first name, while Zaydeh was the Yiddish word for Grandpa. So it was really “Poems for Grandkids” by A Grandpa.

Al could be very cruel at times, especially when he had taken his afternoon nap in the "office" above the store. He would come down with two red palm imprints on his forehead from falling asleep at his desk, head in hands. He would take Seconals and sometimes add a "nip" to it. This accounted for his surly behavoir when he came back down. Occassionally this would cause him a problem.

One day Al had come down from his "nap" only to be confronted at the register with a little boy, about 10 years old, tugging at Al's white grocers jacket. "Mister, Mister, do you have any foreign coins?", he implored. "Go away kid, you bother me." was Al's reply in W.C. Fields fashion. The kid persisted and Al turned to him with a mock smile and patting him on the head said,"What a nice little boy- very nice. So you want some change-? Here's your change!" He then took the kids change and threw it out into the middle of Kings Highway. The kid ran crying from the store only to return with his Dad, one of those big fellows with hair on his shoulders and wearing a wife beater tee shirt. "Who took my kids money?" he yelled. "That one." said the kid. At this point Al opened the register and started shoving money at the kid while saying "What a nice boy- here- take some more- nice boy you have there!" The rest of us were in stitches.

But Harry was just the opposite. We would catch steady customers stealing small,high priced items and Harry would let them go. He reasoned that it made better sense to simply pad the next bill than to lose a customer. This infuriated Al, who would expose and publicly ridicule anyone caught while he was in the store. Like I said, they were perfect for one another. Al would throw them out and Harry would entice them back in.

About this time Johnny Carson made a remark on the "Tonight Show" that would jar the country and make Harry and Al very wealthy. It was in 1974 that Johnny Carson, remarking on a sugar "shortage" that was taking place, lampooned the shortage by saying there was a shortage of toilet paper on the way. Panic ensued with people loading up on the stuff. Coffee soon followed- remember this was just after the Arab oil embargo and the US was experiencing it's first shortages (all be it manufactured as opposed to real) since World War Two. So Harry and Al, through their contacts at the distibutor, where able to get tractor trailer loads of all the short goods. We rented extra space in any garage within 2 blocks of the store and added to the maze of sheds in the rear yard, filling them all with toilet paper, coffee and sugar. They made a killing buying at low prices and then selling at the current rate.

But Harry and Al were not mercenaries- they were really nice guys who cared about their employees. And they put their money where their mouths were.

Of the 3 Perez brothers only Angelo still had family behind in Mexico. A Wife and 5 children. His dream was to save enough money to bring them here.
Angelo could ape a few words of English and taught me several foul words and phrases in Spanish. He was a hard worker- about 40 years old. He sent his pay home and lived in a furnished room around the corner from the store. He never got to go home and see his family while saving to bring them here. He was an illegal and this was 1974. They still upheld the immigration laws back then so it was a risky business sneaking in and out.

There had been a slight recession in ’73 going into ’74.The Vietnam War had just wound down and Watergate had given us our first unelected President in Jerry Ford.

 
There had been talk of some cutback in hours or possibly some layoffs in the store in the fall months leading up to the holidays. Harry had been in and out at all odd hours compared with his usual schedule, which was etched in stone like the Tablets on Sinai. We assumed he had been meeting with bankers to negotiate some financing.

The holidays approached and with them all the excitement that is generated by the prospect of the “Christmas Bonus.” This boiled down to two very basic questions- how much and when? The tradition at Harry and Al’s had always been a weeks gross pay in cash on Christmas Eve just before closing.

Christmas Eve finally arrived and we rushed through all the last minute tasks before closing early for the holiday. Harry and Al were still busy counting the days receipts as the rest of us pretended to work, waiting for the “moment”.

Al and Harry stood behind the counter and we were all gathered on the customer side exchanging best wishes etc as Harry handed out the envelopes with our bonus. One for Milton, Izzie, Leo, Steve, Bob, Paul and myself. Angelo’s name was not called.

Meekly coming forward with hand outstretched Angelo spoke; “Me, dinero?” he implored, eyes showing the shame of asking. He was here illegally and there was no guarantee of a bonus for anyone, let alone this poor fellow. He continued, “ Me mucho trabajo- no dinero?” Al held his hand up, arm outstretched, palm facing Angelo and said, “ You no work bueno- you no dinero.” And then he turned away. The silence, as they say, was deafening. Angelo turned and ran to the basement to be alone with his disappointment and probably anger.

Suddenly from the basement we heard the sounds of laughter and tears. Seeing Harry and Al as they exchanged satisfied glances we knew things were not as they appeared to be. Milton and Leo seemed unusually calm as the rest of us herded toward the basement steps to investigate the cacophony of sounds.

There was Angelo, surrounded by his wife and five children, tears streaming down their faces as they embraced the greatest Christmas gift imaginable- one another.

And then we realized, Harry hadn’t been going to the bankers as we all thought. He had been going to Immigration arranging the visas and job commitment necessary to re-unite Angelo with his family.

There was not a dry eye as we left the store that night. We filed out under the caring gaze of 2 of the wisest men I have ever known, and I believe we had seen the Spirit of Christmas.

My own life was spiraling out of control in the area of drugs at this time. I would wake up in the morning, smoke a joint and head to work. I lived 2 blocks from the store but was always 5 minutes late. This annoyed the hell out of Al. He actually added the 5 minutes up and multiplied it by 300 days a year to prove that I was robbing him of 25 hours a year in wages. But I was a good employee and all the customers loved me so we let it slide.

During the day I would smoke pot in the back of the store, the front of the store, on top of the store, in the basement of the store and even in the walk in cooler. But I was really just waiting for 5 PM when I would take a Tuinol- 3 grain. This would result in my becoming a bit surly and the last 2 hours of the day were the most fun for me.

After work I would go for dinner at Minerva's and frequently fall asleep at the table or the counter. Manny and Bill, 2 of the owners at Minerva's would eventually wake me up with , "Hey Mr. Kid, you want to go home now?" They were always so kind and never made a fuss, even if my inebriated presence bothered some of the other customers. A few years later, while in the Navy, I sent them postcards and gifts from Greece and they were delighted.

I was still living at 2132 and one night a very strange thing happened- a good strange thing but one that I have often marveled at due to the nature of how it all happened.

The tray pictured here belonged to a friend's  Grandma Bee Bee. She lived at 1900 Quentin Road in Brooklyn, N.Y. When I was in Juinor High I thought nothing was classier than this tray- which was always filled with goodies like Bridge Mix and other delights we didn’t have in my home.

I’m not really sure of the year but it was around 1971 or so when Bee Bee passed away. I was offered a “souvenir” to remember her by- and I chose the tray. To me it epitomized an era of genteel living, when people had “company” on Saturday nights, or “guests” during the week for cards or Scrabble. TV came along and changed all that.

The real “meat” of this story involves the loss and later recovery of this tray- possibly with the aid of “cosmic” forces beyond our understanding or control.

The tray had been on top of a black steamer trunk which I used as a dresser in 1973 while living at 2132 Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn. Remember in July of 1973 I packed up and moved to Ohio where I ended up engaged to Monica and working in the paint factory.

In December of 1973 I left Ohio by car (a 1964 Ford Galaxy 500) for NY- trunk in tow. But the car didn’t make it and I was forced to abandon it on the side of Route 80 in Ohio within sight of an Arco station. Not being able to hitch with the trunk I carried it over to the service station and asked the owner if I could leave it there for a bit, intending to send for it later. The owner gave his consent and I lugged it up a ladder to the attic/storage area and continued to the airport and a flight to NY.

I mentioned to my friend that I had left the trunk at a service station in Ohio alongside Route 80. And then I don’t think I thought about it again except in a passing- “Gee, I wish I had my trunk back” kind of way.

So here it is, almost 2 years later at 2:30 in the morning and my front door bell rings back at 2132 Ocean Avenue. At the door is my friend with a black steamer trunk on his back going “Ho Ho Ho Merry Christmas!” It was my trunk!

Inside we opened the trunk and I started going through all the things I had missed in the previous 2 years. And the big surprise was that not only was the tray in there- but my friend, who had given me the tray to begin with, had no idea it was in there!

Eventually I got the whole story- he had been driving back to NY from school at Ohio State in Antioch and along Route 80 found himself outside of Cleveland when he remembered that I had lived near there a couple of years back. And then he remembered that I had left a trunk at a service station somewhere alongside Route 80.

Looking up he saw the sign for an Arco station at the next exit and got off. He went in and asked the guy if he had ever stored a trunk for some tall, skinny guy with shoulder length hair. The reply was something like- “Yeah, and if he doesn’t come for it soon we’re throwing it out!” So he took it and drove through to Brooklyn and woke me up.

And that’s when he saw the tray!

We have pondered this little oddity between us over these many years. He didn’t know it was an Arco station- he didn’t know exactly where on Route 80 I had left it- and only a brief whim caused him to stop and check it out. Was it Bee Bee calling out to get the tray? Or just one of those odd coincidences that make life the joy it sometimes can be?

I don’t know- but I still have the tray.

Life would go on in this vein for 2 and a half years. The only change would be where I was living. In June of 1975 Mr. Rosenberg came down and knocked on our door. Smiling ear to ear. "Boys," he said, "We've sold the house and we're moving to Florida."

And so 2132 came to an end. It was time to find a new place to live. It was also the start of what I refer to as my "lost year."

Working on a Deadline

For those too young to remember the technology, I’ll have to start by explaining that, once upon a time, there were no cell phones. Not even pagers. Seriously, dudes, there were only phone booths. Those were little nooks and crannies in which the Phone Company; yes, there used to be this one big company called the “Phone Company”; would place “pay phones”. Pay phones required you to have the necessary 10 cents to make a call. The phone did not have a dial tone until the dime went down the slot, which set off a bell, which in turn, activated the phone. This was the world in which the following story takes place.

I was working on a deadline, computing the costs of competitive bids for county road jobs in the 1980’s. I was the Estimator of Earthworks at the time for an outfit named Anthem in Cockeysville, Maryland. The main idea of “bid day”; when the Proposals would be submitted; was to find a phone and wait for the final price to come in from the office. The Estimator would then write that number in the proposal and seal the bid before delivering it to the Public Offering. There the bids would be opened and read aloud so as to avoid any overt corruption.

Once the sealed bids were opened, the names of the firms responding and the price of their proposals were read aloud, with all the estimators, like me, writing down the final numbers of their competitors. The goal was, of course, to get the job, but at the same time make a profit. This was easier said than done.

For instance, if the “Engineer’s Estimate”; which was the price the municipality was relying upon as the price to perform the work; was $300,000 you knew it was worth more, but needed to come at least close if you hoped to get the contract, since the counties have the right to reject a bid for being “over budget.” The joke at the time was that the Engineer’s Estimate reflected the cost of construction in Heaven.

On the other hand, if the job was really worth about $400,000 you needed to get as close to your competitors without giving away all of the profits, which was known as “leaving too much on the table.” So the goal for any Estimator hoping to retain his job was to place 2^nd. That meant you didn’t get the job, but providing that your number was close to the winning bid, you could look the boss in the eye and say, “We almost got it!” with pride. The boss, for his part, didn’t want to leave anything at all “on the table”, and so his reaction would always be, “There’s no way they can make money at that price!” It was Aesop who said that “any fool can despise what he cannot get.”

Working on deadlines can be nerve wracking, or thrilling, depending on how you manage your time and resources. I was always several bids ahead of schedule; with each bid clasped to the appropriate set of plans and laid in chronological order as to the date of the actual bid. In that way I could remain ahead of schedule while allowing enough time to add, or change, whatever was necessary to “hone” my number to a fine point while still allowing a decent profit.

Still, in spite of all precautions, it was always a relief to come in at a close second, where you could look intelligent to the boss while risking nothing in return.

The Removers" by Andrew Meredith (2014)

They tell me not to pick a book by its cover; but I keep on doing it anyway. Maybe I've just been lucky, but it seems to work out well for me. The first time it happened was when I read “Moby Dick”; the giant tail on the cover, flailing in the sea and swamping the small whaleboat, promised all kinds of excitement within. And the book delivered beautifully, so I've been doing it that way ever since. I was 11 at the time.

Now this is no Moby Dick; let’s get that straight right from the start. But it has a compelling quality to it which reveals itself as you find yourself turning the next page eagerly. It is the story of the a young man who was cheated out of a portion of his adolescence by his parent’s failed marriage; and it is also the story of how he allowed that loss to rob him of the ability to live and love for many years afterward.

After his father is fired from the university where he teaches; for “inappropriate” behavior with a female student; his marriage to the author’s mother crumbles. No one ever divulges the details of just what his father did; was it a physical relationship, or just becoming too familiar with someone? Or was it what today would be deemed as an “emotional” affair? Silence reigns supreme in his home. No questions are asked and no explanations offered.

Silence never really accomplished much in the way of resolving things; and so it goes with Andrew’s life. He is living among the ashes of what was once a secure home; his mother and father along with his sister were an average family until this one event rocked their world, crumbling its foundation. You have to wonder; as the author does; how solid that foundation was to begin with, and why neither parent seemed capable of even attempting to deal with the problem?

As his father finally settles into a job as a “remover”; someone who removes the body and takes it to the funeral home for final preparations; his son follows suit. As he learns the craft of cremation he draws analogies between his life and the work he performs. He finds that he has shut himself off from all emotions, building a wall which will never reach its full height. No wall could ever be high enough to keep his emotions from spilling out; nor could it ever be high enough to let other emotions in.

After trial and error; coupled with some heartbreak and a trip to the west coast; he finds himself back in the Philadelphia area where he was raised, living with his mother at the age of 27. As he continues to grow he learns about his ability to get beyond that wall and let things flow in and out. He finds answers to the unasked questions which have troubled him; and his father; for so many years.

This is a quickly read and yet deeply written book. The author had to dig deep to write this, and as such it is well worth the read. His conclusion is somewhat like my own; that in the final analysis we all carry our own water. And, as such, we need to be careful not to waste any by either splashing it on others; or using too much of it in an attempt to rinse ourselves of the past. But either way, that bucket of water is ours alone to carry.

My Father at 83

We never called my father “Dad”. His real name was Bill. But we called him “Bail”, which I suppose came about when either my brother or I asked him what his name was and we couldn't pronounce it right. Either way, I don’t ever remember calling him “Dad” until age 18, when I had already left home. So, in some ways you might say that I grew up without a father. But that would be quite a stretch as he was always around. We just didn’t call him “Dad”, as all the other kids I knew addressed their fathers.

Then there was the time in between; when we were aware that “Bail” was an odd thing to call your father, but weren’t comfortable enough to use the term “Dad.” So, at that point we didn’t call him anything. Oddly, on all of the cards and notes which were preserved by my mother; whom we called “Mom”; we addressed him as “Dad”. We just never spoke it.

It may have been about the time when my brother started to get serious with his then girlfriend Helene that this became an issue in our home. I’m not sure. But it was a long time until I felt comfortable addressing him in that fashion.

Today would have been his 83^rd birthday. I can’t say I miss him much; we didn't speak for the last 10 years of his life; and spent much of the rest of it at odds with one another. I cannot even imagine having a relationship with him at all.

There is an old photo of my brother and I in our bedroom in Brooklyn when I was about 10 years old. On the wall over the toy box hangs my first guitar. I got it for Christmas and was eager to make some music. But I was not allowed to play it unless I took lessons. I was never going to be good at math because my mother wasn't. I would never be strong, I would never be able to make a living because my health was bad. The list went on and on.

Today he would have been 83. Hey Dad; I excel at mathematics; even taught myself to navigate by the stars.  I learned it from a book. I've traveled the world 3 times by ship, plane, foot and train. I got really strong while serving in the U.S. Navy and later as a Merchant Mariner. I’ve even built shopping centers and housing developments using those math skills I’d never be good at. I became a surveyor and an Estimator, excelling at both. Later I became a Contract Administrator. Attorneys have called me seeking advice. I own 4 guitars and play them all well enough to satisfy my musical urges and even entertain others; as long as I don't sing.

And remember that $1,000 life insurance policy you bought from Uncle Roy when I was 6 years old? You cancelled my brothers but kept mine active until the day you died. I was 47 years old at that time. You never collected the $350 that had accrued in value over the 40 year period in which you paid over $1,000 into it. I guess you were wrong about me dying before you did. And I was wrong about you being so smart in financial matters.

In short; you were wrong about so many things; but mainly you were wrong about me. Happy Birthday, "Dad".

"The Singing Mailman Delivers" by John Prine (1970)

Back in August of 1970 John Prine was working as a letter carrier for the U.S. Post Office in Chicago. It was in this capacity that he met the great journalist Studs Terkel for an interview, presumably for one his many books chronicling the American work experience. Mr. Terkel had been doing this type of journalism since the 1930’s, when he was employed by the NRA as a “writer.” Armed with a dictaphone and notebook, he set off on an adventure across America, the results of which were later published as “Working.”
  

In the 1960’s and 70’s Mr. Terkel was doing this type of thing on the radio, broadcasting on WFMT radio, and John Prine, who was just about to record his first album, was a guest on his show. He played a song or three and the interview is very interesting, covering many topics, including John Prine’s time in the service, as well as his stint as a mailman in Chicago. You can hear that interview on You Tube, in several parts, beginning with this link to Part One;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vP389HJWZ0&feature=relmfu 

But the best part of this interview was what took place after it was over. John Prine, as explained in the liner notes to this album, was looking to record a tape of his songs for copyright purposes. The tape would be sent on to the Library of Congress. So, he simply asked Mr. Terkel if it was possible to record the songs there in the studio. Mr. Terkel agreed, and the legendary Ray Nordstrand, who hosted “The Midnight Special”, agreed to do the engineering of the session.

What followed was 11 tracks, all of which Mr. Prine later recorded for his first album on Atlantic Records, which came out in October 1970. But this tape is so much better. It is clear and crisp in its quality, and John Prine was fresh and eager to share his work with the world. From “Hello In There”, “Souvenirs”, “Great Society Conflict Veteran’s Blues” (which was later retitled “Sam Stone”) all of Mr. Prine’s earliest work is here like you have never heard it before.

There is also a second disc of a performance by Mr. Prine in November of 1970, one month after the release of the album. “Paradise” is a song still applicable today. In that song Mr. Prine sings about how the town in which his father was born and raised ceased to exist after the coal company simply strip mined it off the face of the earth, leaving nothing behind. All of the songs speak to the conflict that is America, and the struggle of the average man; against all odds; to make it in this world.

No matter how much of a fan you are of John Prine’s, this album will only further secure your connection with the artist. And read the liner notes, they’re short and sweet, and highlight a uniquely American talent.

Medicare Signed Into Law - 1965

It was 47 years ago today when President Lyndon Johnson went to the Truman Libray in Missouri to sign the historic Medicare Act into law. To the President's right is former President Harry Truman. Behind them, partially obscured, is the chief architect of that Act, Vice President Hubert Humphrey.

I was barely 11 years old when this event took place, and never thought of it is as having anything to do with me. Well, here I am, 47 years later, and I am on Medicaid, a program which grew out of the original Medicare Program.  Without this return on my investment,  through a government mandated deduction from my paycheck, I would be in a very different position, respecting both my health and my dignity as a human being.

So, in the midst of all of the hubbub regarding what some people term to be "entitlements"; which they are not, they are investments; I just want to thank the leaders who made this program possible. Their actions, over 4 decades ago, affect me directly today.

"Salesman" - A Film by David and Albert Maysles and Charlotte Zweria (1968)

This 1968 film, starring 4 real life salesmen, centers on the struggles of two members of the group, Paul Brennan and Charles McDevitt, as they target the poorer working class Catholic neighborhoods of Boston, and parts of Florida, door to door in 1967. They are trying to sell high end, expensive Bibles to working class families. The film is a combination of Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman” and David Mamet’s “Glengary Glen Ross.”

There were no cell phones or laptops in 1967, when the film was shot, and beepers were still several years away for the average man. The film begins in the dead of winter in Boston. When sales plummet the team is called into the main office and given a verbal lashing, much as in the David Mamet film "Glengarry Glen Ross." Using a combination of the "carrot and the stick", the sales manager alternately praises and abuses the team, all in a vain attempt to increase sales.

From Boston, the group journeys to Miami, where they target the limited Catholic neighborhoods in an overwhelmingly Baptist state. The coffee shops where the men eat, the cheap motel rooms where they stay, are all part of the film, which at times serves as a detailed look back into the 1960's.

Paul's meltdown, mirroring those of Willy Lohman and Shelley Levene, the fictional salesmen in the two films mentioned earlier, is a sad thing to watch, as it is played out in real time. The only difference between those two fictional characters and Paul, is that Paul is a real person, as is his meltdown. It's not staged, it's not imagined. It's live. When you see this film you will understand those other two films so much more.

The film ends in a climactic way as Paul packs up to leave after experiencing a very bad sales period. While sitting on the motel bed, reminiscing about his days as an Irish kid in Boston, he laments that he could have done as his brother Charlie did, and been a cop, or like his sister Mary, worked for the phone company. If he had, he would be retiring by now, just like them. In other words, like Marlon Brando in "On the Waterfront", he "could ‘a been somebody."

A very poignant film, made all the more interesting by the technology of 1966, this documentary underscores that, although in some ways it's a different world now, in other ways; as with the difference between success and failure; some things never change.

A Trilogy of Books by Studs Terkel

These three books by Studs Terkel will take you on a journey through 20th Century America. "Working" was originally written as a series of Occupational Interviews for the NRA Writers Project during the New Deal. Writers were sent out across America to interview people of all occupations in all areas of the country. The results are fascinating.

Studs Terkel is an American journalist and a treasure. At 96 he is still active and writing. His writing style in these books is to let his subjects speak. This is oral history at it's best.

The next book "The Good War" is again a series of interviews with every conceivable person involved in the war. From Rosie the Riveter to the guys who flew the planes to the politicians who waged the war, it's all here.

The final book of this trilogy is "American Dreams-Lost and Found" which came out towards the end of the Vietnam War. It chronicles the differences between "The Good War" and the War in Vietnam through interviews with the people who fought in it as well as the people at home who were against the war. A real journalistic approach to the conflict that divided America so deeply. It is also a foray into what Americans really expect from their government.

The key to these books is that Mr. Terkel has an unusual understanding of people and how to get them to open up. Through his writing we see glimpses of other peoples lives and even come to understand our own in a more clear way.

These three books will help you understand how we got where we are. They will also have you wondering where we are going.