And the Kid Didn't Whimper...1920-1946

In my senior year, when it was my turn at bat in the gym class softball games, boys on the other team called out, “Move out, he hits far.”  Belatedly entering adolescence, I learned to swing “a mean bat,” hitting home runs and no longer ducking when a high fly ball fell toward me.  I was astonished rather than gratified by my achievement.  But if this was the achievement Lou considered to be normal for a teenager, normality did not seem to me eagerly to be desired. 

“Sam wants you to work for him Saturdays,” Lou announced one day.  “He''s doing you a favor, act as though you understand that.”  (Gussie Jacobs, who had always assisted Sam in their shoe store on Saturdays, was dying of cancer.)  I was pleased at having a job and at earning a good wage--five dollars for a day from nine in the morning until ten at night.  Born in Poland, Sam made his way west as a young man, settling for several years in Switzerland, a country whose political and cultural institutions he praised.  He made a living by buying odd lots, manufacturers'' overstock or shoes unloaded by bankrupt companies.  Chastened by the hardships of the Depression, townspeople and farmers and workers from throughout the county who streamed into Main Street on Saturdays--the major social event of the week-- accepted meekly failure to find their sizes among styles they particularly desired and could easily be steered to substitutes.  The trick was to bring an alternate style with encouraging smiles and chatter to persuade the customer that this pair would meet their needs better than the original choice.  If the shoe was a larger size than was required, Sam would reassure the customer, by declaring, “I hope this shoe is not too small.”  If the shoe was too large, the word was, “Your feet will swell in the summer, you''ll be glad of the extra room”; if too small, “This type of shoe stretches.  You''ll be glad you began with a tight fit.”  If these ploys failed to achieve a sale, I was to call out, “86,” and then advise the customer that the boss knew the stock better than I and would certainly find a pair of shoes with which the customer would be satisfied.  If Sam exhausted all expedients, he would smile at the customer and apologize for his failure to meet the customer''s needs and then turn toward me and whisper, “Brekh uh fuss!”  (Break a foot).

Selling shoes at Sam''s store was an adventure, and I submitted without protest to pulling off the battered, misshapen shoes of farm women whose stockings were slippery with sweat and emitted a sour stench.   At ten o''clock, when shops closed on Main Street, I joined Sam, Fanny and Lou for coffee.  “How did he do?”  Fanny asked after my first working days.  “He''s learning, he''s learning,” Sam assured her.  Once, at supper at home, cocky with my success and new earnings, I remarked, “Anyone can run a store.”  Lou responded with fury.  I was denigrating not only Sam but him and Fanny as well.  Once again a damn fool!  I could not keep my mouth shut!

Would I act like a damned fool all my life?