In 1948
I wanted to get married so I asked my Dad if he had a job for
me at the laundry. He did It turned out that he was just starting
a new delivery route in North St. Louis and would be needing a driver.
He had already ordered a new panel truck and while we were waiting
for it to be delivered I was apprenticed to the veteran driver, Andy
Kostedt, whose territory included Kirkwood and Webster Groves. I sat
in the passenger seat of the truck and went every where he went, doing
what he told me to do. At first he would go up to the house with me
to deliver the bundles of clean laundry; he wanted to make sure I
knew how to carry them properly and how to stack them against a wall
if the customer waist’t home (he was impressed when I placed
the lowest package farther from the wall than the topmost packages…he
said that was a sign of intelligence). When the customer was there
he introduced me to them and I watched how he took the money and made
change….or in the case of charge accounts how he handled the
carbon duplicate invoice cards. He made change and handled the paperwork
so quickly and with such confidence he looked like a magician shuffling
cards. He was a stickler for how the dollar bills were arranged…folded
tightly in the right hand pants pocket. Each bill had to face the
same way and higher denominations were always placed behind. I was
a little backward at doing this consistently and he would say over
and over, “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”
Andy was
an outgoing person who always let you know how he felt. Whether it
was gas pains or hemorrhoids it didn’t make any difference; he
told you all about it. And he was a man in a hurry, driving with urgency,
stepping out of the truck before it came to a complete stop. He would
say, “C’mon c’mon! We have to make money for your dad.”
And now and then, “Time is money.” He was blind in one eye
and he would cock his head quickly from side to side in order to see.
This chicken-like gesture was an integral part of who he was. He was
a masterful driver even with the handicap.
He was
impatient with housewives who didn’t have their laundry ready
for pick up at the regular time. He would scold them, “Aw, Miz
Wilson you know I don’t have much time….please be ready
next time.” Or “Aw Miz James, I’ve got ninety stops
this morning….I’ve got a wife and five kids…this is
my livelihood.” He
had to scold them only once, and, as it turned out, the women found
his fussing rather appealing. My Mom would hear from her friends on
occasion about how they had received a scolding. They were usually
chuckling when they told about it and we got the impression it was
becoming a badge of honor to get the treatment. His confidence and
frankness created a charismatic aura about him and he could get away
with things that, I found out later, I could not. Going in and out
of hundreds of households a week he would naturally encounter occasions
when the customer was only partly dressed. He gave me a somber, knowing
look and said “This job invites seductions.” He continued
looking at me with his knowing look but didn’t elaborate.
The route
took us to strange twisting streets and alleyway shortcuts. In places
where double parking was illegal he double parked with aplomb. Once
he was stopped by a policeman who said he was speeding. “AW YOUR
SPEEDOMETER IS OFF! I was watching my speed” he shouted. After
a few awkward exchanges, the policeman backed down. Andy was always
running into people he knew. In one strange store he went in and came
out with a piece of paper and some dollar bills. He mysteriously let
on that he had made a “deal” with someone but didn’t
say what the deal was about. Looking back I have a feeling he must
have been betting on something, but I’ll never know. For someone
who was so frank and open he was secretive on occasion.
He stopped
at taverns to go to the bathroom and for a beer. (In the garage at
one of the customer’s house, he peed into the floor drain as
casually as putting his cap on….reminding me that he felt at
home anywhere). The procedure was usually one stop in the morning
and one in the afternoon. The tavern stops set a precedent for me
to follow for the next four and a half years.
I wasn’t
conscious of it at the time but in retrospect I realize I had been
apprenticed to a master. No one could have manipulated the bundles
of dirty laundry so quickly, stuffing them in the canvas laundry bag
spread open in the classic elbow-to-the-side-arm-stuck-out technique.
Like a veteran juggler he balanced the bundles of clean laundry, sometime
three packages high, grasping in a free hand a pack of other articles
like curtains or trousers on hangers. And with this load he would
squeeze through back gates and up tight stairways. And no one could
have handled the customer interaction with more authority and speed.
He was there and then gone in a flash.
My truck
was finally ready. I picked it up: a beautiful new Chevy panel truck
painted green with “Hollis E. Suits Family Laundry” painted
in gold. I drove to the laundry to go over the route I would take
the next day. The process was simple: the driver who had been handling
the few accounts in Northwest St. Louis gave me a sheet of paper with
the names and addresses of the accounts he already had. His list was
a routing list, that is, they were listed in order of which to go
to first, second, and so on. The process was simple: pick up the dirty
laundry on Wednesday, bring it to the plant, turn it in to have it
washed and pressed, and deliver the clean laundry Saturday. This was
fast service in those days (1920s-1960s). It was surprisingly easy
to locate the customers’ houses the first day. Picking up the
dirty laundry - - - almost always wrapped in a sheet with a big knot
tied at the top - - - was just the same as when I worked with Andy.
I would
bring the truck load of bundles back to the plant, 1517 Clark, downtown
St. Louis, park the truck at the back loading platform and ask the
assigned workers to unload it. Sometimes when several drivers arrived
at nearly the same time, one of them would give a quarter to anybody
who would unload his truck first. This would get him ready faster
for the delivery process that afternoon. This made Dad angry and he
stopped it.
The bundles
were brought up on an elevator to the people who opened the bundles,
read the instruction tags penned to the bags, and sorted the clothes
according to the requested service. For example, any sheets, pillow
cases or other flat ware would go into one mesh bag closed with a
large safety pen numbered with the customer’s number; terry cloth
towels, wash cloths, underwear, and socks were put in another mesh
bag; all clothes were put in baskets and sent to the washing machines.
After
washing, all items were dried in huge tumblers. Towels and wash cloths
were fluff dried so they were completely dry and hot before folding;
flat ware went through enormous mangles. The customers’ numbers
accompanied each batch and they were brought together at the packing
station. They were packed and an identifying label-invoice was glued
on. The invoice indicated which driver was to get the bundle and each
was put on a moveable rack in that driver’s area. The driver
would then arrange bundles in the order of his routing, making sure
that the last stops were loaded first on the truck. On heavy days,
usually Thursday, this was a time consuming task. I would eventually
have over ninety stops to make on a Thursday afternoon. Andy would
have over a hundred.
When the
racks were ready to be loaded, the driver would go down to the alley,
pull down a large enclosed slide that was attached to a second story
window, open the back door of his truck and back up until the slide
entered. Then he would ring a bell for somebody to start sliding the
bundles down. Putting the bundles in the chute and sliding them down
was fun, the most pleasant job in the entire laundry operation. On
only a few occasions would there be friction between the slider and
the truck driver, usually a complaint that the bundles were coming
too fast. When one driver complained about the speed, the slider shouted,
“Quit complaining and pay attention.” Now and then someone
from the office would call down the chute to tell the driver he missed
a pick up. This would stir up some kind of grumbling from the driver,
usually that the customer was somehow wrong.
My mentor
had prepared me well for all aspects of picking up, delivering, making
change, and tavern etiquette. I had never been a habitué of
taverns before but I adapted easily to it. The first thing apparent
was that guys in taverns think and speak in a supremely simplistic
way. Brother Mac said that they swim in the dark molasses of ignorance.
There was a feeling of brotherhood in their relationship; it was important
to agree with the other guy, so that “’ats right” was
a standard response to whatever anybody said. If, on a rare occasion
you wanted to express a disagreement, you had to do it diplomatically
like “Well yes I can understand that and I’ve looked at
it that way myself…but I don’t know….I just don’t
know.” Then if there is anybody else who also disagreed with
the first guy, he could then chime in with something like “’ats
right, we oughta bomb’em back to the stone age.” So regardless
of the substance of the discussion, the idea of bombing would bring
them back together in their fellowship of ignorance. Though
most of the tavern crowd were men it wasn’t unusual to see a
woman. In my experience the woman was usually blond and in her late
40s or early 50s. She was smoking and had a gravelly voice. “’Ats
right” was not her typical contribution to the fellowship; it
was more likely, “You can say THAT again!”
On the
hot St. Louis days, it was a pleasure to stop for a beer. When I was
extremely dry I remember the liquid coming down my throat and somehow
being absorbed by the throat lining before it got to my stomach. On
those occasions I would have a second beer. To this day I don’t
understand why some customer didn’t call the laundry and complain
about the deliveryman with liquor on his breath. With all the lifting,
running, panting and heavy sweating I must have given off some kind
of odor. There was not one complaint in four and a half years.
During
my first month I delivered a bundle to the back of a house where there
was a patio door. This entered onto the dining room and I saw a woman
inside, wearing only bra and panties, down on hands and knees under
the dining room table looking for something on the floor. I knocked
on the glass and she casually got up, put on a bath robe and opened
the door. She paid me for the laundry, $2.36, and I went back to the
truck. I was putting the money in my pocket when I noticed the carbon
ticket showed only $2.35. I didn’t want to go back because she
might still be undressed, and, also, the difference was only a penny. But
I felt that as a matter of principle I should go back and right the
wrong as small as it was. So I went back, and lo and behold, she had
taken the bath robe off and was back down again under the dining room
table. I quietly knocked on the glass and she put her bathrobe again
and opened the door. When I explained the discrepancy she showed me
the original invoice ticket. It clearly showed $2.36. I looked at
the carbon and it became clear that it was originally .36 but a light
smudge of the carbon made the 6 look like a 5. It was embarrassing
and I don’t remember what I said. Whatever it was must have been
some kind of mumbling apology.
Now and
then I had a stop in some of the poor ghettoes. Franklin Avenue in
downtown St. Louis was one of the most run down neighborhoods in the
city and I had a pickup there. I had to go through an enclosed hallway
with the smell of urine, with dirt and broken glass along the floor.
On my way up to the third floor apartment I passed an open doorway.
It didn’t have a door; there was a crude gate made out of scrap
lumber leaning against the opening. Inside I saw a large rabbit hopping
along the floor. It was almost a surrealistic symbol of life in the
building being out of touch with the world outside. To this day I
recall the feeling of despair I experienced walking through that strange
world. When my white friends say, “Can’t the blacks at least
pick up the trash in their yards?,” I try to describe the sense
of futility that anyone living it in such squalor would feel. When
poverty, dirt, and unhappiness have you in their clutches, you must
think “What’s the use?”
Since
my new route took only four days in the week I was called on to help
answer the phones in the office of the laundry on the other two days.
This involved taking orders for new accounts and also handling complaints.
Because there were four members of the Suits family working at the
laundry, Dad decided I should have a pseudonym for my telephone work
to avoid confusion; we decided on “Mr. White.” And as Mr.
White I would sometimes carry on telephone conversations with my own
customers, not letting on that I was their deliveryman. Now and then
when I was out on my route a customer would tell me that Mr. White
was a nice man. What could I do but agree? (I was learning that people
like you if you just listen). On one occasion a lady gave me some
articles to take back to Mr. White. She explained that he said he
would replace them. I said to myself, “No he didn’t.”
Taking
care of new accounts was easy; handling complaints, I was soon to
find out, took an enormous amount of diplomacy. Most complaints involved
missing articles from the bundle just delivered. Second to that was
starch in the collars of men’s shirts that had been specifically
not asked for. Then there were damaged articles which included damaged
zippers on men’s trousers. I had a tool that made fixing zippers
easy by prying open the slider that had been ironed shut.
I learned
early on that the only good way to respond to a customer’s complaint
was to say right off, “Oh, I’m sorry!” It was important
to show immediate sympathy. When I first started I remember customers
would get irked if I responded indirectly by explaining our policy
or some such generality. Once I got past the “Oh, I’m sorry”
stage, then I could say “I’ll see that it doesn’t happen
again.” At our laundry that was an option. If it was a problem
of putting starch in shirts when none is wanted, you could go out
and find the instruction tag that the drivers used to pin on their
bundles and you would underline the words that say “No Starch”.
If the complaint involved missing articles, you would look through
the lost and found box to see if they were there; if not, call them
back to let them know we would pay for them.
Our biggest
account was a family in Clayton whose monthly bill averaged $80. They
began reporting losses several weeks in a row and they were convinced
things were lost at the laundry because they had an airtight system
of sorting and counting their laundry. They invited me to their house
to look at the system. So in the evening I went out as Mr. White and
explained that I was a member of the Suits family. This seemed to
please them as if they were getting VIP treatment. They served coffee,
making it something of a formal ritualized occasion. Then they took
me to the basement, clean and immaculate with a laundry chute for
receiving the laundry from the top floors. With a large canvas cart
and table directly under the chute it was clear that nothing could
get lost. So I asked them to figure how much their losses were and
let me know. As a matter of good will, we were always willing to accept
the customer’s estimate of monetary value. We gave them a credit
on their bill without delay; then, several weeks later they called
and said they found their maid stealing from the dirty clothes cart.
They apologized and we took the credit off their bill.
After
a while my territory was expanded to include south St. Louis, Maplewood,
Brentwood, and Webster Groves. I had the occasion to drive on almost
all the streets in those areas and developed confidence in finding
my way around in strange settings. It was a wonderful education.
Meanwhile,
Dad found out that somebody was stealing whole bundles after they
had been unloaded from the trucks and before they were checked in.
To stop it, Dad bought a revolver and took Mac and me out to the woods
and had us practice using the gun. We used tin cans as targets. Then
he had us keep watch at the laundry during the night. My watch was
from 8:00 p.m. until 12 midnight; then Mac came in and stayed until
4:00 A.M. We positioned ourselves under the tables where the laundry
was checked in holding a string that turned on the light in that area.
I laid the gun gently on the floor. If someone showed up we were to
turn the light on. No one showed up. Now Dad had given us precise
instructions as to what to do if someone showed up, but honest to
God, to this day I can’t remember what he told us.
In the
Fall of 1951 I had applied for a teaching job at two hundred fifty
University Art Departments around the country. I had only two years
of college, but the Department Chairman of the University of Georgia,
Lamar Dodd, said he liked the drawing samples I sent and would like
me to teach there. So Alan took over my job, and in August, 1952,
Joan and I, with eleven month old Julia, took off for Georgia towing
a small trailer with all of our belongings in it.