MY DAD'S STORE #2 "GRAMPA FUCKED A SHEEP"
My grandfather showed up around 9:30, after the crush, rolled in on a wheel chair by my grandmother, Hattie, who drove 20 miles an hour all the way from Bellflower and backed up traffic, infuriating drivers. Grampa Louie was dad's bookkeeper and seldom left the tiny cramped office where he answered the phone and wrote down orders, worked on the books, chewed on his false teeth like a cud, and chain smoked non filter Lucky Strikes. He was consistently irritable, sarcastic, scatological, mean-spirited, suspicious and a long-winded, spicy story teller and bullshitter I enjoyed coaxing into endless monologues, especially when he related to me that my dad was just as big a pain in the ass as I was when HE grew up, and that just watching me in action reminded him of dad, of which he was proud, though dad was repeatedly irritated that my bullshitting sessions with gramps kept both of us from working, though at the same time he got a secret kick out of gramps and I having a sort of secret pact.
Gramps told me: “Your dad would stay out late playing ball and miss dinner, and we had a deal—if he missed dinner because he wanted to play ball, he got a whipping. Well, he loved ball so much I gave him a whipping almost every night and he took it like a man. I don't know where he got his athletic gene, because I ain't no athlete and got no interest in it. Hell, it's a waste of time unless you get paid, and your dad never made much even in the big leagues, he makes more in business.”
Gramps liked to grouse about dad “giving away too much” to his customers. “If he was a woman, and a fucking hooker, he'd give it away for nothing,” he chortled, coughed, chewed on his cud, smoked...
I always pushed gramps for one story after another to prolong our visits in the smoke-dense office that was as jumbled as the aisles of the store. My favorite story was of him being a 21 year old (before he married Hattie) who was so horny and broke that he couldn't afford a whore and “fucked a sheep.” I made him tell me this story over and over (“I fucked her standing up and it was the closest thing to a woman and by god that goddam sheep liked it!”), and I'm sure dad, who had to realize that as a virgin about to turn 15 and drooling over every teenage girl in town, didn't appreciate his son hearing these lurid and dementedly detailed descriptions of his own father coupling with some farmer's sheep.
Gramps always gave himself a lot of room when relating his stories in a gravely authoritative manner, pausing, smoking, coughing, chewing, bringing in side plots, absolutely on stage, and often a stray customer or salesman would happen by to stand, sit on boxes. or the other sagging chair to pay tribute to the boss's father, and there was absolutely no doubt that the stories of intrigue and survival and misery and hard-hearted-every-man-for-himself toughness and sheep-fucking in the mean streets of Chicago were pretty involving and often hilarious stuff as hoots and laughter spilled from the office and out into the store where dad and Bobby filled out orders to be delivered that afternoon.
Truth was, gramps's accounting books were a shambles, and when he answered the phone to take orders, he had to have certain items repeated over and over because of his hearing, and sometimes he screwed up, but dad never scolded him because gramp's had had both legs amputated at above the knees, and dad had to overlook gramps's criticism of his obviously successful business acumen and be catered to, and it was usually me who wheeled his ass to the tiny stuffy stinky john and lifted him onto the toilet and lifted him back onto the wheel chair when he finished.
I loved it when gramps became critical of dad's obviously successful business acumen. Gramps insisted very bitterly that dad was a “soft touch” on whom shrewd salesmen unloaded “shit.” “He's turned this place into a goddam shithouse!” Gramps exclaimed
Dad ignored this palaver, explaining to me that he was receiving huge discounts on the shit, and that in the end all of the worst shit would sell, because these guys would buy anything for the right price, and that certain shoemakers existed by using shit on their repairs, and that it took all kinds. Gramps insisted dad was crazy to give shoemakers ten and twenty percent discounts, but dad explained to me that his competitors with huge warehouses had to raise their prices to give commissions to their salesmen, as well as charging for freight on delivery by truck, while we were “cutting their throats by eliminating the middleman and delivering on our own, free.”
Mother claimed the old man, who had manufactured sock linings in Chicago during the Depression, was jealous of Dad. She claimed that Dad had out-worked and out-smarted the competition and made enemies, but everybody knew that these competitors were all afraid of dad, who was as bad an ass as existed in this or any town or county, mostly stemming from a story where a black thug tried to rob him in a shoe shop in the toughest part of Watts, and dad had knocked him out, broken his jaw, and sent him to the hospital with one punch, whereupon from then on he was looked upon in this tough area as “The Great White Killer.”
When I wasn't “wasting time” with gramps, I stocked and swept during down time. Often massive shipments of box after box on conveyor belts from trucks came in and Bobby and I spent hours trying to find room, stocking shelves, rotating stock, etc. Our favorite times were when salesmen came in and distracted dad from what we were doing. Dave Rutolo from Biltrite always had a deal. Sid Soloman who represented many manufacturers always took dad to lunch, and gramps was furious that Sid told gramps that dad always insisted on picking up the tab when Sid felt it was the duty of a salesman to buy his customers lunch on their expense accounts.
“Your dad, he always has to be the big shot,” gramps contended grumpily.
But mothered countered, “Your father just enjoys giving, and if giving makes him happy, we should let him be.”
Sometimes, when dad was out on one of his very long lunches with salesmen, or left early with a long delivery route, or took a Thursday afternoon off to play golf with old baseball pals, Bobby and I engaged in barbaric “toplift wars.” Toplifts were tiny heels that fitted on ladies high heels, and they were easy to sail and curve, and Bobby and I lurked among the shelves and aisles, hands full of these little discs, and fired them as hard as we could at each other once exposed. Often these confrontations ended up at close quarters, perhaps five feet away, and we fired away and retreated, dashing down the aisles and staking out new territory. Whenever there was a flurry of action, gramps cried out, “stop it, goddammit, stop playing grabass or I'll tell Murray.”
He never did.
One would think that a full grown and crafty and fairly athletic man of 20 like cousin Bob would reign supreme, but I was agile and quick and once climbed up a shelf from a ladder and waited until Bobby was lurking directly below me, and not only ambushed him with a hail of toplifts, but actually bombarded him on the head and shoulders with four men's heels, bruising his cheek and sending him into the restroom, where, as he washed off, I sprayed RAID under the door, forcing him out in a coughing fit that had gramps apoplectic with rage, his stumps gyrating up and down as he coughed and wheezed.
Several times, when dad returned, he looked around and said, “I know you two have been corking off. I know exactly what's going on by the amount of work that I see done when I get back, and I know it's you, Dell, distracting Bob and gramps from doing any work, because you're a good time Charlie, a goddam fuckup, a goddam menace, who should be learning the stock and the prices in down time, and if it doesn't stop I am gonna take you out and beat you into a thousand bloody pieces!”
While dad delivered this threat, Bobby remained inscrutable, though he winked at me, and soon as Dad was out of sight he broke out laughing.
Gramps told me: “Your dad would stay out late playing ball and miss dinner, and we had a deal—if he missed dinner because he wanted to play ball, he got a whipping. Well, he loved ball so much I gave him a whipping almost every night and he took it like a man. I don't know where he got his athletic gene, because I ain't no athlete and got no interest in it. Hell, it's a waste of time unless you get paid, and your dad never made much even in the big leagues, he makes more in business.”
Gramps liked to grouse about dad “giving away too much” to his customers. “If he was a woman, and a fucking hooker, he'd give it away for nothing,” he chortled, coughed, chewed on his cud, smoked...
I always pushed gramps for one story after another to prolong our visits in the smoke-dense office that was as jumbled as the aisles of the store. My favorite story was of him being a 21 year old (before he married Hattie) who was so horny and broke that he couldn't afford a whore and “fucked a sheep.” I made him tell me this story over and over (“I fucked her standing up and it was the closest thing to a woman and by god that goddam sheep liked it!”), and I'm sure dad, who had to realize that as a virgin about to turn 15 and drooling over every teenage girl in town, didn't appreciate his son hearing these lurid and dementedly detailed descriptions of his own father coupling with some farmer's sheep.
Gramps always gave himself a lot of room when relating his stories in a gravely authoritative manner, pausing, smoking, coughing, chewing, bringing in side plots, absolutely on stage, and often a stray customer or salesman would happen by to stand, sit on boxes. or the other sagging chair to pay tribute to the boss's father, and there was absolutely no doubt that the stories of intrigue and survival and misery and hard-hearted-every-man-for-himself toughness and sheep-fucking in the mean streets of Chicago were pretty involving and often hilarious stuff as hoots and laughter spilled from the office and out into the store where dad and Bobby filled out orders to be delivered that afternoon.
Truth was, gramps's accounting books were a shambles, and when he answered the phone to take orders, he had to have certain items repeated over and over because of his hearing, and sometimes he screwed up, but dad never scolded him because gramp's had had both legs amputated at above the knees, and dad had to overlook gramps's criticism of his obviously successful business acumen and be catered to, and it was usually me who wheeled his ass to the tiny stuffy stinky john and lifted him onto the toilet and lifted him back onto the wheel chair when he finished.
I loved it when gramps became critical of dad's obviously successful business acumen. Gramps insisted very bitterly that dad was a “soft touch” on whom shrewd salesmen unloaded “shit.” “He's turned this place into a goddam shithouse!” Gramps exclaimed
Dad ignored this palaver, explaining to me that he was receiving huge discounts on the shit, and that in the end all of the worst shit would sell, because these guys would buy anything for the right price, and that certain shoemakers existed by using shit on their repairs, and that it took all kinds. Gramps insisted dad was crazy to give shoemakers ten and twenty percent discounts, but dad explained to me that his competitors with huge warehouses had to raise their prices to give commissions to their salesmen, as well as charging for freight on delivery by truck, while we were “cutting their throats by eliminating the middleman and delivering on our own, free.”
Mother claimed the old man, who had manufactured sock linings in Chicago during the Depression, was jealous of Dad. She claimed that Dad had out-worked and out-smarted the competition and made enemies, but everybody knew that these competitors were all afraid of dad, who was as bad an ass as existed in this or any town or county, mostly stemming from a story where a black thug tried to rob him in a shoe shop in the toughest part of Watts, and dad had knocked him out, broken his jaw, and sent him to the hospital with one punch, whereupon from then on he was looked upon in this tough area as “The Great White Killer.”
When I wasn't “wasting time” with gramps, I stocked and swept during down time. Often massive shipments of box after box on conveyor belts from trucks came in and Bobby and I spent hours trying to find room, stocking shelves, rotating stock, etc. Our favorite times were when salesmen came in and distracted dad from what we were doing. Dave Rutolo from Biltrite always had a deal. Sid Soloman who represented many manufacturers always took dad to lunch, and gramps was furious that Sid told gramps that dad always insisted on picking up the tab when Sid felt it was the duty of a salesman to buy his customers lunch on their expense accounts.
“Your dad, he always has to be the big shot,” gramps contended grumpily.
But mothered countered, “Your father just enjoys giving, and if giving makes him happy, we should let him be.”
Sometimes, when dad was out on one of his very long lunches with salesmen, or left early with a long delivery route, or took a Thursday afternoon off to play golf with old baseball pals, Bobby and I engaged in barbaric “toplift wars.” Toplifts were tiny heels that fitted on ladies high heels, and they were easy to sail and curve, and Bobby and I lurked among the shelves and aisles, hands full of these little discs, and fired them as hard as we could at each other once exposed. Often these confrontations ended up at close quarters, perhaps five feet away, and we fired away and retreated, dashing down the aisles and staking out new territory. Whenever there was a flurry of action, gramps cried out, “stop it, goddammit, stop playing grabass or I'll tell Murray.”
He never did.
One would think that a full grown and crafty and fairly athletic man of 20 like cousin Bob would reign supreme, but I was agile and quick and once climbed up a shelf from a ladder and waited until Bobby was lurking directly below me, and not only ambushed him with a hail of toplifts, but actually bombarded him on the head and shoulders with four men's heels, bruising his cheek and sending him into the restroom, where, as he washed off, I sprayed RAID under the door, forcing him out in a coughing fit that had gramps apoplectic with rage, his stumps gyrating up and down as he coughed and wheezed.
Several times, when dad returned, he looked around and said, “I know you two have been corking off. I know exactly what's going on by the amount of work that I see done when I get back, and I know it's you, Dell, distracting Bob and gramps from doing any work, because you're a good time Charlie, a goddam fuckup, a goddam menace, who should be learning the stock and the prices in down time, and if it doesn't stop I am gonna take you out and beat you into a thousand bloody pieces!”
While dad delivered this threat, Bobby remained inscrutable, though he winked at me, and soon as Dad was out of sight he broke out laughing.
