MY DAD'S STORE #3 "BIG SALE EUPHORIA"
Dad's relationships with salesman was one of the issues where mother and gramps agreed: That business should not be mixed with friendship. Dad made friends with just about every salesman who came into the store; even new young salesman, perpetually grinning over-enthusiastic glad-handers, were greeted by dad with eager warmth, because he told me he “wanted to give them a chance to make a living, because business was hard, and in the long run they remember a kind act in the beginning.”
Gramps said, “They got a book on your old man. They know he played big league baseball, so they always ask him about his career, and this team and that, so they break the ice and flatter him and get him to talking and feeling good about himself, and they always ask about you, because there ain't a man living who don't wanna talk about his kid, especially if he's a good ball player like you are, even if you are a wise ass fuckup.”
“Yeh,” I said. “But some of these guys are great guys, dad said. Dave Rutolo was a war hero, and mother says Sid Soloman is one of the sweetest men alive and refuses to take advantage of Dad, and Ted Kappas never pushes him...the only one mom don't like is Ralph Thompson. She doesn't trust him. She doesn't like his eyes.” Thompson represented Catspaw rubber, a huge corporation
“I don't trust any of 'em.” Gramps lit up a new cigarette, the smoke killing my eyes. There was literally no ventilation in the store, and a bunch of wires hanging from all over, which made it a firetrap, and the only reason the building wasn't condemned or forced to close and be rehabilitated, was because dad had coached the American Legion baseball team and tutored the fire chief's kid into being a standout player, and he passed dad without even looking at the place. Anyway, after a few puffs and cud chomping, gramps said, “You go out to dinner with salesman, you become friends, you feel obligated to them, and you buy shit you don't need. Rutolo sells your old man more worthless shit...he unloads all the shit the big finders like Coast and Russo and McPherson won't buy, and I don't give a fuck how big a discount he gets, it's still shit that sits around...”
Gramps didn't want to discuss being wrong, but he was wrong. Dad showed me how he sold shit to a real prima donna named Patsy DeFrabizio, who had a big, always busy shop in Hollywood and made shoes for movie stars and sports heroes on local professional teams. I saw this in action one afternoon when DeFabrizio, who demanded special treatment, came in when there was no crush and received dad's specialized manner of pampering. Dad was expecting Patsy, and informed me of his strategy. He placed some premium cases of prime leather next to several cases of what dad termed “shit, the worst crap in the world, some shit I bought two years ago and can't unload, but I'm gonna sell it to Patsy, you just watch your old man.”
Well, when Patsy walked in, this fancy little guy with carefully combed silver/black hair and wearing a silk shirt and a glittering gold watch, dad practically hugged him, brought him in the office for some wine and shaking hands with gramps, and waited for Patsy to notify him he was looking for leather full soles he used in making shoes for his celebrities. Dad brought him to the premium soles and made a big deal over them, telling Patsy they were a new kind of leather from South America that was superior to anything ever manufactured. Patsy was immediately suspicious. He pulled a leather sole from a wired together dozen, bent it, sniffed it, studied the grain, peered at dad with one eye, and said, “Franklin, how much you want?”
Dad gave him a price that caused Patsy to grimace like somebody had knifed him. He went into a rant on how McPherson and Russo and Coast leather all offered better deals, and he seemed so riled up I thought he might storm out. So dad brought down the price. Patsy shook his head, continued whining as dad surreptitiously covered the cases of shit leather with a musty old blanket. Patsy was immediately suspicious. He whipped the blanket off the shit leather and said, “What is this, Franklin?”
“It's shit, Patsy, you don't want it. A craftsman like you, a true artist, with your celebrities, you can't put shit on their shoes, my good friend, you're too good for that. You go first class, use the best material. That's why I always show you the top of the line merchandise.”
Patsy pulled up a dozen from the case and withdrew a full sole. He bent it, sniffed it, studied the grain while dad glanced at me, all deadpan, but he was moving his ears, a signal he was tricking somebody. Dad was very expressive, “an actor,” said mother.
As Patsy sniffed and bent the leather and reached down for another dozen to inspect, dad said, “I got a guy out in Riverside, he has five shops, Angelo Pezzulo, he wants this stuff, the whole bunch, Patsy, he does a lot of work for the military, has to charge them a cheaper price, that's why I had it covered up...”
“How much you want for all of it, Franklin?”
Now dad looked tortured. “I promised it to Angie, Patsy...”
“I know Pezzulo, he is a butcher. How much you want, Franklin?”
Dad continued his private torture. He folded his arms across his chest. He pinched his nose. He unfolded his arms and fastened the thumb and forefinger of his right hand on his chin. “Well,” he finally said. “I give them to you, Patsy, for $7.99 a dozen.”
Patsy gritted his teeth. He shook his head. “Too much, Franklin. I no pay too much for shit.”
“I paid a lot for this leather,” dad lied. “Pezzullo was gonna give me $8.99, but because you are a friend, Patsy, and we've been doing business for so long, I'm giving you the deal.”
“I pay $6.99, Franklin.”
“McPherson gonna give you that kinda deal, Patsy? Russo and Coast give you that kinda deal?”
Patsy paced around. He re-sniffed and bent the leather. He sighed. He nodded. “Okay, Franklin, $7.49.”
They shook hands. Dad wouldn't look at me. They went to the office and dad took the wine out of the tiny floor fridge and they did a toast, and Patsy gave dad a list, and I quickly filled it out, and Patsy wrote out a check and we hauled his big order and the 6 cases of shit leather to his van, which advertised his shop, and the second we were back in the office dad unleashed some crowing, testifying that he paid $1.99 a dozen for those soles and had been trying to unload this shit for two fucking years! Gramps just snorted, claiming whoever had those soles on their shoes would watch them dissolve in the first rain, and Patsy would come whining back, but this did not ever occur.
Dad said, on the way home, “I hit grand slams, game winners in baseball, one that won us a pennant, but closing a deal like that, making a haul, it's just as exciting, just as fun. I know right now you don't see this, you don't care for the business, but someday, and you never know, you might be running this business and you'll experience what I just did. It's the stuff of life.”
Later, gramps told me, “I'll say one thing about your dad: he can sell anything, even shit, and anybody can sell him shit, too, so it all evens out.”
Gramps said, “They got a book on your old man. They know he played big league baseball, so they always ask him about his career, and this team and that, so they break the ice and flatter him and get him to talking and feeling good about himself, and they always ask about you, because there ain't a man living who don't wanna talk about his kid, especially if he's a good ball player like you are, even if you are a wise ass fuckup.”
“Yeh,” I said. “But some of these guys are great guys, dad said. Dave Rutolo was a war hero, and mother says Sid Soloman is one of the sweetest men alive and refuses to take advantage of Dad, and Ted Kappas never pushes him...the only one mom don't like is Ralph Thompson. She doesn't trust him. She doesn't like his eyes.” Thompson represented Catspaw rubber, a huge corporation
“I don't trust any of 'em.” Gramps lit up a new cigarette, the smoke killing my eyes. There was literally no ventilation in the store, and a bunch of wires hanging from all over, which made it a firetrap, and the only reason the building wasn't condemned or forced to close and be rehabilitated, was because dad had coached the American Legion baseball team and tutored the fire chief's kid into being a standout player, and he passed dad without even looking at the place. Anyway, after a few puffs and cud chomping, gramps said, “You go out to dinner with salesman, you become friends, you feel obligated to them, and you buy shit you don't need. Rutolo sells your old man more worthless shit...he unloads all the shit the big finders like Coast and Russo and McPherson won't buy, and I don't give a fuck how big a discount he gets, it's still shit that sits around...”
Gramps didn't want to discuss being wrong, but he was wrong. Dad showed me how he sold shit to a real prima donna named Patsy DeFrabizio, who had a big, always busy shop in Hollywood and made shoes for movie stars and sports heroes on local professional teams. I saw this in action one afternoon when DeFabrizio, who demanded special treatment, came in when there was no crush and received dad's specialized manner of pampering. Dad was expecting Patsy, and informed me of his strategy. He placed some premium cases of prime leather next to several cases of what dad termed “shit, the worst crap in the world, some shit I bought two years ago and can't unload, but I'm gonna sell it to Patsy, you just watch your old man.”
Well, when Patsy walked in, this fancy little guy with carefully combed silver/black hair and wearing a silk shirt and a glittering gold watch, dad practically hugged him, brought him in the office for some wine and shaking hands with gramps, and waited for Patsy to notify him he was looking for leather full soles he used in making shoes for his celebrities. Dad brought him to the premium soles and made a big deal over them, telling Patsy they were a new kind of leather from South America that was superior to anything ever manufactured. Patsy was immediately suspicious. He pulled a leather sole from a wired together dozen, bent it, sniffed it, studied the grain, peered at dad with one eye, and said, “Franklin, how much you want?”
Dad gave him a price that caused Patsy to grimace like somebody had knifed him. He went into a rant on how McPherson and Russo and Coast leather all offered better deals, and he seemed so riled up I thought he might storm out. So dad brought down the price. Patsy shook his head, continued whining as dad surreptitiously covered the cases of shit leather with a musty old blanket. Patsy was immediately suspicious. He whipped the blanket off the shit leather and said, “What is this, Franklin?”
“It's shit, Patsy, you don't want it. A craftsman like you, a true artist, with your celebrities, you can't put shit on their shoes, my good friend, you're too good for that. You go first class, use the best material. That's why I always show you the top of the line merchandise.”
Patsy pulled up a dozen from the case and withdrew a full sole. He bent it, sniffed it, studied the grain while dad glanced at me, all deadpan, but he was moving his ears, a signal he was tricking somebody. Dad was very expressive, “an actor,” said mother.
As Patsy sniffed and bent the leather and reached down for another dozen to inspect, dad said, “I got a guy out in Riverside, he has five shops, Angelo Pezzulo, he wants this stuff, the whole bunch, Patsy, he does a lot of work for the military, has to charge them a cheaper price, that's why I had it covered up...”
“How much you want for all of it, Franklin?”
Now dad looked tortured. “I promised it to Angie, Patsy...”
“I know Pezzulo, he is a butcher. How much you want, Franklin?”
Dad continued his private torture. He folded his arms across his chest. He pinched his nose. He unfolded his arms and fastened the thumb and forefinger of his right hand on his chin. “Well,” he finally said. “I give them to you, Patsy, for $7.99 a dozen.”
Patsy gritted his teeth. He shook his head. “Too much, Franklin. I no pay too much for shit.”
“I paid a lot for this leather,” dad lied. “Pezzullo was gonna give me $8.99, but because you are a friend, Patsy, and we've been doing business for so long, I'm giving you the deal.”
“I pay $6.99, Franklin.”
“McPherson gonna give you that kinda deal, Patsy? Russo and Coast give you that kinda deal?”
Patsy paced around. He re-sniffed and bent the leather. He sighed. He nodded. “Okay, Franklin, $7.49.”
They shook hands. Dad wouldn't look at me. They went to the office and dad took the wine out of the tiny floor fridge and they did a toast, and Patsy gave dad a list, and I quickly filled it out, and Patsy wrote out a check and we hauled his big order and the 6 cases of shit leather to his van, which advertised his shop, and the second we were back in the office dad unleashed some crowing, testifying that he paid $1.99 a dozen for those soles and had been trying to unload this shit for two fucking years! Gramps just snorted, claiming whoever had those soles on their shoes would watch them dissolve in the first rain, and Patsy would come whining back, but this did not ever occur.
Dad said, on the way home, “I hit grand slams, game winners in baseball, one that won us a pennant, but closing a deal like that, making a haul, it's just as exciting, just as fun. I know right now you don't see this, you don't care for the business, but someday, and you never know, you might be running this business and you'll experience what I just did. It's the stuff of life.”
Later, gramps told me, “I'll say one thing about your dad: he can sell anything, even shit, and anybody can sell him shit, too, so it all evens out.”