Grocery Boy 1944-46

Royal Scarlet Store

Whenever I visit the downtown area of Manhasset on Long Island, I make a nostalgic visit to an old grocery store. The store has an uncanny resemblance to the Royal Scarlet grocery store on Third Ave. and 159th St. where I worked each afternoon and Saturday while in high school. It has the same look and aura, the same wooden floors, wooden counters, wooden shelves, and tin ceiling. The shelves even have the same strips that held the wartime OPA price tags. There is a similar vegetable section just inside the door. When I first stopped in I felt disoriented, as in a time warp. I almost grabbed a broom to sweep the old wooden floors as I did so many years ago.

The sign above the Bronx store said Royal Scarlet Stores but it was just Duffy's to the neighborhood....

1. Martin Duffy

2. Picturesque Clerks

3. The New Boss

4. Memorable Customers

5. Memorable Incidents
 

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Martin Duffy

The owner, Martin Duffy, was a short, graying, middle aged man, of solid build. He was an Irishmen and a bachelor like many of his fellows in the South Bronx at the time. When he said something he first cleared his throat and then spoke in a low voice, his head pitched down and to the side, as if the conversation was confidential. When Martin told me to sweep the floor or perhaps gave me the new price for Campbell tomato soup, he did it in this secretive manner. Any one watching might think he was saying something urgent, perhaps telling me to hide some newly delivered wartime-rationed item. I worked in Duffy's for most of my high school years and was still thirteen when I started working there. Martin must not have realized how young I was, perhaps because he was almost as short as I. Two years later, after a visit by a state inspector, he told me to get a working permit and was shocked when I said I was still too young. I never did get a permit even after a plainclothes cop stopped me in the street to check if I was delivering beer under age. I don't know why the store drew such a crowd but Saturday mornings it was a busy, busy place. The customers waited three deep in front of the counters. There were three of us working like beavers behind the two counters, the boss, the clerk, and myself. Yes, despite my youth, I worked the counter as a clerk during the busy Saturday morning hours and delivered the grocery orders in the afternoon. I liked dealing with the customers. With a few exceptions they were always very pleasant and waited their turn with patience and good humor. Often the orders were quite large but, of course, never as large as those of present day shopping carts. Many would fill two or three cardboard cartons. We had to write the price of each item by pencil on a list on the side of a large brown paper bag and then total it up by hand on the bottom. My boss could tally up the long list of prices with amazing speed and accuracy and I soon learned to match him. Sometimes a customer, seeing this lightning tally from a kid, would ask the boss to check my results but he never found an error. I also loved working the deli-counter, slicing the cold cuts and showing off by cutting out the exact weight from a tub of solid butter. I enjoyed the work and made good money. Each day I delivered four or five grocery orders and, on Saturdays, another twenty-five to thirty orders. Many of the deliveries were to young mothers whose husbands were away in the war. In the beginning I would only get a nickel or a dime for a delivery. After two years the usual tip was a quarter from most people and more from many. During the last year, at a time when most working men made about fifty dollars a week, I made ten dollars a week in salary and ten to fifteen dollars more in tips. I really enjoyed the physical part of the job, slinging heavy cases up onto high stacks, and moving 60 pound bags of sugar or big heavy bags of potatoes. I even enjoyed the feeling of achievement after carrying a heavy box of groceries up four flights of stairs. This feeling, of course, soon wore off on busy Saturdays. The boss kept me pretty busy. There was always stocks to be moved and shelves to be filled. In summer I replenished the beer supply in a big ice water container. This was done very carefully because a warm bottle sometimes exploded in my face with the slightest tap. I also had to weigh out the potatoes from a hundred-pound sack into five-pound bags. In summer this meant selecting the good ones from the many bad ones, a smelly unpleasant task. The store sold packages of "Irish-style" tea. The tea came in a large wooden crate, direct from Ceylon, and sheathed inside with a leaden jacket. I spent occasional afternoons weighing the tea and putting it into one-half pound or one-pound packages. The only thing Irish about that tea was my packaging it.

 

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Picturesque Clerks


There was always a full-time grocery clerk in addition to Martin, the owner. There was a succession of clerks in the three years I was there. During my first year the clerk, Mike, came in to work a bit drunk and Martin reprimanded him. Martin was a very mild mannered man but he and Mike ended up scuffling on the floor and that was the end of that Mike. Another Mike, Mike Whalen, succeeded him and stayed a good while. I recall only his good humor and his tall rotund Norman Rockwell appearance in the grocery apron. I remember Mike loved to play a silly little trick. When a customer was due a penny change from a dollar Mike would ask her if she had a penny to make an even dollar. If the customer fell for it and gave Mike a penny he would be delighted. After Mike came the preacher, Mr. Cole, a tall angular elderly man. He had a white tonsure around the back of his head, a prominent nose and a long white beard. Mr. Cole's persona matched his Moses-like appearance. He was a retired street preacher and his speech reflected his background. Mr. Cole had an old fashioned way of talking, cheerful and booming in delivery but gentle and kind in content. His conversation was intermixed with religious exhortations and Biblical quotes. During slow periods in the store he sang snatches of hymns, booming out "the old time religion is good enough for me". He was long past the age most men worked. He was hired, no doubt, because all the younger men were still away in the war. Unfortunately he was painfully slow and his employment soon ended. Young as I was, I could appreciate that the store was not an extremely prosperous business. I was curious and, I guess, bright enough and Duffy showed me how to do some of the weekly books and how to price recently received merchandise. I could see that the overhead margin was very narrow. (Historical note: Gross $1000 a week, overhead average 17%, average take $170). With the rent, the clerk's salary, my small salary, the utilities, and other expenses, I thought that he would do as well working for someone else. There was a lot of competition with a store every few blocks in every neighborhood. Duffy's was on Third Avenue, a few blocks distance from any apartment houses. It was then still early in the supermarket age but there was a new Safeway store directly across the street. I think the delivery service brought in many of the customers, especially when many of the fathers were away in the service. Duffy apparently had the same thoughts. He sold the store to Al Kenny, another Irishman.

 

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The New Boss

Al Kenny was a wounded war veteran returned home early. He had been hit by shrapnel in several places while driving a Marine landing craft onto a beach in the South Pacific. I could see where extensive plastic surgery was done at the base of his thumb. His hand turned blue in cold weather and really bothered him. Al must have been in his forties, rather mature for a combat role but he was in great shape. I was fascinated with Al Kenny, with his war experiences, his pleasant attitude and his fresh business-like approach. He was more than just a new broom. He had been an A&P manager before going off to the war and had many A&P friends. Although it was the final year of the war, there were still shortages and rationing. Through his A&P friends he got cases of scarce items; sugar, soap powders, and mayonnaise and soon had many new customers coming in the door. There was a long waiting list of regular customers for any scarce item. A delivery of any of these items had to be quickly hidden before some casual customer saw it and demanded a share. Al also installed a Birdseye frozen food case, the first I had seen, when they were brand new phenomena. He was also wise enough to put behind the counter the few high-priced items in the store. There were some items like jars of boned chicken that sold for a dollar for a small jar, a steep price at the time. Duffy had been shocked one day to find that half of his small stock of boned chicken was gone and not through purchase. Keeping a sharp eye out for a few days, he caught a deliveryman putting several jars in his basket. Duffy was doubly shocked that the thief was another Irishman, the vendor of the Irish bakery products. Al Kenny was very pleasant with the customers, a real charmer, and gave candy to all the kids. He was always very pleasant with me, sometimes teasing me, but often giving me a lift home after a hard Saturday. I was at that age when a teenage boy eats his own weight daily. When cutting cold cuts for a customer, I ate as much as I sold. I did the same with the fresh vegetables and remember eating the tops off the asparagus when I passed them. Despite my impact of his profits Al never made a complaint. When Duffy had the store, I carried the grocery order in a box perched on my shoulder. Large orders went in big boxes and were often pretty heavy. Kenny purchased a pushcart and I was delighted. I no longer had to lug each box for several blocks and could take several orders at one time. I soon repaid the boss's largess with a calamity with the new pushcart. I was delivering a large order of canned goods to the small fruit store on 157th St. on Third Ave. (Leo's?) The owner bought them from us and resold them on Sundays at exorbitant prices. The order was packed in a string beans basket, a tall narrow basket with a small bottom and wide top. As I tilted the cart to get its big front wheel from the gutter on to the sidewalk, it tipped over. I watched helplessly while the tall basket fell over and eighteen dollars worth of canned goods rolled down the sewer in a few seconds. I returned to the store that I had left only moments before with my sad tale for my boss. Al Kenny just said it was his fault that he used that basket. He was a class act.

 

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Memorable Customers

My delivery customers were a cross section of the Bronx society at the time and I still remember many of them. Most were older people happy to get their parcels delivered. Many others were mothers with small children whose husbands were away in the war. A few of the customers were especially memorable. Mr. Eva had his Home for Homeless Boys just around the corner from the store on 158th Street. Mr. Eva and his two female associates were well known locally, at least by sight. They were fixtures stationed outside Woolworth's store down Third Avenue where the trio sang hymns while one of them played a small portable organ. They were always dressed in Salvation Army type uniforms and were accompanied by one or two lanky boys. Mr. Eva would often stop in to buy groceries for the home and would always drive a hard bargain for his charity. He was a bit of a mystery to us. As I remember, the home did not seem to have many boys and was only the size of a small two-family house. One customer, Mr. Roberts, was a gift from heaven for me. He and his brother, two middle-aged bachelors from the South, lived in the only modern elevator house in the neighborhood. The Roberts owned a local mosquito-netting factory and entertained frequently. I regularly delivered about a case of large soda bottles, which I wheeled in the pushcart right to the basement door. I boosted the box on to the elevator, and made my delivery. Their mother, a genteel elderly southern lady then gave me all the empty soda bottle returns as my tip. At a nickel deposit on each large bottle, I would have about a dollar or more tip for practically no work. This was when an average working man made about ten bucks a day in salary. I was heartbroken when mosquito-netting orders ceased after the war and these gentlemen returned with their soft-spoken generous Mom to their home in the South. As a reverse of the Irish saying, God gave with one hand but took back with the other. In compensation for this single wealthy and generous customer, there were several customers who were almost poor. Lovely people all but I wasn't happy to see them come in the store. They each had a large family and bought lots of milk, bottled milk. At the time milk was still available in quart bottles which cost a penny less than the new lighter cardboard containers. The order of each "almost poor" customer always included six heavy bottles of milk and was always delivered (no charge). It seemed like each of these customers lived on the top floor of a five story walk-up apartment house. For my tip, I usually took six empty bottles back with me with the three cents deposit on each. I always had very mixed feelings when Mrs. Meissenger stopped in very Friday evening. Her delivery package was always light but the store was just closing. She lived on 163rd Street above 3rd Avenue, four long blocks from the store and another four long blocks east of my home. Also she gave me one nickel as a tip. I got a nickel on my first trip and that nickel was her standard tip forever. After almost three years on the job most customers gave me a quarter and even fifty cents. This lady never changed, I always got my single nickel. Aside from the nickel tip and her timing, she was very pleasant. She lived with several older sisters who greeted me each week like a long lost nephew. I always left loaded down with homemade cookies... and my single nickel. One regular customer was a black lady, a rarity at that time in the neighborhood. When she first asked that the order be delivered, I wasn't very happy. It wasn't because of her or her color. She was a very pleasant and attractive young woman. It was her address that I didn't like. She lived on Eagle Avenue, literally above the hill on 161st Street. There were two flights of stairs to climb to the overpass above 161st Street. Then there were a few more flights of stairs to climb in the apartment house. Also I had already developed wariness about areas where I might be harassed by black youths. It was my first experience in a black family home and I don't know what I expected. I remember being impressed by the nicely decorated apartment. She became a regular customer but, as pleasant as she was, I still hated to see her leave that package for Eagle Avenue.

 

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Memorable Incidents

I remember a few memorable incidents in my grocery boy career but, unlike some teenage memoirs, none involved sexy girls. It wasn't that girls were not on my mind. Like most teenaged boys, girls were constantly on my mind. There was one event I remember but it was more an instant than an event. I delivered a box of groceries to the home of a very pretty girl on my own block. Her Mom had told me that no one was home, that the door was unlocked and that I was to put the milk and other dairy products in the fridge, a service I often did for customers. I climbed the stairs and pushed in the door. In the kitchen in front of me was this vision of feminine loveliness ironing some thing and dressed only in her slip. My first quick look was my last. The vision vanished from the kitchen leaving only the board with the iron teetering upon it as a clue of her existence.

There was one memorable incident that happened while I was delivering groceries which involved a little girl about eight years old. She lived in an apartment where I was making a delivery. The apartment entry shared a dark entrance alcove with another apartment. Just as I entered the alcove from the stairway, the girl came out of the door of her apartment. My body and the big box on my shoulder blocked much of the light from the stairwell. There was just enough light for me to see that the little girl was badly frightened by my sudden appearance. I rang the bell and fortunately her mother appeared almost immediately. The little girl said nothing but I realized that she might have done otherwise. I knew even then that a little girl screaming in a dark area with a fifteen-old boy could cause all sorts of wild reactions. Ever afterwards, I was very careful about little girls. Even years later, when my daughters were small, I would not allow their girlfriends in the house unless my wife was present. It could be freezing outside but they stayed on the porch.

Another quite different incident occurred near closing time one Saturday. The boss, Al Kenny, was counting the day's receipts and tallying the books at the rear of the grocery counter. Charlie Davidson, the grocery clerk (and later owner) was in the back of the store. I was cleaning the slicing machine on the dairy counter at the rear wall of the store public area. Although by this time I had grown in height, the scales and slicing machine partially hid me from view from the front. A black man came in and walked to the center of the long narrow store. He looked very nervously at my boss and then appeared to look very carefully to see if there was anyone else behind the counter in the rear. He apparently did not see me. I thought his actions were very suspicious. Also, black men, at that time, seldom came into the store since it was many blocks from the nearest black neighborhood. On the dairy counter were two big butcher knives that were used for cutting large sections of cheese and butter. I picked them up, one in each hand. While rubbing the cutting edges together as if sharpening them, I stepped from behind the counter. I politely greeted the man and asked him if I could help him. He stopped as if startled, looked at my two big knives, and quickly turned and walked out the door. My boss gave an exclamation of relief as he apparently also felt the man was acting suspicious. He asked me what I was thinking, going up to him with the knives. I said I really didn't know but it seemed a good idea at the time. Neither of us was sure if I had scared off a nervous but innocent customer or if the man was a potential

 

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