Up, Up and Away
by Don Drewniak
I had a driver’s
license in my wallet two days after I turned
sixteen in April of 1959. Shortly thereafter,
thanks to a tip from a guidance counselor at my
high school, B.M.C. Durfee in Fall River, MA, I
secured a job at H. Schwartz and Sons Lumber and
Hardware. Four weeks later I was driving a 1952
Ford that cost me $99.00.
My official
job title was “Stock Boy.” However, I
ended up doing just about everything there was to
be done, from replenishing stock to sales to
deliveries.
The following
tale is one of my favorites from my Schwartz days.
It didn’t
take me long to get accustomed to delivering
white goods, including refrigerators which were
big-selling items back then. I usually worked in
the early days with Ernie (his last name has
passed into the dustbin of history), who had
recently been discharged from the U.S. Army. He
eventually moved on and was replaced in turn by
two successors.
During the
summer following my graduation from Durfee, I
partnered with the first of Ernie’s
replacements to deliver one of the larger model
refrigerators sold by the store. Not only was it
large and heavy, the delivery was to a third-floor
apartment located in the Flint section of the
city. By then, the store had of all things, a new
Chevrolet Corvair pick-up truck. More properly,
it was what General Motors called a truck.
We unboxed the
refrigerator at a nearby storage garage, wrapped
it in two heavy blankets, strapped it and secured
it in the back of the Corvair. The rear end of so-called
truck dropped at least six inches. Off we went.
After checking with the owner-to-be, we lugged it
up three or four stairs to a porch and into a
short hallway.
My rookie
partner was in his late thirties and lasted only
two weeks on the job. I told him that we were
going to have to remove the banisters.
“You sure?”
“Of
course I’m sure.”
“Maybe we
can take the blankets off.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You ever
try to haul a refrigerator up stairs with no
straps and blankets? We’d scratch and dent
the hell out of it and probably kill ourselves.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m
sure.”
“If you
say so, boss.”
No jury
will convict me if I smash his empty skull with a
tire iron.
With the first-to-second-floor
banisters removed, up we went. That is, up we
went to a sharp turn halfway up to the second
floor. That was it. (The mistake was mine as I
should have realized the refrigerator was too
large to clear the turn.)
Cro-Magnon was
bringing up the bottom. I told him we needed to
bring the refrigerator back down.
“Why?”
“Because
it’s too big for the turn.”
“You sure?”
“I’m
sure.”
“Maybe if
we turn it sideways it will make it.
If I let
go of the straps, it will look like an accident.
“Dupkiem.”
(Polish off-color expression)
“What?”
“I’m
sure.”
We made it
back down to the hallway.
“I’m
going upstairs to call the store. Make sure no
one steals it.”
“Okay.”
I called the
store only after I assured the buyer that it was
a local call. Subsequent to explaining the
situation to Izzy (one of the two owners of the
store), he asked, “Will it fit through a
window?”
“Let me
check.”
I put the
phone down and checked out the two front living-room
windows.
“With
inches to spare.”
“Let me
speak to the buyer.”
I handed the
phone over to him and backed out of earshot. A
minute later, the buyer informed me that help was
on the way. Two guys from the lumberyard showed
up fifteen minutes later with a block and tackle.
They did a helluva job. Within an hour, the
refrigerator was sitting in the living room and
the window was back in place.
“It’s
all yours,” said one of them as they headed
down the stairs.
Cro-Magnon and
I rolled it into to a pantry after removing the
blankets.
Uh-oh!
The opening
was at the far end of the room. It looked too
narrow.
This is
going to be interesting.
I asked the
buyer the width of the opening.
“Thirty-three
and a quarter inches.”
The
refrigerator was exactly thirty-three inches and
most of the space was thirty-three and a quarter,
but there was a counter overhang of a half-inch.
“Did you
measure from the overhang?”
Silence.
Cro-Magnon and
I tried to push it into the space. It was
impossible.
“You’ll
have to take it back,” said the buyer.
“I’ll
have to check with the store.”
“Just
take it back.”
“I need
to call the store.”
I explained
the situation to Izzy.
“Leave it.”
Grabbing the
blankets and straps, I told Cro-Magnon, “Let’s
go,” and headed out the door. The buyer
followed us down the stairs yelling and swearing
the whole way. Once we were in the cab of the
Corvair, he grabbed onto the edge of the
passenger-side door where the window was rolled
down and looked as if he was trying to stop me
from driving away.
“Roll
your window up,” I yelled to Cro-Magnon, as
I started the Corvair. The buyer screamed and let
out a volley of foul words as his fingers nearly
were caught between the rapidly rising window and
door frame. Off we went.
As soon as we
made it back to the store, I went to see Izzy in
the office he shared with Lester, his brother.
“The new
owner of the ‘fridge called me twice. He
said he’s going to sue me and called you a
teenage punk.”
“You
worried about being sued?”
“No, we
have his money, he has the ‘fridge. I told
him that if he brings it back to the store in
perfect condition, we will either give him his
money back or give him a smaller ‘fridge. I
guess you and the new guy didn’t get a tip.”
I couldn’t
help but laugh.
Years later
whenever my wife and I visited my parents, we
would stop at the store to see Izzy and Lester if
it wasn’t a Sunday or a holiday. I can’t
remember the year, but as we approached what
should have been the store and lumberyard on one
of our visits, they were gone without a trace. I
stopped the car and stared in disbelief. In their
place was a parking lot for a nearby church. It
was all I could do not to cry. Flashing through
my mind were memory after memory of events and
incidents that happened during the years I had
the privilege to work for Izzy and Lester
Schwartz.
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