turkeys into which a husband and wife were staring, trying to decide which one to choose for their Thanksgiving table.
“Benny,” Mr. Bern said.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to do something.”
“Yes, sir?”
Mr. Bern was writing in longhand on one of the firm’s letterheads. I knew at once something unusual was in the wind. Mr. Bern enjoyed the process of dictating. I had the feeling he felt it was one of the appurtenances of success. There was, however, one office activity that Mr. Bern insisted on performing in longhand: sending out the monthly bills to the firm’s clients. It seemed odd, because the fees were fixed and the list of clients was neatly indexed in a loose-leaf notebook on Miss Bienstock’s desk. All she had to do was run the bills through her typewriter, and Mr. Bern would have been spared an onerous chore. Except that I don’t think he found it onerous. I think he found in it what I imagine I would have found: a small, repeated ritual, in the very discomfort of performing which was contained the repeated reminder that for him the world had changed.
East Fifth Street boys, like Fourth Street boys, spent their early lives on the receiving end of bills. Or rather their parents did. From the landlord, from the gas company, from the coal merchant. What a secret thrill it must have been to Ira Bern to be reminded that now he was on the sending end!
I think it was the pleasure he took in this reminder that had dictated the choice of the instrument he used. It was a memorable tool.
By 1930 the fountain pen had already become a fairly sophisticated implement available to almost everybody. Even I owned a slender salmon-colored Parker, my father’s bar mitzvah present, with at the top a plunger for filling. Mr. Bern, however, used what even in 1930 must have been a museum piece. A very old Waterman, as long and as thick around as a banana. To fill it he needed help, which it was one of my duties to provide.
While I held the pen upright on his desk, writing end toward ceiling, Mr. Bern would unscrew the section that contained the gold penpoint. What remained was an enormous black tube or barrel. Into this he would empty an entire bottle of Waterman’s blue-black, and screw the point back into place. When filled, this implement was not much lighter in weight than a sculptor’s chisel. Yet on the first of every month Mr. Bern, happily hunched over his desk, would shove this writing tool back and forth for three or four hours at a time without pausing for rest.
To see him pushing this huge pen now, in the middle of the month, across one of his letterheads was an event so unusual that it jolted me.
“Now, Benny,” Mr. Bern said. “Here’s what I want you to do.” He signed his name with a flourish, pulled an envelope from his drawer, and carefully lettered a name and address on the envelope. “I want you to take this over to Mr. Roon’s office right away and give it to him personally. Personally, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Mr. Bern lifted the envelope flap and licked it wet. Then he sealed it down with broad, totally unnecessary sweeps of both palms across his desk blotter. It was as though the more energy he poured into sealing his handwritten letter the more confidence he gained in what the contents could do for him.
“You know where Mr. Roon’s office is?” Mr. Bern asked.
I didn’t. I had never been there. But I knew how to read an address, and Mr. Bern had inscribed this one on the envelope in letters half an inch high.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Mr. Bern handed me the envelope. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “To Mr. Roon in person. Anybody in the office, a bookkeeper or somebody, they say give it to me, I’ll see he gets it, nothing doing. You want to deliver this to Mr. Roon personally. He’s out? You’ll wait. He’s in a meeting? You’ll wait until the meeting is over. To Mr. Roon in person only. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Then Mr. Bern did
“Benny,” Mr. Bern said.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to do something.”
“Yes, sir?”
Mr. Bern was writing in longhand on one of the firm’s letterheads. I knew at once something unusual was in the wind. Mr. Bern enjoyed the process of dictating. I had the feeling he felt it was one of the appurtenances of success. There was, however, one office activity that Mr. Bern insisted on performing in longhand: sending out the monthly bills to the firm’s clients. It seemed odd, because the fees were fixed and the list of clients was neatly indexed in a loose-leaf notebook on Miss Bienstock’s desk. All she had to do was run the bills through her typewriter, and Mr. Bern would have been spared an onerous chore. Except that I don’t think he found it onerous. I think he found in it what I imagine I would have found: a small, repeated ritual, in the very discomfort of performing which was contained the repeated reminder that for him the world had changed.
East Fifth Street boys, like Fourth Street boys, spent their early lives on the receiving end of bills. Or rather their parents did. From the landlord, from the gas company, from the coal merchant. What a secret thrill it must have been to Ira Bern to be reminded that now he was on the sending end!
I think it was the pleasure he took in this reminder that had dictated the choice of the instrument he used. It was a memorable tool.
By 1930 the fountain pen had already become a fairly sophisticated implement available to almost everybody. Even I owned a slender salmon-colored Parker, my father’s bar mitzvah present, with at the top a plunger for filling. Mr. Bern, however, used what even in 1930 must have been a museum piece. A very old Waterman, as long and as thick around as a banana. To fill it he needed help, which it was one of my duties to provide.
While I held the pen upright on his desk, writing end toward ceiling, Mr. Bern would unscrew the section that contained the gold penpoint. What remained was an enormous black tube or barrel. Into this he would empty an entire bottle of Waterman’s blue-black, and screw the point back into place. When filled, this implement was not much lighter in weight than a sculptor’s chisel. Yet on the first of every month Mr. Bern, happily hunched over his desk, would shove this writing tool back and forth for three or four hours at a time without pausing for rest.
To see him pushing this huge pen now, in the middle of the month, across one of his letterheads was an event so unusual that it jolted me.
“Now, Benny,” Mr. Bern said. “Here’s what I want you to do.” He signed his name with a flourish, pulled an envelope from his drawer, and carefully lettered a name and address on the envelope. “I want you to take this over to Mr. Roon’s office right away and give it to him personally. Personally, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Mr. Bern lifted the envelope flap and licked it wet. Then he sealed it down with broad, totally unnecessary sweeps of both palms across his desk blotter. It was as though the more energy he poured into sealing his handwritten letter the more confidence he gained in what the contents could do for him.
“You know where Mr. Roon’s office is?” Mr. Bern asked.
I didn’t. I had never been there. But I knew how to read an address, and Mr. Bern had inscribed this one on the envelope in letters half an inch high.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Mr. Bern handed me the envelope. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “To Mr. Roon in person. Anybody in the office, a bookkeeper or somebody, they say give it to me, I’ll see he gets it, nothing doing. You want to deliver this to Mr. Roon personally. He’s out? You’ll wait. He’s in a meeting? You’ll wait until the meeting is over. To Mr. Roon in person only. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Then Mr. Bern did
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