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Authors: Jerome Weidman
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a surprising thing. He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, slid out a dollar bill, and placed it on top of the envelope in my hand.
“Take a taxi,” he said.
A man who was capable of giving his office boy a dime every morning so the boy could enjoy a cuppa cawfee and a ruggle while he watched his boss’s shoes being shined, obviously possessed at least some generous instincts. But I was fairly certain none of these instincts was involved in Mr. Bern’s astonishing gesture on that morning of the Shimnitz-Roon confusion. In 1930 generosity to office boys stopped at a dime.
The address was on West 21st Street, between Seventh and Eighth avenues. A mere fifteen blocks. On nights when I could get out of the office early enough to save the nickel fare, I walked almost twice that distance to my classes in the 23rd Street branch of C.C.N.Y. I knew I could almost certainly walk from the offices of M.S.&Co. to the Roon office in a quarter of an hour. But I knew something else: the contents of the letter Mr. Bern had entrusted to my care.
Though I had not read the words, I knew the emotion out of which they had come. It was evident from the whispering Miss Bienstock had done in Mr. Bern’s ear immediately following his request that she get Mr. Roon on the phone. The letter was obviously a substitute for the spoken apology Mr. Bern had planned. Perhaps Miss Bienstock always looked perplexed because she was constantly struggling inside her head to invent improvements on Mr. Bern’s moves.
They were, on the whole, good moves. Good enough, at any rate, to keep M.S.&Co. afloat in a time of many sinkings. But Mr. Bern was erratic. From a man like Mr. Bern a personal note was bound to be more effective than a phone call. Not only would it indicate an honest regret for a boorish mistake without the distraction of a boorish voice. It would also keep Mr. Bern off the phone, where he sometimes forgot whether he was cajoling or threatening.
Unlike Mr. Bern’s morning dime, however, which represented an attempt to bring a few moments of pleasure into the bleak life of an underling, his dollar represented a dilemma of distressing dimensions for that same underling.
If I took a taxi and got to Mr. Roon with Mr. Bern’s letter in the next few minutes, the Roon account might be saved for M.S.&Co. If I walked, and pocketed the dollar, the letter might come into Mr. Roon’s hands too late. His anger might be building up right now to explosive proportions. Written apologies would be too late. Maurice Saltzman & Company would lose the Roon account. And I, of course, as the firm’s newest and youngest employee, would be the first to be fired. My first lesson in irony.
At that time I don’t remember getting many. Which is why I remember this one.
That dollar was killing me.
Before it did, I was saved. By something out of my past. At that time I didn’t have much past. But for this moral dilemma I had just enough.
“Hey, Benny!”
I looked up. Struggling with my moral dilemma, I had not realized I had come down from the M.S.&Co. office into the street. I saw now that the flow of Seventh Avenue traffic had stopped for a red light at the 34th Street corner. Most of the traffic on Seventh Avenue, then as now, consisted of huge garment-center trucks. They were hearselike affairs, not unlike the vans in which horses are transported from race track to race track. On the front seat of the truck that had stopped practically at my feet sat Hot Cakes Rabinowitz. He had been in my scout troop down on East Fourth Street. Troop 244, of which I had been senior patrol leader. I had not seen him since the graduation exercises at Thomas Jefferson High.
“How you been?” he said.
“Pretty good,” I said. “You?”
“Fine. How’s your mother?”
The driver leaned across Hot Cakes. “You two mind stopping this class reunion? That light’s gonna change.”
“Where you going?” Hot Cakes said.
“Downtown,” I said.
He opened the door
“Take a taxi,” he said.
A man who was capable of giving his office boy a dime every morning so the boy could enjoy a cuppa cawfee and a ruggle while he watched his boss’s shoes being shined, obviously possessed at least some generous instincts. But I was fairly certain none of these instincts was involved in Mr. Bern’s astonishing gesture on that morning of the Shimnitz-Roon confusion. In 1930 generosity to office boys stopped at a dime.
The address was on West 21st Street, between Seventh and Eighth avenues. A mere fifteen blocks. On nights when I could get out of the office early enough to save the nickel fare, I walked almost twice that distance to my classes in the 23rd Street branch of C.C.N.Y. I knew I could almost certainly walk from the offices of M.S.&Co. to the Roon office in a quarter of an hour. But I knew something else: the contents of the letter Mr. Bern had entrusted to my care.
Though I had not read the words, I knew the emotion out of which they had come. It was evident from the whispering Miss Bienstock had done in Mr. Bern’s ear immediately following his request that she get Mr. Roon on the phone. The letter was obviously a substitute for the spoken apology Mr. Bern had planned. Perhaps Miss Bienstock always looked perplexed because she was constantly struggling inside her head to invent improvements on Mr. Bern’s moves.
They were, on the whole, good moves. Good enough, at any rate, to keep M.S.&Co. afloat in a time of many sinkings. But Mr. Bern was erratic. From a man like Mr. Bern a personal note was bound to be more effective than a phone call. Not only would it indicate an honest regret for a boorish mistake without the distraction of a boorish voice. It would also keep Mr. Bern off the phone, where he sometimes forgot whether he was cajoling or threatening.
Unlike Mr. Bern’s morning dime, however, which represented an attempt to bring a few moments of pleasure into the bleak life of an underling, his dollar represented a dilemma of distressing dimensions for that same underling.
If I took a taxi and got to Mr. Roon with Mr. Bern’s letter in the next few minutes, the Roon account might be saved for M.S.&Co. If I walked, and pocketed the dollar, the letter might come into Mr. Roon’s hands too late. His anger might be building up right now to explosive proportions. Written apologies would be too late. Maurice Saltzman & Company would lose the Roon account. And I, of course, as the firm’s newest and youngest employee, would be the first to be fired. My first lesson in irony.
At that time I don’t remember getting many. Which is why I remember this one.
That dollar was killing me.
Before it did, I was saved. By something out of my past. At that time I didn’t have much past. But for this moral dilemma I had just enough.
“Hey, Benny!”
I looked up. Struggling with my moral dilemma, I had not realized I had come down from the M.S.&Co. office into the street. I saw now that the flow of Seventh Avenue traffic had stopped for a red light at the 34th Street corner. Most of the traffic on Seventh Avenue, then as now, consisted of huge garment-center trucks. They were hearselike affairs, not unlike the vans in which horses are transported from race track to race track. On the front seat of the truck that had stopped practically at my feet sat Hot Cakes Rabinowitz. He had been in my scout troop down on East Fourth Street. Troop 244, of which I had been senior patrol leader. I had not seen him since the graduation exercises at Thomas Jefferson High.
“How you been?” he said.
“Pretty good,” I said. “You?”
“Fine. How’s your mother?”
The driver leaned across Hot Cakes. “You two mind stopping this class reunion? That light’s gonna change.”
“Where you going?” Hot Cakes said.
“Downtown,” I said.
He opened the door
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