First Friendships, First jobs

          I met my best friend Ruby when we were both 5 years old.  She had just moved onto the block and was a tough little kid with three older brothers and a very strict father. As I walked up the street toward her she immediately started a fight with me.  That was her way of saying "Hello, don’t mess with me." Luckily her mom was looking out the window of their 4th floor apartment and called down to us. "Don't fight—buy ice cream!'' she shouted, and she threw down a napkin with six cents. We were thrilled, and raced to the candy store. As we enjoyed the treat we started talking and immediately became friends. The neighborhood was known to be a stronghold of the mob, but instead of being scary that always made us feel safe as we became teens because we were known as "good girls from the neighborhood." There were always a number of older guys hanging out in front of the social club on the corner and nobody better ever bother us.

                                                     ( This isn't me & Ruby, but it could be!)

          As I said, Ruby’s father was very strict. He wouldn't allow her to go to any dances, even the one right across the street from their apartment which he could watch from his window. To get her to come out at night I wrapped up a gift box and told him it was my cousin's birthday, and couldn’t Ruby come over for a piece of cake? That worked once, twice, but when we tried it a third time, he raised an eyebrow at me and said, "So Tina, you have a lot of cousins.” It was time for a new scheme.

When Ruby’s mom threatened to tell her father what we did, Ruby called her a stoolpigeon. Ruby’s mother was Italian and not familiar with American slang. She told Ruby’s father, "She calla me a pigeon!"

FIRST JOB

The summer Ruby and I were twelve we were roller-skating along Pleasant Avenue when we saw a sign in a store window that said “Girls Wanted.”  We both pulled off our skates and went in. They were making artificial flowers and put us to work right away making poinsettias.  It was really easy and they said it paid 25 cents a gross. We finished a few gross and were paid right away.

Poinsettias were easy--yellow plastic piece, red petals, green leaves.

I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my mom. I said to her “Guess what?  Today I am a woman!”  She thought I meant I had gotten my period, and I said, “No, today I got a job!” Well the next day we went back and they put us on roses. We had to twist the roses onto the stems. The third day two men came in and demanded, “Who’s Tina?” I stood up and they dumped two big boxes at my feet. Apparently I was no good at twisting hard, because all the roses fell off their stems. So much for that job.

Roses were trickier--I was fired the next day.

My grandfather was working at Tripler, an upscale men’s shop on Madison Avenue in Manhattan.  He got this great idea to bring me to work there.  They had me sewing initials on socks, which was impossible because I could never sew well.  I learned, however, to hang up suits and that’s what I did.

Tripler's Men's Clothing Store

The best part of working at Tripler's was having lunch every day at Chock Full of Nuts.  I heard recently that the franchise is possibly coming back to New York, which was like music to my ears. I’ve been waiting 50 years for another Chock Full of Nuts cream cheese on date nut bread sandwich.  Yum!

cream cheese on date nut bread - a Chock Full O'Nuts specialty

(Editor's Note: My mom and Ruby are still friends to this day. We recently went to Ruby's and her husband Al's 50th anniversary party. When they brought out the anniversary cake and ice cream, Ruby looked at my mom and said, "Don't fight--buy ice cream!" They are still so cute together.)

Frank Sinatra, Part Two!

New York City itself was a magical place. Anyone who was anybody was there—and for a nickel you could take the subway and in 20 minutes be downtown in the heart of all the glitter. On weekends you could go downtown and maybe run into Marlon Brando having dinner in the Bird in Hand restaurant. We would skip school and for 55 cents before noon, you could see a movie and Frank Sinatra in person…all day long!

The annex I attended was on Madison Avenue and 132^nd street, in the heart of Harlem.  One day in the middle of a class the principal came in and said, “I need the following three girls to get your coats and come with me,” She called my name and two other girls who lived on my street.  My father was waiting for us downstairs to take us home.  It seemed there was a race riot going on and we hadn’t heard anything about it.  When we got home we learned that Frank Sinatra had come to Benjamin Franklin high school (4 blocks away from us) to talk to the boys there about getting along and then sang an inspiring song, “What is America to me.” This unannounced visit was not publicized.  He did it because he was trying to help ease the situation.

If Frank Sinatra was appearing at the Paramount we would get there at 6:30 am, to be sure to get seats in the very first row. My Uncle Eddie would arrive sometime in the afternoon. He’d slink down the theater in the darkness and make his way to the front row.  “Teeny…Teeny,” he’d hiss. Then when he’d find me he’d pass over a paper bag filled with sandwiches. He knew we’d been there since early in the morning and were probably starving (which we were.)

We were so close to the stage we were able to hand Frank little gifts. One time we brought him Italian pastries. We had heard (or more likely, read in a fan magazine) that Frank’s favorite pastry was rum baba—sponge cake soaked with rum flavor and filled with vanilla cream. 

Rum Baba

We brought him a box and handed it to while he was onstage. We included a note and signed all our names. We decided the only fair way to write our names would be alphabetically—Anna, Ruby, Tina. We handed Frank the pastries and he read the card out loud to the audience: “Dear Frank, Don’t get drunk on the baba! Love, Anna, Ruby and Tina.”  He paused for a moment after saying our names and we all screamed in delight. Frank turned to the audience and said, “I guess that was Tina.”

The theater had flower arrangements in the lobby, and we’d always steal one, so as Frank walked on stage we would hand him the flower which he’d put in his lapel.

During one of his appearances, a unknown group called Sammy Davis and the Will Mastin Trio was on the bill with Frank. Sammy Davis was absolutely the best performer we had ever seen. So when came out again we called Sammy’s name and handed a flower up to him, too. Sammy was thrilled. “Frank, Frank, look!” he said, and pointed out the flower in his lapel. He was positively beaming. When Sammy began performing with Frank he finally got all the recognition he so rightly deserved.

(Frank and Sammy--I wonder if that flower in Frank's lapel was one of the ones I gave him?!?)

If Frank wasn’t around there was always Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, or Benny Goodman, or Louie Prima with Keely Smith or Tony Pastor with the Clooney sisters. Rosemary and her sister were so skinny we were all envious. Of course the place to sit was in the front row so whoever was appearing would kibitz with you. When Louis Jordan would sing, “If he says you look good in a sweater…go home and write him a letter!” we would howl with laughter as he directed his words to us.

I feel bad for the young people of today—if you want to see a Broadway show, tickets are over $100 apiece, and you’d better cross your fingers that the show is good and not a bomb. Yes, the world today has internet and iphones, but remember kids, I had Frank Sinatra entertaining me all day long—for fifty-five cents!

                                                                                                                                               (Editor's Note: Here's a youtube clip of Louis Jordan singing. Jump to 1:12 to hear the "If he says you look good in a sweater" line:                                                           https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rtr2ZmBcG2A )

COLLECT CALL

Frank Sinatra was at the height of his popularity. We were too

young to go to see him in person but my friends and I listened to him every

Saturday night on Your Hit Parade and bought all of his records. Every

month we would buy a movie magazine and cut out pictures from it to

add to our scrap book of our favorites. 

One movie magazine had a story about the Sinatra family and it

actually printed his home address. I got a crazy idea. Me and my two best

friends all squeezed into a pay phone booth and I dialed the long distance

operator. Assuming what I hoped was an adult voice I said, “This is a

personal friend of Nancy Sinatra. I have her home address but I somehow

misplaced her phone number.”  We had made up a name that sounded like

someone she might have call her collect.

The first two operators hung up immediately. But the third one

said in a tired voice, “Hang on…”

Who knows where Frank was that morning? Maybe Nancy was

bored or lonely or just curious, but miraculously—or so it seemed to

us—she accepted the call!  Suddenly we heard a woman say, “This is

Nancy,” Oh my God! I babbled—first apologizing for calling her collect

and then we began peppering her with inane questions such as,

“What did little Nancy eat for breakfast?” “What’s Frank’s favorite color??

and the like. 

Nancy asked our ages and I said, “Ruby and I are 12 and Mary

is 11.” Then she said, “What are we four girls going to do to keep the rest of

the girls in the world away from Frank?” Can you believe that? Mrs. Frank

Sinatra really said that to us. She wasn’t the least bit annoyed or nasty, but

warm and friendly. And maybe a little sad, now that I think about it.

We then told her we would send her the money for the phone call and

said goodbye. When the call ended, the operator informed us the

charge for the call was $4.40.  We raced home and emptied a Nestles

Quik can, drew boxes on a sheet of paper and started putting coins

in the can, and each time we made a deposit we would dutifully

record it in one of the boxes. “Ruby, 10 cents. Tina, 15 cents.” It took

a long time but finally we had four dollars and forty cents. 

We went to the post office and told the clerk we needed a

money order for $4.40 made out to Mr. Frank Sinatra. The postal

worked joked, “What? Frank needs your $4.40?” But nevertheless we

got our money order, mailed it, (along with our savings record), and

were happy to do so.

            Well, almost a full year went by (you can imagine the amount of

fan mail Frank received at the peak of his fame), but one day I

received an envelope in the mail. I opened it and out fluttered the

money order, and then a note. “You girls worked so hard to save this,

we think you should have it back and spend it yourselves.” (signed)

Frank Sinatra. Did we flip? You bet!!!

FIFTY-TWO DOLLARS

My dad always wanted to be an architect and was going to school at night to follow his dream. But when the depression hit, nobody was building anything and jobs were as scarce as hens teeth. He was married to my mom and they had me and my younger brother Ronnie and my dad was driving a taxi. If he made 50 cents a day he was lucky. He heard the New York Bus Company was looking for drivers, but you needed experience driving a truck. So my dad boldly walked into a truck company and asked the owner if he would give my dad a reference.  

“Why should I do that? I don’t know you!” the astounded owner asked. Now my dad was very charismatic, handsome, and persuasive, and never one to take no for an answer. He spoke to the owner in Italian and said he was a good driver and was unable to feed his two small children. The owner finally capitulated and gave him a reference, which enabled him to get a fairly secure job with the bus company.

This is why he was so taken aback when his wife told him about The Fifty-Two Dollars.

You have to realize, in the 1930’s little luxuries were almost non-existent. In East Harlem, even candy was such a rare treat that our parents had to hide the Brioschi, fizzy crystals used for upset stomachs, on a top shelf to keep it away from the kids.

Almost everything was purchased “on time.” The insurance man came once a week for the 25 cent payments on the policies that would—in 20 years—grow to a five hundred dollar bonanza when little Johnny or Mary was ready to get married.

Everyday items such as tablecloths and curtains were acquired the same way—60 cents down and 50 cents a week—who could afford to buy them otherwise?

One day when I was eight, a salesman appeared at the door lugging a case containing 12 wondrous  volumes of children’s books called My Book House, which he explained to my mom would provide a complete education—from nursery school to college years. For my mom, the clincher was a then little-known children’s story called The Little Engine that Could. As the salesman dramatically intoned, “I think I can, I know I can,” my mom was convinced. This would teach her children that any mountain could be surmounted—you just had to think you could!

I will never forget that humid August night when my dad walked wearily through the door, completely exhausted in his hot, scratchy bus driver’s uniform. He had just come off his shift driving a bus packed with passengers through the streets of Manhattan. This was before air conditioning, exact change, or automatic doors that opened to let passengers on and off. He was greeted by my mom excitedly babbling, “They are the most wonderful books, Mario! ‘I think I can, I know I can!’  And only one dollar a week for 52 weeks!”

I realize now what an enormous sum that was for a man struggling to bring home maybe thirty dollars a week.

My brother and I held our breath as the battle raged on.

“FIFTY-TWO DOLLARS!”

“I think I can, I know I can!”

Eventually mom won and the wonderful books were ours forever. Ultimately my children and my brother’s children learned all about Don Quixote, The Snow Queen, The Water Babies, Oscar Wilde’s Selfish Giant, The Midas Touch, and many many more. Truly these books were indeed an education.

And absolutely the best fifty-two dollars my mom ever spent.

Editor’s Note: Here are some pages from volume four of My Book House, Through the Gate. I loved this book so much my grandmother wrote my name and address on the title page for fear I would leave it somewhere since I brought it with me everywhere. I’ve also included a sampling of pages from my favorite stories—The Fisherman and His Wife, the Snow Queen and the Midas Touch. I also had to laugh when I saw my scribbles on the last page. “Cat. Dog. Lisa.”  (Click on the images to enlarge them.)