Working. Part 8

My dream was to establish a star, and from then on I would be taken care of. I would always get paid. The truth is: it's psychologically important for stars to get rid of people who helped them get where they are. The client is the child and the press agent's the parent. The child has to grow up and leave the nest. It's part of living. They're unknown, they need Eddie Jaffe. When they're known, they need Rogers and Cowan, who never dropped a coat in all the years they handled stars. They hold the client's coat. One reason they get the business is they get their client on the Hollywood party list. People have different needs at different times in their careers.

I was hired to cover maybe forty radio shows. The guy said, "Cover the 'Phil Baker Show.' " "What do I do?" He said, "You be the first guy there after the show's over and you say, 'Phil, that was great.' G.o.d help you if somebody gets there ahead of you." That's part of being a press agent for stars. That's what they need. They can afford it. And they're paying for it.

A gangster said, "I wish you'd help me. The papers are botherin' the h.e.l.l out of me." I said, "Who's clean in your family?" He said, "My brother-in-law. He lost his arm and leg in the war, works as a clothing presser, and makes twenty-five bucks a week." I said, "Make him the official spokesman. They won't bother you. Your big danger is one of the mob will push a photographer and you'll have a picture in the paper." "How will we avoid that?" I said, "Very simple. Hire a Pinkerton. If anybody's gonna push a cameraman, the guy's in uniform. They can push. They're not a mob."

Punishment by publicity is more serious than punishment by law. If you were indicted tomorrow for a crime, the punishment through publicity is more severe than any jail sentence you might receive. Everybody has a lawyer, but very few have a public relations man.

I used to work for John Jacob Astor. I got a call from his lawyer saying he ran over somebody. So I called all the papers and said, "This is John Jacob Astor's press agent. I got a great story for you. He just hit a woman crossing the street." They said, "Why don't you get lost with that s.h.i.t. He gets enough s.p.a.ce." They didn't play the story at all. I tried to make them think I wanted in, so they didn't put it in.

I spent most of my life learning techniques that are of no value any more. Magazines, newspapers-print. I'm not oriented to television as I was to print. The biggest impact today is TV. This has helped reduce the need for press agentry. A client will come to me and say, "I want to be a star." In the old days, maybe I'd get her in Life. Today on the Carson show you could get more attention than I could have gotten her in a year. As press agentry becomes part of a bigger and bigger world it becomes more routinized. It's a mechanical thing today. It's no longer the opportunity to stunts. They don't work any more. Much of what I've been doing all these years is not as potent as in the old days.

Most guys in my category have eight, ten clients. If you have less, you're in trouble. You can't depend on one or two, no matter how much they pay, 'cause you can lose 'em. One day I lost three clients that were paying me each over twelve thousand dollars a year. I lost Cinerama, Indonesia, and the Singer Company. This is thirty-six thousand dollars a year. I had years I made a hundred thousand. There's a law of making money. You never regard it as something temporary, and you live up to the scale. But in this work, you don't build anything. If I had a little candy store and I built it up to a bigger store, I might have sold it for a quarter of a million dollars. Who do I sell my clippings to?

RICHARD MANN.

He is fifty-three years old. He has been an installment dealer for twenty years. "I sell credit. I'm not selling goods. The firms I purchase from do that. I'm in business for myself. I call on people. I sell them right in the home. I bring merchandise to them." He puts in a seventy-hour week.

"Many people I had used to be in the ghetto, poor blacks. When the riots came, all my accounts were on the West Side.19 Three of my customers were burnt out. I tried to reach 'em by phone and I couldn't. I called many of them up and asked them to send the money in by mail, and they did. Many of them said, 'Richard, please don't come. It's rough here.'

"When I used to walk by and hear some ten-year-old Negro kid say a few choice words to me, I used to burn. I couldn't stand it. I would pa.s.s a house where I'd see two fifteen-year-old kids playing handball. I'd say, 'Should I go or shouldn't I? Should I give it a pa.s.s?' I'd sit there and burn. They may well have been just harmless kids. But when I came down the stairs, they could be behind the door.

"We sat for three days calling each other, installment dealers, those who worked in that area. Could we go? Could we go in pairs? Was it possible? I bought a lot of accounts receivable from other men who were going out of business. I had a little boy, black, about ten years old, he used to go with me. His stepdad made these calls for me on Sat.u.r.day and Sunday. I collected quite a bit of it. Little by little I moved out of the area. Now I'm out of it completely.

"The areas I go to now are blue-collar and Southern white suburbs-lower-middle-cla.s.s white. My customers now are mostly honkies. (Laughs.) A honky is someone who is anti-black and he moved to the outskirts of town to get away from the Negro. He hates all change, all progress. When his wife says, 'Bring some shirts for my husband,' I bring him three striped shirts with long collars. He becomes furious. 'What the h.e.l.l do you think I am, some hippie plink? I don't wear shirts like that.' (Laughs.) Save your white shirts, they're cnmin' back."

I'm an offshoot of the old peddler. He bought a few things, went out in the country with a horse and wagon and sold it. His customers didn't have cash, so they paid him in eggs. Many times people would say, "I can't pay you anything," and he'd say, "You're good for the money, I'll come every month or so."

Later on, as we become friendly, they have more confidence in me. They ask me to bring them things, electrical appliances, household gadgets. If they want larger items-if a customer wants to buy a kitchen set, table and four chairs, she goes to the store, she picks it out. The price is given to her, say $150. It's sent out and I'm billed for the cost of that. I pay the bill and collect it from her. I'm connected to the places that I bring the customer to.

A lot of these people need me. They need me psychologically. My wife has said, "You give your customers a h.e.l.l of a lot more than I get. I go to the store, I get a surly clerk, I get a miserable manager." I go to these people, I say, "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Smith. How's your husband. How's your daughter-in-law?" I call her up, I tell her an off-color joke once in a while. Most times you sell your personality.

If I'm really an enterprising entrepreneur, I see she hasn't got an Osterizer, I see she needs drapes, curtains. Or that her sofa's falling apart or that her carpet's wearing out. Or that I'm sitting in a broken chair. Or it's cold outside and I know she's the type of a person who doesn't shop on Michigan Avenue, and she hasn't bought her winter coat. I observe these things if I'm to be successful in this business. I'm successful, I believe.

She's paying well, she's down to fifty dollars. You see she hasn't got a four-slice toaster. So you bring it in. "Here." Sweeten up the account. "We've got these beautiful toasters in. You've got a big family, six kids. How do you make toast for 'em?" She says, "I had one and I had trouble with it." Which is more truth than poetry, because many of these electrical appliances just fall apart.

If the toaster's twenty-nine dollars, now she owes me seventy nine-plus tax. Her payments haven't gone up. I'm just holding her for another three weeks. So I've got eight weeks of collections, eight ten-dollar payments. If she's slow in paying, I don't sell her anything. I'm trying to get out from under, to get what she owes me. If they're good customers, I want to keep'em buying, continually owing me. The worst thing that can happen is for a good customer to pay up her bill.20 Ach!! That's terrible! You can't ever get in to see her again. She pays you up for a reason: she doesn't want to buy from you any more.

The more she's in debt to you- The better it is.

That $150 kitchen set may wind up setting her back $300?

No. She'll wind up paying $150 for that. When she buys on time, she pays one and a half percent carrying charge. This is all over, Sears, Ward's -it comes to nineteen percent a year. It's very difficult to figure out compound interest. It could drive you crazy.

You work on recommendations. You have a customer you get along with very well. She says, "Why don't you call on my nextdoor neighbor? She likes my drapes." I'm gambling. I gamble on a person's outside. I know nothing about their character. I gamble on what other people have told me. I have many losses.

I gave a bill to a collection lawyer this morning. She owed seventeen hundred dollars. I bought the account, discounted at ninety percent. I paid the man seventeen hundred less $170. That was four years ago. She was supposed to pay this out at the rate of twenty dollars a week. Lately she won't answer the door. She's called me a few choice names. She capped it off doing the worst thing she could, "You dumb Jew, I'm gonna give you two dollars a week and that's all." I threw the check she gave me and I said, "Forget it," and I walked out. I remembered that famous quote: "Free at last, thank G.o.d, I'm free of you, at last." (Laughs.) She used to make me sweat for this money-terribly. Used to make me feel in the position of a beggar.

I hate to collect. Collecting is a terrible, a horrible thing. I've always deprecated it. I know my children look down at it. To them it's demeaning, it's exploitive. So naturally I'm defensive about it. Actually, I just hate it. The people who say, "Boy! I'd like to have my husband have a job like that, go around collecting money all day long." I said, "I wish to h.e.l.l your husband had a job like that! Give me a factory job instead of knocking on doors!" The strongest thing on me-I haven't got a muscle on me-is my knuckles. I can put that door through. From knocking on doors.

I've told my wife many a time, "When I come home at night, no matter if we've had a fight, come to the door and say, 'Hi,' and kiss me. Whatever you say after that, it's okay." Because all day long I knock on doors and say, "This is d.i.c.k" or "Mr. Mann," and all I hear is "Aw, s.h.i.t!" I hear it through the whole house. (Laughs.) Can you imagine what happens to you, hearing this all day long? "Aw, s.h.i.t!" n.o.body loves a collector. They love a salesman. When you sell the merchandise, the honeymoon is on. But it's over when you come to collect.

I don't call people in advance when I visit. I start calling about fifteen minutes to eight. I get many people b.i.t.c.hing about coming too early. I have to, because I have a lot of work. People who pay me on my account, I ask them if there's anything else they need: curtains, drapes, anything. I bring it to 'em the next week or two weeks, whenever I call. I finish about five. Sat.u.r.day, I get up at six thirty and come home eight, nine at night. Another week, I sit down and make deadbeat calls. It's a miserable thing. My family used to leave the house when I made these calls. I could wind up throwing the phone against the wall. It's very, very discouraging.

"I used to work in a furniture store. Two years without a day off. So I decided to go in business for myself. You're never beholden to anybody. You always have a buck in your pocket. This is the easiest way, because you have no overhead. You don't have a store, you don't have employees. You pay no rent, no insurance . . ."

I couldn't sell you an automobile, but just about everything else. I've sold diamond rings, I've sold mink coats. I have people with beautiful homes. Many of my customers have good incomes. Why do they buy from somebody like me? There's a variety of reasons. A lot of them got a fart in their brain. They cannot go out shopping. They become confused by these large shopping centers. They're confused by the mult.i.tude, the plethora of things. It just overwhelms them. It's much easier to buy from somebody like me. If they want a coat, I bring two or three. If they want a ring, I bring one or two or three.

There's a customer who's shy. She would really like to tell people off, but when she goes into a large establishment, she's shy. She's overwhelmed by Marshall Field's, so she tells me off in no uncertain terms what she wants, how she wants it, and don't bring me this or that. It boosts their ego. In their house they are queen. I'm the one with the cap in the hand.

When I'm a salesman in a furniture store, I speak from a position of strength: We have this beautiful, gorgeous place that we built for you. Here is what we have. This is what they're using. When I come in, I can't say, "This is what they're using." I've been told a few times, "I don't care what they're using. It's what I want. I want white shirts."

It's a dying occupation. There are older men, sixty-five, seventy, who are just dabbling. They want to get out of it, so they sell their accounts. They're very good accounts 'cause they've had them twenty years. For me, it's a bonanza.

In the old days people in ethnic neighborhoods just got off the boat. They couldn't speak English. Young punks that were store clerks would look down upon them. The man who had a smattering of the language would go into the homes and people would welcome him with open arms. Here's a man they could occasionally tell off.

This whole business has fallen absolutely into disuse in the past ten years. I know of no young man who's gone into it. To them, it's demeaning. I once asked my son to help me. His wife came over and told me she didn't want her husband to help me exploit people. She believes I exploit people. Of course, she believes anybody who makes a profit exploits people. So you ask, "What is not exploitation? One percent? Two percent? General Motors?" I don't feel I'm an exploiter. I'm a capitalist. I believe capitalism is the greatest economic system there is.

I'm in a hurry. I have obligations, I'm always trying to beat time. I'm dealing with people, most of them are dependent on their paycheck. It doesn't last past Sat.u.r.day. If you don't come, you're not gonna get it. The people will honestly tell you, "I gave it to somebody else, the insurance man." Beating the clock. Deadbeats. There used to be a lot. Knock on the door, the flat was empty. You knock on the door, n.o.body answers, you know they're there. I'd like to kill somebody. (Laughs.) It's terrible. They have no respect. They don't give a d.a.m.n. They're like anybody else.

(Sighs.) Yeah, I take my work home. I put in two, three hours on the phone at home. I don't care if I'm watching TV while I make a call. I'm disinterested in the call. DB21 calls. "Mrs. Smith, you promised to send in one on the eleventh. It's now the eighteenth." I'm watching d.i.c.k Cavett at the same time.

I get so angry. I'd like to-I-I-I. (Laughs.) Sometimes it's lucky that I have an extension phone. I'd have torn it off the wall many times. You can't help it. I'm particularly choleric. Maybe there are people who take it better than I can. This one woman was making me eat c.r.a.p for four years, to make me collect my money. I brooded about it for four years. Just making me absolutely crawl. I just-I just thought I'd like to hit her one.

The stories you hear from many salesmen that go into houses are figments of their imagination. About s.e.x. Women paying off in that way. I've never seen it happen personally. Your real drive is to survive-get in the house, get out.

You go in. It's sort of a reflex action. They hear your name, go get the book and the money. I know exactly when they have the money or not. When she opens the door and turns around to go somewhere, you know she's got the money. If she stands there, blocking your way, you know she's broke. You say, "Oh, you have no money?" Or she tells you. You say, "Thank you very much, I'll see you next week." Or, "Are you short?" Some quick repartee. Then I drive elsewhere.

Sat.u.r.day is the busiest day. I visit approximately seventy homes. There used to be men in the business who couldn't sleep on a Friday night. They knew they had this terrible pace on Sat.u.r.day. Most men are home on Sat.u.r.day. There's a rough and ready banter. Kidding around. I have Sunday off, unless I get very angry at a customer and go out to see her.

For a person like me who likes to talk and exchange ideas with people, it's very difficult to break away. I've been guilty many times of sitting down for too many cups of coffee. It's a question of absolutely driving yourself to get out. Collection isn't the only thing. I've got this book work. It's the most aggravating angle of the business. Keeping track of the payments, your sales tax, your income tax. I've got eight hours of book work ahead of me now, at home.

And you have to go out and do your shopping. On Christmas I'm shopping for a hundred people. I go to stores that are busy and wait to be waited on and am frustrated by every one of these decisions, as to what color, what size, and finding out they haven't got it. So I've waited forty-five minutes for nothing.

They give me a list of things. They want me to buy gifts. They want me to buy a 15-33 shirt for a son. The husband wears a 16-34. They want a pretty color. They give you a choice and you have to decide. They're paying you to decide for them.

There are many people who can't make decisions. This is the trademark of most of the people I do business with. They tell you to get a pretty shirt. You say, "Pretty? What do you mean by that?" They say, "Well, what you think would be nice." They leave it up to you. You bring it and then they bawl the h.e.l.l out of you if they don't like it. So they can tell you off. They do. And they're paying me for that service.

"I've had a duodenal ulcer. But it didn't come from this business. I had it when I was a furniture salesman. It was schlock furniture. A bait and switch type. Advertise something at a ridiculously low rate and then expect the salesman to switch the customer to something else. It's worked on the TO system, turnover. The first man who greets the customer warms him up a little. And then is commanded to turn him over to a man who's introduced as the manager of the store-which makes a tremendous impression. The greatest amount of things sold in this country right now is bait and switch. Schlock."

I'm tired. Because I'm not growing old gracefully. I resent the fact that I haven't got the coordination that I had. I resent the fact that I can't run as fast as I used to. I resent the fact that I get sleepy when I'm out at a night club. I resent it terribly. My wife is growing old gracefully but I'm not. I always have slept well.

There will always be room for this kind of occupation as long as people want personal contact. We're all over the world.

ENID DU BOIS.

She had been a telephone solicitor for a Chicago newspaper. She was at it for three months. "There were mostly females working there, about thirty. In one large phone room. About four of us were black."

I needed a job. I saw this ad in the paper: Equal Opportunity. Salary plus commission. I called and spoke ever so nicely. The gentleman was pleased with the tone of my voice and I went down for an interview. My mind raced as I was on the train coming down. I'll be working on North Michigan Avenue. It's the greatest street. I was elated. I got the job right away. All we had to do was get orders for the newspaper.

We didn't have to think what to say. They had it all written out. You have a card. You'd go down the list and call everyone on the card. You'd have about fifteen cards with the persons' names, addresses, and phone numbers. "This is Mrs. Du Bois. Could I have a moment of your time? We're wondering if you now subscribe to any newspapers? If you would only for three short months take this paper, it's for a worthy cause." To help blind children or Crusade of Mercy. We'd always have one at hand. "After the three-month period, if you no longer desire to keep it, you can cancel it. But you will have helped them. They need you." You'd use your last name. You could alter your name, if you wanted to. You'd almost have to be an actress on the phone. (Laughs.) I was very excited about it, until I got the hang of it.

The salary was only $1.60 an hour. You'd have to get about nine or ten orders per day. If you didn't, they'd pay you only $1.60. They call that subsidizing you. (Laughs.) If you were subsidized more than once, you were fired.

The commission depended on the territory. If it was middle cla.s.s, it would be $3.50. If it was ghetto, it would be like $1.50. Because some people don't pay their bills. A lot of papers don't get delivered in certain areas. Kids are afraid to deliver. They're robbed. The suburbs was the top territory.

A fair area, say, lower middle cla.s.s, they'd pay you $2.50. To a lot of solicitors' dismay they'd kill some orders at the end of the week. He'd come in and say, "You don't get this $2.50, because they don't want the paper." We don't know if it's true or not. How do we know they canceled? But we don't get the commission.

If you didn't get enough orders for the week, a lot of us would work four and five hours overtime. We knew: no orders, no money. (Laughs.) We'd come down even on Sat.u.r.days.

They had some old pros, but they worked on the suburbs. I worked the ghetto areas. The old-timers really came up with some doozies. They knew how to psyche people. They were very fast talkers. If a person wanted to get off the phone they'd say, "No, they need you. They need your help. It's only for three short months." The person would just have to say, "Okay," and end up taking it.

They had another gimmick. If they kept the paper they would get a free gift of a set of steak knives. If they canceled the order, they wouldn't get anything. Everybody wants something free.

There was a chief supervisor. He would walk into the office and say, "Okay, you people, let's get some orders! What do you think this is?" He'd come stomping in and holler, "I could pay all the b.u.ms on Madison Street to come in, you know." He was always hara.s.sing you. He was a bully, a gorilla of a man. I didn't like the way he treated women.

I did as well as I wanted to. But after a while, I didn't care. Surely I could have fast-talked people. Just to continually lie to them. But it just wasn't in me. The disgust was growing in me every minute. I would pray and pray to hold on a little longer. I really needed the money. It was getting more and more difficult for me to make these calls.

The supervisor would sometimes listen in. He had connections with all the phones. He could just click you in. If a new girl would come in, he'd have her listen to see how you were doing-to see how well this person was lying. That's what they taught you. After a while, when I got down to work, I wanted to cry.

I talked to one girl about it. She felt the same way. But she needed the job too. The atmosphere was different here than being in a factory. Everybody wants to work on North Michigan Avenue. All the people I've worked with, most of them aren't there any more. They change. Some quit, some were dismissed. The bully would say they weren't getting enough orders. They get the best liar and the best liar stays. I observed, the older people seemed to enjoy it. You could just hear them bugging the people . . .

We'd use one charity and would change it every so often. Different papers have different ones they use. I know a girl does the same work for another paper. The phone room is in the same building as the newspaper. But our checks are paid by the Readers' Service Agency.

When I first started I had a pretty good area. They do this just to get you conditioned. (Laughs.) This is easy. I'm talking to nice people. G.o.d, some of the others! A few obscenities. A lot of males would say things to you that weren't so pleasant. Some were lonely. They'd tell you that. Their wives had left them . . .

At first I liked the idea of talking to people. But pretty soon, knowing the area I was calling-they couldn't afford to eat, let alone buy a newspaper-my job was getting me down. They'd say, "Lady, I have nine to feed or I would help you." What can you say? One woman I had called early in the morning, she had just gotten out of the hospital. She had to get up and answer the phone.

They would tell me their problems. Some of them couldn't read, honest to G.o.d. They weren't educated enough to read a newspaper. Know what I would say? "If you don't read anything but the comic strips . . ." "If you got kids, they have to learn how to read the paper." I'm so ashamed thinking cf it.

In the middle-cla.s.s area, the people were busy and they couldn't talk. But in the poor area, the people really wanted to help the charity I talked about. They said I sounded so nice, they would take it anyway. A lot of them were so happy that someone actually called. They could talk all day long to me. They told me all their problems and I'd listen.

They were so elated to hear someone nice, someone just to listen a few minutes to something that had happened to them. Somehow to show concern about them. I didn't care if there was no order. So I'd listen. I heard a lot of their life histories on the phone. I didn't care if the supervisor was clicked in.

People that were there a long time knew just what to do. They knew when to click 'em off and get right on to the next thing. They were just striving, striving . . . It was on my mind when I went home. Oh my G.o.d, yeah. I knew I couldn't continue doing it much longer.

What really did it for me was one call I made. I went through the routine. The guy listened patiently and he said, "I really would like to help." He was blind himself! That really got me-the tone of his voice. I could just tell he was a good person. He was willing to help even if he couldn't read the paper. He was poor, I'm sure of that. It was the worst ghetto area. I apologized and thanked him. That's when I left for the ladies' room. I was nauseous. Here I was sitting here telling him a bunch of lies and he was poor and blind and willing to help. Taking his money.

I got sick in the stomach. I prayed a lot as I stayed there in the restroom. I said, "Dear G.o.d, there must be something better for me. I never harmed anyone in my life, dear Lord." I went back to the phone room and I just sat there. I didn't make any calls. The supervisor called me out and wanted to know why I was sitting there. I told him I wasn't feeling good, and I went home.

I came back the next day because I didn't have any other means of employment. I just kept praying and hoping and looking. And then, as if my prayers were answered, I got another job. The one I have now. I love it.

I walked into the bully's office and told him a few things. I told him I was sick and tired of him. Oh G.o.d, I really can't tell you what I said. (Laughs.) I told him, "I'm not gonna stay here and lie for you. You can take your job and shove it." (Laughs.) And I walked out. He just stood there. He didn't say anything. He was surprised. I was very calm, I didn't shout. Oh, I felt good.

I still work in the same building. I pa.s.s him in the hallway every once in a while. He never speaks to me. He looks away. Every time I see him I hold my head very high, very erect, and keep walking.

BOOK THREE.

CLEANING UP.

NICK SALERNO.

He has been driving a city garbage truck for eighteen years. He is forty-one, married, has three daughters. He works a forty-hour, five-day week, with occasional overtime. He has a crew of three laborers. "I usually get up at five-fifteen. I get to the city parking lot, you check the oil, your water level, then proceed for the ward yard. I meet the men, we pick up our work sheet."

You get just like the milkman's horse, you get used to it. If you remember the milkman's horse, all he had to do was whistle and whooshhh! That's it. He knew just where to stop, didn't he? You pull up until you finish the alley. Usually thirty homes on each side. You have thirty stops in an alley. I have nineteen alleys a week. They're called units. Sometimes I can't finish em, that's how heavy they are, this bein' an old neighborhood.

I'll sit there until they pick up this one stop. You got different thoughts. Maybe you got a problem at home. Maybe one of the children aren't feeling too good. Like my second one, she's a problem with homework. Am I doin' the right thing with her? Pressing her a little bit with math. Or you'll read the paper. You always daydream.

Some stops, there's one can, they'll throw that on, then we proceed to the next can. They signal with a buzzer or a whistle or they'll yell. The pusher blade pushes the garbage in. A good solid truckload will hold anywhere from eight thousand to twelve thousand pounds. If it's wet, it weighs more.

Years ago, you had people burning, a lot of people had garbage burners. You would pick up a lot of ashes. Today most of 'em have converted to gas. In place of ashes, you've got cardboard boxes, you've got wood that people aren't burning any more. It's not like years ago, where people used everything. They're not too economy-wise today. They'll throw anything away. You'll see whole packages of meat just thrown into the garbage can without being opened. I don't know if it's spoiled from the store or not. When I first started here, I had nearly thirty alleys in this ward. Today I'm down to nineteen. And we got better trucks today. Just the way things are packaged today. Plastic. You see a lot of plastic bottles, cardboard boxes.

We try to give 'em twice-a-week service, but we can't complete the ward twice a week. Maybe I can go four alleys over. If I had an alley Monday, I might go in that alley Friday. What happens over the weekend? It just lays there.

After you dump your garbage in the hopper, the sweeper blade goes around to sweep it up, and the push blade pushes it in. This is where you get your sound. Does that sound bother you in the morning? (Laughs.) Sometimes it's irritating to me. If someone comes up to you to talk, and the men are working in the back, and they press the lever, you can't hear them. It's aggravating but you get used to it. We come around seven-twenty. Not too many complaints. Usually you're in the same alley the same day, once a week. The people know that you're comin' and it doesn't bother them that much.

Some people will throw, will literally throw garbage out of the window-right in the alley. We have finished an alley in the morning and that same afternoon it will look like it wasn't even done. They might have a cardboard carton in the can and garbage all over the alley. People are just not takin' care of it. You get some people that takes care of their property, they'll come out and sweep around their cans. Other people just don't care or maybe they don't know any better.

Some days it's real nice. Other days, when you get off that truck you're tired, that's it! You say all you do is drive all day, but driving can be pretty tiresome-especially when the kids are out of school. They'll run through a gangway into the alley. This is what you have to watch for. Sitting in that cab, you have a lot of blind spots around the truck. This is what gets you. You watch out that you don't hit any of them.

At times you get aggravated, like your truck breaks down and you get a junk as a replacement. This, believe me, you could take home with you. Otherwise, working here, if there's something on your mind, you don't hold anything in. You discuss anything with these guys. Golf, whatever. One of my laborers just bought a new home and I helped him move some of his small stuff. He's helped me around my house, plumbing and painting.

We've got spotters now. It's new. (Laughs.) They're riding around in unmarked cars. They'll turn you in for stopping for coffee. I can't see that. If you have a coffee break in the alley, it's just using a little psychology. You'll get more out of them. But if you're watched continually, you're gonna lay down. There's definitely more watching today, because there was a lot of layin' down on the job. Truthfully, I'd just as soon put in my eight hours a day as easy as possible. It's hard enough comin' to work. I got a good crew, we get along together, but we have our days.

If you're driving all day, you get tired. By the time you get home, fighting the traffic, you'd just like to relax a little bit. But there's always something around the house. You can get home one night and you'll find your kid threw something in the toilet and you gotta shut your mind and take the toilet apart. (Laughs.) My wife drives, so she does most of the shopping. That was my biggest complaint. So now this job is off my hands. I look forward to my weekends. I get in a little golf.

People ask me what I do, I say, "I drive a garbage truck for the city." They call you G-man, or, "How's business, picking up?" Just the standard . . . Or sanitary engineer. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I put in my eight hours. We make a pretty good salary. I feel I earn my money. I can go any place I want. I conduct myself as a gentleman any place I go. My wife is happy, this is the big thing. She doesn't look down at me. I think that's more important than the white-collar guy looking down at me.

They made a crack to my children in school. My kids would just love to see me do something else. I tell 'em, "Honey, this is a good job. There's nothing to be ashamed of. We're not stealin' the money. You have everything you need."

I don't like to have my salary compared to anybody else's. I don't like to hear that we're makin' more than a schoolteacher. I earn my money just as well as they do. A teacher should get more money, but don't take it away from me.

ROY SCHMIDT.

They call us truck loaders, that's what the union did. We're just laborers, that's all we are. What the devil, there's no glamour to it. Just bouncin' heavy cans around all day. I'm givin' the city a fair day's work. I don't want to lean on anyone else. Regardless if I was working here or elsewhere, I put in my day. We're the ones that pick up the cans, dump 'em in the hopper, and do the manual end of the job. There's nothing complex about it.

He is fifty-eight. His fellow crew members are fifty and sixty-nine. For the past seven years he has worked for the Sanitation Department. "I worked at a freight dock for two years. That was night work. It was punching me out. At the end of the week I didn't know one day from another. I looked for a day job and landed this."

In this particular neighborhood, the kids are a little snotty. They're let run a little too loose. They're not held down the way they should. It's getting a little wild around here. I live in the neighborhood and you have to put up with it. They'll yell while you're riding from one alley to another, "Garbage picker!" The little ones usually give you a highball, seem to enjoy it, and you wave back at 'em. When they get a little bigger, they're liable to call you most anything on the truck. (Laughs.) They're just too stupid to realize the necessity of the job.

I've been outside for seven years and I feel more free. I don't take the job home with me. When I worked in the office, my wife would say, "What was the matter with you last night? You laid there and your fingers were drumming the mattress." That's when I worked in the office. The bookkeeping and everything else, it was starting to play on my nerves. Yeah, I prefer laboring to bookkeeping. For one thing, a bookkeeping job doesn't pay anything. I was the lowest paid man there.

Physically, I was able to do more around the house. Now I'm too tired to pitch into anything heavy. I'll mow the lawn and I'll go upstairs and maybe catch a TV program or two, and I'll hit the hay. In the winter months, it's so much worse. After being outside all day and walkin' into a warm house, I can cork off in a minute. (Laughs.) The driver has some protection, he has the cab of the truck. We're out in the cold.

You get it in the shoulders and the arms. You have an ache here and an ache there. Approximately four years ago, I put my back into spasms. The city took care of it, put me in a hospital for a week. That one year, it happened twice to me-because of continual lifting. The way one doctor explained it to me, I may be goin' thirty days and it's already started. It's just on the last day, whenever it's gonna hit, it just turns you upside down. You can't walk, you can't move, you can't get up.