My dad was a kind and gentle man. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. I never heard him curse, and he was all over me if I stepped out of line. He treated everyone with respect. He wouldn’t understand today’s rush to change our culture.
He drove a Faygo truck for over thirty years. Most days he had a helper. He had one particularly hard worker valued for his dedication to his job. Dad expected everyone to work hard, and this man exceeded his expectations. His quirk was he was a transvestite. Dad didn’t know the word, so he called him a “sissy”. Each Friday they had a delivery stop near a dry cleaners. They typically arrived around noon. They’d take a lunch break, and Dad’s helper used the time to pick up his evening gown at the cleaners. After work, the helper would take a shower and dress for a night on the town. Dad said he was as beautiful as any woman he’d ever met.
I worked as a helper twice, once over a Christmas break and once during a Spring Break. Dad gained approval from Phil Feigenson for each of my short term gigs. It was a union plant, but they needed additional help during those two “seasons” and, since I was a temporary worker, the union didn’t object.
I rode with Dad to “the plant”. During my first stint I asked if I would be his helper. His reply was very direct. “No. You don’t want to work with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll work you too hard. It wouldn’t be fair to you.” He was probably right.
All the drivers were known by their last names. I worked with one named Anson. Anson showed me two rolls of nickels he kept in his front right pocket. He kept them so it looked like he had a pistol. “I want everyone to think I’m carrying. That way they won’t be tempted to rob me.”
My job was to stay with the truck while he went inside to take the order. He told me to “Stay in the truck and watch the mirrors on both sides. Some kids will come up to talk to you while their friends steal pop from the other side. Be alert.”
Sure enough, early on the route two boys approached my window and tried to strike up a conversation. I watched the driver’s mirror while they spoke and saw two other boys try to get inside the driver’s side bays. I yelled and they scattered.
One day we arrived at work and found a wildcat strike. A wildcat strike, is a strike action undertaken by unionized workers without union leadership’s authorization. One of the Hi-Lo drivers had taken his rig on one of the plant elevators rather than use the ramp system. The elevators were clearly marked as being off limits to the Hi-Lo. The driver ignored the warning, broke the elevator, and was fired. The plant workers went out on strike in support of him, and the truck drivers and their helpers refused to cross the picket line. We sat outside for several hours while management and the union reps reviewed the situation.
It made no sense to me. The guy obviously went against company policy and procedures. While you might feel sorry for him, he chose his own path. Now, the rest of us weren’t getting paid because of his stupidity. I was only able to work for a few days and this was costing me money. I kept my mouth shut except in conversation with my dad. He explained that they needed to support their fellow workers even when they did dumb things.
TBC