Garment District still suits history
By Alan Lupo/Boston Herald, United States
I head down Essex Street, and I hear the voices, locked forever in the deposit box of memory.
Gruff, loud voices often, competing to be heard in their self-created din, they belong mainly to Jewish guys, middle-aged and older men, high school graduates at most, back in town from another week on the road.
They peddled clothing, which they called “shmattehs,†the Yiddish word for rags. They sold coats and shorts, pedal-pushers and skirts, suitjackets and slacks, sold whatever their bosses in Boston’s Garment District or elsewhere produced
Every Monday, they dressed up in clean sports jackets, slacks, shirts and ties, placed brim hats on their heads, headed to their Fords or Buicks, and took off for every New England burg with a Main Street shop.
They’d try to find a parking spot in an era that predated the deaths of too many of those Main Streets, lug sample cases into a store and wait their turn with the owner.
When they had a chance, they’d open with the latest jokes and then deliver their spiels, some aggressive, some low-key. The store owners often bought less than the salesmen proffered. The peddlers would then write down the order, maybe tell another joke and head to the next town.
This was the routine of the 1950s, whether the day was hot, making them sweat through those starched shirts, or threatening snow that could make you drive with your heart in your mouth.
At midweek, some of the salesmen might gather in a hotel in upcountry Maine or downstate Connecticut, tell more bad jokes, drink too much and kvetch – that’s complain – about business.
But Saturday morn, these road warriors were back in the Garment District, flanked by the Combat Zone and Chinatown. They had details to wrap up, and they had to wind down.
I look to my left, knowing I won’t see Pete Harris’ barbershop, knowing it was long gone, just as the Essex Deli on the corner is now a Dunkin’ Donuts. At times, there were more Jewish guys in that barbershop on Saturday than you might find in a synagogue, and they weren’t quoting from the Talmud either.
They talked about the Sox, the daily number, how to avoid the Mohawk Trail and business, always business.
My Dad Max was there, as was his twin brother Leo. Up the street, Uncle Bobby Silverman toiled at Superior Clothing. A few doors down, another uncle, Nathan Sacon, worked in a hosiery shop.
The Garment District was my home away from home, a place where guys worked their tails off so that their kids could go to college and “do bettah.†Selling was a rough trade, subject to changes in taste, bad weather, union beefs, erratic deliveries.
So, often, when one guy in the barbershop asked another, “So? How’s business?†the answer was, “Don’t ask.â€
If I walked into the joint, Dad and Leo would beam. Hugs and handshakes ensued, and they’d accept me temporarily as part of their fraternity.
History belongs to all of us, and we need to travel past the old signposts of personal history to pay homage to those who made us possible. So I head down Essex Street, even as it tugs at my heart.
