1963. It's this year that I'm trying to remember, that and the first half of 1964. '63 began with the production of my first play, continued with the death of my father, ended with the assassination of JFK. January of '64 would be my final semester at Morgan. It's this period of time -- January, 1963 through June, 1964 -- that I'm trying to retrieve. This was the last period of my life spent in the town of my birth. I didn't know where I was going, but, believe me, I was most ways there and had been since my early teens. "Dad," I said. (I was fifteen.) "When I graduate high school I'm leaving and not coming back". He scoffed, but I was serious. Joining the Marines was what really got me out of there. Small price to pay. I may have written this someplace before (and I may again):my first week on Parris Island my drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Smith, pulled me aside, got smack up in my face, and bellowed, "What're you doin' in my Marine Corps, turd?" "Sir," I answered, "Sir, because it's safer than being at home, Sir." It was the first but not the last time his utter disdain was unleashed on me.
I give June of '64 as the end date of this memoir because that was my graduation from Morgan, but, really, it was back in May that the end came. Maybe April. Ruby Tire had died a long time ago, only now it was official. Like it's said of a Hollywood career: "It's dead six months before you know it."
Reuben Henry Foreman was his whole name. Ruby Tire was the name of his business, or, as we used to pronounce it in Baltimore, "Rooby Tar". It was a small retreading plant with a tire outlet in front. Ruby, my father, was in business with my Uncle Frank. Ruby ran the shop. Frank was the outside man, hustling and servicing accounts, mostly filling stations and auto dealerships. Uncle Frank's legendary moment came when he was on the train heading for a business trip in Ohio. Instead, Frank got off the train midway when he realized he didn't have his toothbrush, and hopped the next one back to Baltimore. You'd never accuse either my father or my uncle of having heads for business -- titans they were not -- however, the actual demise of the business was done by plotting elegant in its simplicity and oozing with classic machiavellian intent.
There wasn't much to divvy up. The two brothers had a legal agreement stating that if one died the surviving brother and partner would see that his brother's family got their fair share. Except that's not what happened. Shortly after becoming sole proprietor, Frank informed my mother that there would be no more money coming her way. Business was down and not looking up. He barely had enough for his family and none for his brother Ruby's. My mother appealed to Uncle Will, the patriarch of the Foreman clan. "Blood is thicker than water," he said, meaning Frank was his brother and my mother was merely a sister-in-law. He shrugged her off. "I can't help." Can't help. Won't help. Didn't help. And more!
Yes, there's more, a plot both diabolical and, in its way, brilliant.
Uncle Frank's in-laws were a tribe of first generation bandits, proto typical slum lords, late of Eastern Europe, mini-minded, and troll like, in particular, that angry one who lived under the bridge. The one named Anna had no teeth but wore diamonds the size of jelly beans on damn near every digit. The rings dug into the flesh of her fingers. She sat with her feet planted far apart. Her accent was thick, and it was hard not to look at her gums. I think she spit when she talked, but that might have been some of the other ones, or all of them, the ones about whom all I remember was that they were short. When my father died, they smelled blood in the water, and the following came to pass. My uncle would never have thought of it on his own. The man was a putz but not a thief.
With the exception of the war years in the forties when retreading tires was a bustling industry, Ruby Tire struggled to get by. The advent of a brand new tire for less than the price of a retread drove a stake through the failing heart of the business, yet this same business continued to eke out enough to support two families until my father's death. Those four words are key -- "until my father's death" -- because the day he died -- the body was still warm -- they began answering the phone, "Foreman Tires". A business which formerly served two familiies suddenly brought in barely enough for one, suddenly could no longer pay its debts, suddenly found itself in bankruptcy. So what was the plot? That was it: deliberately drive Ruby Tire into bankruptcy so your slum lord in-laws can buy it dirt cheap at auction then hand the business back to you with no debt attached. Ruby who?
It was even announced in the papers: auction...building plus equipment...such and such time and date. My mother's brother, Milton, a cherished uncle who often visited us from New York, happened to be in Baltimore at the time. He suggested we go watch. I didn't want to do it, felt like I'd be watching my father's funeral all over again, but I did it. I went, and, yes, it was like watching my father's funeral all over again.
The auction took place in an alley that ran beside the building. The auctioneer was above the crowd, but I don't remember what he stood on -- a box? the roof of a station wagon? the bed of a truck? Uncle Frank wasn't there, but three of his brothers-in-law were. Their suits were drab and disheveled, their bellies big, their faces pasty like dumplings. Breakfast was still on their ties. Other than a smattering of on-lookers, me and Uncle Milton, the three brothers-in-law were it.
The auctioneer got the pack's attention. He described the building and its contents, instructed us that the sale would be for the entire package which had been appraised at $3,000. That sum, paltry even by the standards of the day, is where the man began the auction. "Do I hear thirty five hundred dollars, three five zero zero?" What the man heard was nothing. I'd like to say all that was heard was a Tasty Cake wrapper scuttling down the alley in a dandy breeze. Nice image. Except it wasn't true. What was true was the silence. Not one word. Not one sound. There were always people on the street. Traffic must have been passing by. I just don't remember any sound at all. Uncle Milton leaned into me and asked, "Do you want it?" Did I want it? It never occurred to me that I could want it. "I'll give you the money," said Milton.
I'd have the money to buy the business and fire my uncle -- a favorite fantasy at the time.
"Three thousand dollars," barked one of the brothers-in-law.
"Do you want it?" asked Milton.
"I have three thousand. Do I hear four? Do I hear thirty five hundred?"
"Three thousand," repeated Frank's in-law.
"I have three thousand, three thousand dollars,"cried the auctioneer. "Three thousand going once."
"Do you want it?"
"Three thousand going twice."
"Do you want it?"
I didn't know what I wanted, but I knew what I didn't want. What I didn't want was to remain in Baltimore one day longer than necessary. What I didn't want was to be a slave to a business, any business, but certainly not the tire business.
My uncle nudged me. I choked on my words.
When I was small my father literally dandled me on his knee as he sang, "How y'gonna keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Paree...?" I hadn't yet seen "Paree" but I'd seen enough.
"Do you want it?"
"Three thousand three times..."
My father worked there six days a week from six to six. Was I going to simply roll over and let that man's hard work go? Ingrate! Down the toilet! The conscience of a Hitler!
I couldn't get a word out.
"Sold!"
My heart took a hit.
The troll wearing the baggiest suit stepped forward and counted three thousand cash into the auctioneer's hand.
Foreman Tires opened the next day. That June I graduated from Morgan. Soon I was gone.
