Morgan - Ruby Tire

My father died on the night of the first seder, 1963, the second semester of my junior year at Morgan. I'd been a produced playwright for two months, both at home in Baltimore at Morgan and in New York City, a production somehow wangled by Dr. Waters Turpin on stage at Colombia University Teacher's College. He was, my father, I think, a closet comic, who was always impersonating guys like Berle and Gleason and Jackie Leonard. "Son, one of these days you're gonna find yourself, and, when you do, you're gonna be awfully disappointed," was a favorite. Also, "I guess you're not gonna be a bum after all," said in a W.C.Fields accent with his arm around my shoulders back stage opening night. 

Reuben Henry Foreman ran a business called The Ruby Tire Company, or, in Baltimorese, Rooby Tar. He turned threadbare used tires into the semblance of new ones through a process called retreading which evolved out of existence with the advent of a brand new tire cheaper than a used one (which, essentially, a retread was regardless of the way it looked). Ruby Tire was on Fremont Avenue just up from Baltimore Street in southwest Baltimore, the poorest section of the city, all Black, 360 degrees, everywhere you turned except for Ruby Tire, the package goods across the street, and Louis the Greek's restaurant on the corner. Oh, yes, and Jake the Tailor, just the other side of the alley, who sat in the window of his shop Indian fashion while he sewed with needle, thread, and thimble six days 'til closing. Every man who worked for Ruby Tire was Black as well: the Carey brothers, Jimmy and Lou, twins; Vernon Graves; Zebediah Fullwood; Claude Crocket; George Brown; Gainwell Haines aka Sporty...Sporty and I used to go down to the corner grocery and, for a quarter, buy a slug of bologna, a thick slice of onion, and a roll plus a Royal Crown soda. Then we'd sit on the sidewalk outside Ruby Tire, our backs to the wall, and munch away. I first began working for Ruby Tire at the age of eleven until my father died when I was twenty-one, some weeks six days out of six. These men were a part of my upbringing.

Ruby Tire could well be a memoir of its own, so what does it have to do with Morgan? Call it prep school. The difficulty with writing about Morgan, as I've said so many times before, is because the experience seemed so normal. Now, I've come to the conclusion that Morgan seemed so normal because Ruby Tire seemed so normal. I never questioned whether these men were better than me or worse than me or even that different from me. They were just guys who worked for my father like I did. From the point of view of an experienced octogenarian, of course, I now see the difference, but I didn't then. Except for my Marine Corps tour, until my father died, Ruby Tire was an integral part of my life, more days than not. My brother and I fixed flats and stacked rubber like everybody else. But, before my junior year was over, Ruby Tire was at its end.

Two months after my father's death his partner declared bankruptcy throwing the business up for auction. The plan was nefarious. Partner declares bankruptcy. Business goes to auction. Auction goes to rich in-laws who buy it back debt free and unencumbered by a partner's obligations to the surviving family. In other words, our family would be completely cut loose from the business...unless...I...bought...it...back. A beloved uncle said he'd put up the money if I wanted, and went with me to the auction as did two dear friends from Morgan, Jean Wiley and George Barrett, both now dead as is my uncle, of course. 

Auction day was a hot one in mid summer. It was held in the alley bordering the business and attended sparsely. Uncle Milton was to my right. Jean and George to my left. The auctioneer stood on the roof of a car (That's what I remember) and began his spiel. Suddenly, there was a price tag attached. A ridiculously affordable one. A set up. Unless I bought it. The countdown began. "Do I hear..." My uncle said, "Do you want it?" "Do I hear..." "Do you want it?" Did I want it? Steve's Tire Town? "Do I hear..." Did I want... "Do you want it?" Did I want it? No, God damn it, I don't want it. Didn't want it. Let the bastards have it. I don't want to drop out of school. I don't want to drop out of my life. Let the bastards have theirs, and I'll have mine. "Sold," bellowed the auctioneer, and that was that.