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It was the end of the greatest Christmas break of my life. I am sitting next to my father in our Caprice Classic station wagon as he drives me to the airport to catch a People’s Express flight back to Buffalo. I begin to replay the vacation in my mind. Glancing at Jimmy Spinner Sr. in his ever present flannel shirt, wavy brown hair and sad grey eyes I smile. It all began a few weeks before as we left this very same airport terminal at the end of December, 1981…
I had a late final at the end of my first semester. The dorms were silent and depressing as most people had already gone home. Coming off the plane, in a more innocent time of lax security, I spy my dad in his red and black hunting jacket. I give him a hug, which was always awkward for my dad but I never let that stop me. I picked up the hugging habit at summer camp and to this day I need that closeness. We walked together through the old terminal my dad looking out of place amid the business travelers as he slouched to put on his knit longshoreman’s cap. Sitting in traffic on the BQE, we talk about school, the family and the Jets. Eventually my father says, “I got you a job down the shop. You’ll be going to work with me in the morning.” Most college kids would have bitched about the grind of the semester, about all-nighters and final exams. I didn’t even think about not having a vacation. My response, “Cool.”
I didn’t have to ask what time we would be leaving in the morning. You could set your watch by my father for the years he worked at ExhibitGroupNY. Our morning school routines timed to his coffee cup clanks, the starting of the family car to warm it up…That first morning I decide to take a shower, I know Dad scoffs at that idea, You’re just going to get dirty again he’s thinking. I don’t really have work clothes so I put on my Herman Survivors, a flannel shirt and a pair of Levi's. We’re off. I climb into the back seat and sit on my hands to warm them up. I knew the front seat was reserved for Sammy Yannonne, the father of one of my boyhood friends. Some years before, Sammy had lost his job. My father knew Sammy was handy, so he got him a job as a carpenter. Over the years they became friends; going on fishing trips and out for beers every payday. I loved watching the interplay between them. These were men who called a car or boat “she” as in, “She’s running good lately.” To this day if I do that I sound like a tool. Most of their communication was semi-verbal, a series of grunts and groans, kind of like whales. Morning Jim. Morning Sam.
That morning, like every morning, we weave our way through the Brooklyn streets toward the waterfront, stopping at a deli for a cup of coffee and a corn muffin. Real food, for real men, no foofy café lattes. Looking back now I am sure Sam and my dad were excited to have me tag along. Must have been a nice break to their routine to have this 19 year old kid, full of energy, bouncing off the back seat, taking it all in. As a non-driver, I was duly impressed with the trust they had in each other. We’d get to a stop sign at 36th Street and 6th Avenue and my father would look left and Sammy right. Sammy’d say, “tsgoodthisway.” And my father would go, wouldn’t double-check, he'd just go. I thought that was so cool.
Arriving at the “parking lot,” we bump our way past trucks and loading docks until we park right up against the fence. Getting out of the car I see white caps and the Statue of Liberty. The canyons of Wall Street are visible across the harbor but a continent away from this rough and tumble place. ExhibitGroupNY was in a block-long factory on 44th Street just North of 1st Avenue. Those of you who drove the Gowanus back in the 80’s might recall the “Whale Fuel Oil” advertisement on the smokestack. That was my father’s workplace. A place where the cobblestones are for working and shipping not walking and shopping. It’s freaking cold. We park in the same spot every day, far from the front door. We were supposed to be in by 8 and that’s what time we’d get there. There was a punch clock with punch cards. If we were a few minutes late, someone would have punched us in. The guys looking out for each other. You see, union guys get paid in ¼ hour increments; so at 8:08, you lost the first quarter hour. The guys always assumed my old man and Sammy would be in, I never remember him taking a sick day, well until…again, that's a different story for a another time.
My father was the foreman of the carpenters. The most important part of his job was designing wooden cases to ship exhibits. At ExhibitGroupNY they built exhibits for conventions like the car or boat show. The guys would build the exhibits in the warehouse; shiny-aluminum and plexiglass-temporary structures designed to impress. Exhibits would be built in such a way that you could take them apart in big pieces. These pieces would be put into “my dad’s” wooden crates and shipped to the host city, St. Louis for instance. The goal was to make it easy to put the exhibits together at the convention site.
A few days into the routine, I notice there are only three people in the company who have their own parking spot. I see Tony’s Cadillac parked right in front; seems about right, he’s the big boss. There’s a placard on the wall with Tony’s name on it. To the right, an identical placard reserves a spot for Tony B, foreman of the electricians. Finally, to the right of Tony B’s spot it says Jim Spinner but someone else’s car is parked there. I warehouse this info for the right time. I wait until Sammy’s not in the car and I ask, “That’s pretty cool dad, you have your own parking spot! Out of all the guys in the company, only three guys get their own spot.” I get no response. “And someone else is parking in your spot.We gotta park all the way by the fence. Whose car is it? Why don’t you say something?” My father must have been chuckling, leading me right where he wanted me to go, “That’s not an 8 o’clock spot.” “What do you mean by that Dad? That’s your spot.” “I mean, those spots are for people who get in early, the guys who open the shop at 6:30 when it’s really cold, like Joe Brown, that’s Joe’s spot. Those spots against the fence, those are 8 o’clock spots.”
Throughout the month I kept picking up tid-bits about my dad. As I watched him play poker with his buddies at lunch or saw him in action during the work day, I could see he was an integral part of the Exhibitgroup hierarchy. Already prone to hero worship, he was my father, I am still impressed with what I learned. One day I was working on the loading dock, riding the back of the forklift with Lou and Louis. This father and son team from Sunset Park were in charge of getting the large wooden crates with the exhibits in them, onto and off the trucks. Big Lou hid bottles of rum among the crates around the warehouse, so the two were usually half soused by 11 o’clock. Thursday was payday, and these were the days before direct deposit so one of the girls from the office delivered our paychecks. At the end of my second week, Diane, this cute little Italian girl from Bensonhurst uses my name as she hands me my paycheck, “And for Jim Spinner Junior.” I smile and put the envelope in my pocket. As she walks away, Louis turns to me and says, “Yo, your father is Jim Spinner?” When I say yes, father and son look at each other and the son says, “The fuck you working on the loading dock for?”
“I don’t know, it’s a good job.”
“Bullshit, you should be working with the other carpenters or in the office with the shirts and skirts.”
As I said, Thursday was Payday. Every payday Dad, Sammy and I would go to Ulmer’s, a neighborhood bar. We’d each put up a 20 and sit at the bar and talk. Those were some of the best beers I've ever had. Both Sam and my father were Schaefer drinkers. In 1981, I was a Bud drinker. The entire month Sam, Mary Quinn the bartender, and my father busted my chops, telling me I couldn’t tell the difference. Sammy really loved to rag on me, “Snot-nosed college kid, doesn’t know Budweiser from Schaefer. I bet you you can’t tell the difference. Turn around and let Mary pour you one.” They’d make me turn around and Mary’d pour a few beers. I would have to pick the Budweiser. In the entire month I never got it wrong. In the way of working class dads, I could see my father was proud of that.
I continued to fly under the radar at ExhibitGroup as most people did not know me. I loved to overhear conversations about my father, to find out that my dad was respected, that he was important, especially to Tony, the owner. Now you have to remember, this was the beginning of the go-go 80's. One night dad and I are in the living room at home and I ask him, “You know Louie and Lou say I shouldn’t be working on the loading dock, that you should have gotten me a better job with you, or in the office.” My father thought about it for a second and said, “You’re making good money on the loading dock?” “YEH, really good!” “You know what happens I get you a job in the office? You start to make real money, you won’t want to go back to college. Don’t worry, you graduate, Tony’ll give you a sales job in the office, if you still want it.”
My last week there, my last payday at Ulmer’s, I begin to make the case for my dad to ask for a raise. I cite evidence about how much Tony really needs him, how much the company needs him, how everyone respects him.
“You should ask Tony for a raise.”
“Why do I need a raise?”
“Because it’s like more money.”
“What do I need more money for Butch?”
“You know, more money! It’s a good thing dad!”
With a few beers in him my dad is willing to open up, to get emotional, “Why do I need more money? I have a wife who loves me, a job that I like, the respect of my peers and my children. I have a house and a boat. What do I need more money for. I’ve got peace of mind.”
That whole month's vacation my father was teaching me life lessons. I am most proud of the fact that I went to work willingly, subconcsiously maybe I knew I wouldn't have many more vacations with him. I chose the title in a nod to the fact that my dad was a New Yorker so he was One in 8 Million.
