by M. Sigmund Shapiro
May 14, 2003
In the days before automation, a customs broker’s office
resembled a Dickensian environment. Papers were everywhere (not that
there’s less paper now). Telex and TWX machines clattered all day,
phones rang insistently, and before air conditioning, there was the
roar of electric fans. Everybody smoked and everyone shouted
conversations back and forth.
There were runners to take documents to the Custom House and pick
up ladings from steamship companies. There were file clerks,
mimeograph operators and general "office boys" who brought in coffee
and lunch as needed.
Our company had its share of these employees. It was our policy
to hire retired persons who wanted to supplement their Social
Security. And we got to know some unique individuals.
There was Bill, an ex postal employee who came in one hot summer
day wearing a tank top and short (and I mean short) shorts. He was
sent home to change. The next day he came in wearing a tuxedo.
There was Abe. Abe was over six feet tall and had a problem
breathing through his nose, so he taped his nostrils open with
scotch tape. In addition, during his break, he would go into the
basement of our two story building where we kept old files, and doze
off lying across the boxes. Anyone going downstairs who didn’t know
thought he was in Frankenstein’s laboratory.
And there was Bob, or Moose as he was called. It was his job to
clean out the fridge every Friday. Around 4:30 each week, you would
hear a cry throughout the office: "Anybody who’s got anythink (sic)
in the refrigerator, WHIP IT OUT!!"
It was a different world.
