Seeing Home, page 11
The mother of Eddie Reis, my old campmate, once shared with me that she had a tough time finding insurance for Eddie. Very few companies were willing to underwrite a person who was blind, deaf, and mute. When I entered the business, I reached out to her. With clearance from both Mr. Gillis and Provident Mutual, I was able to secure a policy for my friend with no hassle. The only thing required was a small addition to the monthly premium.
I also approached Mr. Rizzuto about being a client. He already had lots of policies written to cover him during his playing days and in his new career as an announcer, so Phil suggested that I insure his son. My license limited me to selling life insurance policies, so the Rizzutos bought one for Phil Jr. They actually got him the largest one available, the Rolls-Royce of policies.
I was very grateful to Scooter again, this time for giving me such an auspicious start as an insurance salesman.
Selling insurance wouldn’t always be that easy. Like most sales positions, it depended largely on the use of lead cards and cold calls. Gladys would give me a list of prospective clients for the day. It was my job to phone them, convince them to meet with me, and then get them to sign on the dotted line. Gladys and Mr. Lindeman would read details of various Provident Mutual policies to me so that I could transcribe them to Braille cards. I would bring both the printed and Braille policies with me to meetings so that my potential customers could read along.
I never mentioned that I was blind when I spoke to my prospects on the phone. I didn’t think I had to. Once again, I underestimated the reactions I’d get when meeting them in person.
People were polite, at first. They would open their door to me as a courtesy since I’d already called them. It was quickly evident that most had no intention of buying a policy from me. The reactions to me and to Kay ranged from mild to openly hostile. One guy even wondered aloud how New Jersey could give a blind man with a dog a license to sell insurance. It was extremely frustrating.
There were some early meetings where the prospects didn’t care about my lack of sight. Those were refreshing, but I still didn’t book the sales. I was too new to the insurance business.
One of the toughest sit-downs I had was with a twenty-one-year-old guy from Livingston. He spent hours debating with me about policies. I made my most persuasive case, using everything I’d learned over the past few months. He had the pen in hand and I thought that I was about to close my first cold-call sale when he abruptly changed his mind. The rejection was based on the fact that he’d been comparing my rates with those of other companies. Someone had called on him the day before to offer him a life insurance policy that would have cost him a penny less a month than ours, with payments ending at age sixty-five. After doing the math, he went with my competitor instead, thanking me for my time and sending me on my way. As I sat on the bus ride home feeling dejected, I did the same calculations. This guy wasted my entire evening and four bus fares just to save a measly $5.25 over the course of the next forty-four years!
I seemed to be getting nowhere fast. My parents, as always, were extremely supportive in my choice to sell insurance.
In addition to driving me to my appointments when he could, Dad would give me little pep talks. He reminded me that insurance was just a necessary way station until I could make a name for myself in baseball. He wanted me to keep at it, to plow through the setbacks and excel in this new field as proof that I could successfully do anything that I set my mind to, including broadcasting. To keep me sharp, my father would quiz me on insurance policy details in between talk of box scores and batting averages.
Mom and Maureen helped out by role-playing with me. We’d sit at the kitchen table, where they would pretend to be potential clients as I pitched my assortment of policies. My sister peppered me with questions, which annoyed me at first, but actually served to make my presentation stronger. My mother bought everything I had to offer. She was my best “practice” customer.
Family members suggested leads for me to pursue and referred me to their friends and coworkers. I closed a few sales that way. To truly get ahead, I needed to broaden my portfolio. I had to take more classes to get my general license so that I could sell other types of insurance policies, such as home and automobile. The best part was that none of them required a signature. I could sell these new policies by phone and never have to have another in-person meeting. To get to the classes, I still had to take the bus.
Despite the familiarity for me and Kay, these rides were always an adventure.
I USUALLY SAT in the seat behind the bus driver when it was free. Kay would lie quietly at my feet. One afternoon, a guy got on, managing to rudely squeeze his way into the seat next to me. I could smell the potent amount of liquor on his breath as soon as he came near. He clumsily stepped all over Kay. She never flinched. As we arrived at my destination, the driver turned to let me know where we were. I began collecting my stuff, when the drunk gave me a sharp poke in the ribs. My inebriated seatmate said with a slur as I stood, “Hey, mister, I see that you’re one of those blind guys. I just want to let you know to watch your step on the way out. Some big jerk left a dog under your seat!”
Navigating the streets once I got off the bus brought some crazy interactions, too.
There is a very busy intersection on Raymond Boulevard in Newark. I would wait patiently on the corner with Kay until traffic subsided a bit as the light changed, then she would walk me across. Occasionally, a Good Samaritan would see that I was blind and grab my arm to help me get to the other side of the boulevard, completely ignoring my Seeing Eye dog. I never made a fuss or protested. I simply walked along, chatting about little things like the weather, politely thanking them at the end of the short journey. One day, a guy grabbed my arm, and I began the usual routine. Something was different. Not a word was said by my mysterious companion. I figured that he was shy. When we got to the other side, I discovered the reason for the silence. “I’d like to thank you, sir,” the stranger said. “It’s not often that someone will allow a blind man to just grab their arm and cross.” I was stunned, and replied, “Wait, did you just say that you’re blind?” He quickly answered, “Yes, is there a problem?” I took his hand and had him feel Kay’s harness. I explained that she was a Seeing Eye dog and offered to help him cross this busy street any time he wanted. I heard him shout “Heck no!” as he ran off in the opposite direction.
The classes paid off. I passed my test for general insurance. With the blessing of Mr. Gillis and Mr. Lindeman, I took a job at the Wolk Agency in North Bergen selling home and auto insurance. This was good for many reasons. Not only did my income rise a bit, my travel time decreased. North Bergen was less than two miles from Weehawken. Working exclusively by phone also meant no more evening meetings. I was now free to travel to the ballpark at night to renew my love affair with baseball.
Though I was busy with my studies and work in the early sixties, I’d managed to squeeze in a few visits to Yankee Stadium. Mr. Rizzuto and Jackie Farrell kept me involved in the clubhouse as guys like Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris had record-breaking seasons and the Yankees were, as usual, entrants in the World Series. The Giants were out in San Francisco, so I had to follow them from afar, except for the occasional road trip to Philadelphia to see them play the Phillies. That all changed in 1962 when the New York Mets were born.
ON FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 1962, the Mets played their first-ever home game in New York City. It was at the Polo Grounds. John Bauman drove over with me and Kay. Sadly, since the ballpark had been vacant for five years, Barney O’Toole had taken a job in another city and wasn’t there anymore. I couldn’t get onto the field or into the clubhouse. The Mets were so new, their PR staff didn’t know me yet. I wasn’t issued a press pass, so we sat in the stands. That didn’t matter much. Radios were small enough by then that I could take one to the ballpark to follow the game. I also developed the ability to tell, just from the crack of the bat, how hard the ball was hit, where it was traveling, and the distance it would go. John would quiz me with each batter, and this unique sensory experience never failed me.
I was thrilled to be back at the Polo Grounds, a place that held so many special memories for me, even if it wasn’t my team playing. The Mets lost 4–3 to the Pirates. As the game ended, John and I were leaving when I heard someone shouting my name. I thought it was my imagination, but it continued, “Hey, Eddie! Hey, Eddie!” I asked John to look around to see if anyone was calling me. He then spotted my friendly greeter. It was the catcher for the Mets, Hobie Landrith.
I’d known Hobie from his days with the Giants, Reds, and Cardinals. He was always genial when I’d approach him to chat or for an interview. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He was getting a lot of attention that season as the first draft pick for the Mets. Hobie called me down to the railing by the field. “I’m so glad to see you, Eddie,” he said warmly as he gave me a hug, “this place wouldn’t feel the same without you.” I thanked him, and promised to get to as many Mets games as I could. He invited me to have dinner with him some night to catch up. Before he walked away, Hobie praised Kay for being such an excellent guide dog.
That wasn’t unusual. Ballplayers seemed to gravitate toward Kay. My dog was a natural conversation starter for otherwise reluctant stars, just as she was for Ted Williams. Even managers and announcers paid special attention to her.
Casey Stengel, baseball’s venerated “Old Professor,” got to know me when he was in the midst of guiding the Yankees to seven World Series championships in eleven years as manager. Mr. Rizzuto was the first to introduce me to him, so Casey lovingly called me “Scooter’s Boy.” When I started bringing Kay around, Stengel would stop whatever he was doing to come over to greet her. This annoyed several writers, who were forced to cut their interviews short as a result. The Yankees unceremoniously let Casey go in 1960. He was hired as the first manager of the Mets two years later, at age seventy-two. The Mets started giving me passes to the Polo Grounds clubhouse in 1963. Stengel would stand in front of the clubhouse door when he saw me coming. He pretended to bar me from the room until I allowed him to pet his “girlfriend” Kay.
Russ Hodges and I kept in touch even after the Giants moved to San Francisco. He was their lead announcer now that Ernie Harwell had gone to Detroit. When the Giants were visiting Philadelphia, Russ would get me press passes, on one condition. He insisted that I bring Kay.
Hodges and Kay had a special bond, as they shared the same birthday, June 18. He was a dog lover and a passionate on-air advocate for the Seeing Eye and other services to help the blind. During commercial breaks, Russ would leave the booth to bring Kay dog biscuits and bowls of water. He even recommended a hotel for us while we stayed in Philadelphia. When I went to pay the bill, I was informed by the front desk that Hodges and Horace Stoneham, the owner of the Giants, had picked up the tab, in honor of their friend Kay.
Not every player embraced a dog in the clubhouse. Willie Mays, for instance, turned out to be a good pal to me, but he kept his distance whenever he saw Kay. Willie wasn’t very comfortable around dogs, even well-behaved ones like mine.
In August 1963, as I waited outside the visiting Cardinals clubhouse to say good-bye to Stan Musial, who was retiring after that season, I heard the door open and close repeatedly without anyone exiting. This went on for half an hour. The door would open, then shut, open, then shut. It was either the wind or my imagination. I finally asked the clubhouse guard what was happening, and he filled me in. A star pitcher for the Cardinals, “Sad Sam Toothpick” Jones, was mortally afraid of dogs and would not leave the ballpark until Kay and I did so first, so he kept peeking out to see whether we’d gone, then scurrying right back inside.
Once the baseball season finished, I was able to spend more time concentrating on insurance.
Things were going great at the Wolk Agency; I was selling many policies by phone. Though the majority of calls I made were from the office during the day, I would sometimes have to make them in the evening. If it was a local call, I could easily dial from home, but if it was long distance, I’d walk to the pay phone at Charlie’s Candy Store on the corner of Fiftieth to save my parents from having the extra charge appear on their phone bill.
I carried a pocket full of coins with me. I had no idea how much each call would cost. It depended on the location and duration. If the time bought with the change that I’d put in the slot ran out, then an operator would cut in on the call to let me know that I had to deposit more. It usually went without a hitch, until one day just before Christmas.
I was in the middle of a sales call when the operator’s voice broke in. I was ready for this, and had started to put the change in the slot when I hesitated for a moment. Something about the female voice on the other end made me want to hear it once more. “Excuse me, sir,” came the pleasant sound of the phone company employee, “if you’d like to continue the call, please deposit another ten cents.” My sales call wasn’t leading anywhere, and I was ready to conclude it anyway, so I bluffed a bit.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, as cheerily as I could, “there seems to be a problem with the connection on this phone. Can you stay on the line after I finish my call to assist me?” She seemed puzzled, but agreed. I ended my sales call and spent the next fifteen minutes chatting with the operator.
I admitted my ruse at the outset, but she didn’t hang up. Instead, this beguiling telephone operator asked me questions about my job even as I inquired about hers. The small talk blossomed from there. By the end of our chat, I’d learned that her name was Loretta, and that she was a twenty-five-year-old immigrant from Europe living in a small apartment in Jersey City with her two younger sisters.
Before we had to disconnect, Loretta mentioned that she did not own any insurance policies. I offered to help her with that. We set a time to meet at her home after the holidays. She gave me her phone number and address, then said good-bye in a singsong, whispery way that insinuated that she wanted to talk to me about more than just insurance. I had no way of writing any of her information down. I repeated it out loud over and over again on the jubilant walk back home so that I wouldn’t forget.
I’d gone to the candy store to sell a policy and come away with an unofficial date. Not bad at all.
The evening of the appointment with Loretta, I made my way by bus to Jersey City, ready to dazzle her, if not with my charm, then at least with my insurance policies. I arrived at her apartment, walked up the steps, and rang the bell. I could hear her thousand-watt smile through the door as she shouted, “I’ll be right there, Ed!” That happy tone disappeared as soon as Loretta opened the door and spotted Kay. She reacted to me as if I were showing up at a Yankee fan club meeting wearing a Red Sox cap.
The voice that was so warm and pleasant on the phone suddenly turned as cold as the January air outside.
I quickly realized that this would no longer be a prelude to a courtship, but a rather quick dismissal. I made a few jokes at my own expense, trying my best to recapture the magic from our call. Loretta was having none of it.
My Irish temper started to bubble to the surface, just as it had done with the recruiters at college a few months before. I chastised Loretta for being too shallow. I asked her to think of me as more than just a blind man. She said, “I’m sorry. You’re a good guy, and I liked talking to you on the phone. I just can’t date a blind person, so I think that you should go now.”
I took my cue and had turned to leave when an unfamiliar female voice called out from the corner of the apartment, “I can!”
Loretta shouted sternly back to her, “Excuse me? What did you say?”
The new voice continued, “I can date a blind person, especially one this cute.” My admirer turned out to be Loretta’s younger sister Delilah. She’d been hiding in the back of the room, observing our conversation at the door, and decided to speak up before I left for good.
The fury in Loretta’s voice was evident as she snapped, “I forbid you to go out with him!”
Delilah calmly replied, “I’m twenty years old now, I can date whoever I want. Mom sent me to live with you, but she didn’t make you my boss!” With that, she raced over to me, grabbed my arm, and said, “Let’s go, Ed!” She walked me down the steps before Loretta could object any more. Before I knew it, we were at the Loew’s Theater in Journal Square, holding hands as we watched Sidney Poitier in Lilies of the Field. Our love grew from there.
Delilah, or “Dee” as she liked to be called, was the second youngest of ten children, nine girls and one boy. Her mother was a widow who struggled to support her family on a meager farming income. One by one, she sent her daughters over from Europe to America, with its promise of a better life and unlimited riches. Her only son stayed behind to help run the farm. Dee, as a ten-year-old, was actually sent alone to the United States on one of the last boats to come through Ellis Island before it closed for good.
The fact that Dee was an immigrant boosted her appeal with my father, who was always in touch with his immigrant roots. My mother was thrilled that I was dating. She doted on Dee, treating her like a daughter from the very beginning.
Because I obviously couldn’t drive, and Dee didn’t yet have a license, we double-dated a lot. Gene Mehl and his girlfriend Karen would take us to concerts in New York. Dee and I would go to dances in Jersey City with my friends Bunny Courtney, Annette Spolazino, and Maryanne Donohue and their boyfriends. George Franconero and his fiancée Arlene took us to the movies and Broadway shows. Our social calendar was pretty packed.
It was after one of those nights in New York City that George and I decided to play a joke on Arlene and Dee. As we drove back home along Boulevard East in Weehawken, with its majestic view of the famous Manhattan skyline, George asked, “Ed, what time does it say on the clock at the top of the Empire State Building?”
Stifling a laugh because I remembered that there was no such clock, I secretly checked my Braille watch and replied, “It says 10:45 up there, George.”
I also approached Mr. Rizzuto about being a client. He already had lots of policies written to cover him during his playing days and in his new career as an announcer, so Phil suggested that I insure his son. My license limited me to selling life insurance policies, so the Rizzutos bought one for Phil Jr. They actually got him the largest one available, the Rolls-Royce of policies.
I was very grateful to Scooter again, this time for giving me such an auspicious start as an insurance salesman.
Selling insurance wouldn’t always be that easy. Like most sales positions, it depended largely on the use of lead cards and cold calls. Gladys would give me a list of prospective clients for the day. It was my job to phone them, convince them to meet with me, and then get them to sign on the dotted line. Gladys and Mr. Lindeman would read details of various Provident Mutual policies to me so that I could transcribe them to Braille cards. I would bring both the printed and Braille policies with me to meetings so that my potential customers could read along.
I never mentioned that I was blind when I spoke to my prospects on the phone. I didn’t think I had to. Once again, I underestimated the reactions I’d get when meeting them in person.
People were polite, at first. They would open their door to me as a courtesy since I’d already called them. It was quickly evident that most had no intention of buying a policy from me. The reactions to me and to Kay ranged from mild to openly hostile. One guy even wondered aloud how New Jersey could give a blind man with a dog a license to sell insurance. It was extremely frustrating.
There were some early meetings where the prospects didn’t care about my lack of sight. Those were refreshing, but I still didn’t book the sales. I was too new to the insurance business.
One of the toughest sit-downs I had was with a twenty-one-year-old guy from Livingston. He spent hours debating with me about policies. I made my most persuasive case, using everything I’d learned over the past few months. He had the pen in hand and I thought that I was about to close my first cold-call sale when he abruptly changed his mind. The rejection was based on the fact that he’d been comparing my rates with those of other companies. Someone had called on him the day before to offer him a life insurance policy that would have cost him a penny less a month than ours, with payments ending at age sixty-five. After doing the math, he went with my competitor instead, thanking me for my time and sending me on my way. As I sat on the bus ride home feeling dejected, I did the same calculations. This guy wasted my entire evening and four bus fares just to save a measly $5.25 over the course of the next forty-four years!
I seemed to be getting nowhere fast. My parents, as always, were extremely supportive in my choice to sell insurance.
In addition to driving me to my appointments when he could, Dad would give me little pep talks. He reminded me that insurance was just a necessary way station until I could make a name for myself in baseball. He wanted me to keep at it, to plow through the setbacks and excel in this new field as proof that I could successfully do anything that I set my mind to, including broadcasting. To keep me sharp, my father would quiz me on insurance policy details in between talk of box scores and batting averages.
Mom and Maureen helped out by role-playing with me. We’d sit at the kitchen table, where they would pretend to be potential clients as I pitched my assortment of policies. My sister peppered me with questions, which annoyed me at first, but actually served to make my presentation stronger. My mother bought everything I had to offer. She was my best “practice” customer.
Family members suggested leads for me to pursue and referred me to their friends and coworkers. I closed a few sales that way. To truly get ahead, I needed to broaden my portfolio. I had to take more classes to get my general license so that I could sell other types of insurance policies, such as home and automobile. The best part was that none of them required a signature. I could sell these new policies by phone and never have to have another in-person meeting. To get to the classes, I still had to take the bus.
Despite the familiarity for me and Kay, these rides were always an adventure.
I USUALLY SAT in the seat behind the bus driver when it was free. Kay would lie quietly at my feet. One afternoon, a guy got on, managing to rudely squeeze his way into the seat next to me. I could smell the potent amount of liquor on his breath as soon as he came near. He clumsily stepped all over Kay. She never flinched. As we arrived at my destination, the driver turned to let me know where we were. I began collecting my stuff, when the drunk gave me a sharp poke in the ribs. My inebriated seatmate said with a slur as I stood, “Hey, mister, I see that you’re one of those blind guys. I just want to let you know to watch your step on the way out. Some big jerk left a dog under your seat!”
Navigating the streets once I got off the bus brought some crazy interactions, too.
There is a very busy intersection on Raymond Boulevard in Newark. I would wait patiently on the corner with Kay until traffic subsided a bit as the light changed, then she would walk me across. Occasionally, a Good Samaritan would see that I was blind and grab my arm to help me get to the other side of the boulevard, completely ignoring my Seeing Eye dog. I never made a fuss or protested. I simply walked along, chatting about little things like the weather, politely thanking them at the end of the short journey. One day, a guy grabbed my arm, and I began the usual routine. Something was different. Not a word was said by my mysterious companion. I figured that he was shy. When we got to the other side, I discovered the reason for the silence. “I’d like to thank you, sir,” the stranger said. “It’s not often that someone will allow a blind man to just grab their arm and cross.” I was stunned, and replied, “Wait, did you just say that you’re blind?” He quickly answered, “Yes, is there a problem?” I took his hand and had him feel Kay’s harness. I explained that she was a Seeing Eye dog and offered to help him cross this busy street any time he wanted. I heard him shout “Heck no!” as he ran off in the opposite direction.
The classes paid off. I passed my test for general insurance. With the blessing of Mr. Gillis and Mr. Lindeman, I took a job at the Wolk Agency in North Bergen selling home and auto insurance. This was good for many reasons. Not only did my income rise a bit, my travel time decreased. North Bergen was less than two miles from Weehawken. Working exclusively by phone also meant no more evening meetings. I was now free to travel to the ballpark at night to renew my love affair with baseball.
Though I was busy with my studies and work in the early sixties, I’d managed to squeeze in a few visits to Yankee Stadium. Mr. Rizzuto and Jackie Farrell kept me involved in the clubhouse as guys like Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris had record-breaking seasons and the Yankees were, as usual, entrants in the World Series. The Giants were out in San Francisco, so I had to follow them from afar, except for the occasional road trip to Philadelphia to see them play the Phillies. That all changed in 1962 when the New York Mets were born.
ON FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 1962, the Mets played their first-ever home game in New York City. It was at the Polo Grounds. John Bauman drove over with me and Kay. Sadly, since the ballpark had been vacant for five years, Barney O’Toole had taken a job in another city and wasn’t there anymore. I couldn’t get onto the field or into the clubhouse. The Mets were so new, their PR staff didn’t know me yet. I wasn’t issued a press pass, so we sat in the stands. That didn’t matter much. Radios were small enough by then that I could take one to the ballpark to follow the game. I also developed the ability to tell, just from the crack of the bat, how hard the ball was hit, where it was traveling, and the distance it would go. John would quiz me with each batter, and this unique sensory experience never failed me.
I was thrilled to be back at the Polo Grounds, a place that held so many special memories for me, even if it wasn’t my team playing. The Mets lost 4–3 to the Pirates. As the game ended, John and I were leaving when I heard someone shouting my name. I thought it was my imagination, but it continued, “Hey, Eddie! Hey, Eddie!” I asked John to look around to see if anyone was calling me. He then spotted my friendly greeter. It was the catcher for the Mets, Hobie Landrith.
I’d known Hobie from his days with the Giants, Reds, and Cardinals. He was always genial when I’d approach him to chat or for an interview. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He was getting a lot of attention that season as the first draft pick for the Mets. Hobie called me down to the railing by the field. “I’m so glad to see you, Eddie,” he said warmly as he gave me a hug, “this place wouldn’t feel the same without you.” I thanked him, and promised to get to as many Mets games as I could. He invited me to have dinner with him some night to catch up. Before he walked away, Hobie praised Kay for being such an excellent guide dog.
That wasn’t unusual. Ballplayers seemed to gravitate toward Kay. My dog was a natural conversation starter for otherwise reluctant stars, just as she was for Ted Williams. Even managers and announcers paid special attention to her.
Casey Stengel, baseball’s venerated “Old Professor,” got to know me when he was in the midst of guiding the Yankees to seven World Series championships in eleven years as manager. Mr. Rizzuto was the first to introduce me to him, so Casey lovingly called me “Scooter’s Boy.” When I started bringing Kay around, Stengel would stop whatever he was doing to come over to greet her. This annoyed several writers, who were forced to cut their interviews short as a result. The Yankees unceremoniously let Casey go in 1960. He was hired as the first manager of the Mets two years later, at age seventy-two. The Mets started giving me passes to the Polo Grounds clubhouse in 1963. Stengel would stand in front of the clubhouse door when he saw me coming. He pretended to bar me from the room until I allowed him to pet his “girlfriend” Kay.
Russ Hodges and I kept in touch even after the Giants moved to San Francisco. He was their lead announcer now that Ernie Harwell had gone to Detroit. When the Giants were visiting Philadelphia, Russ would get me press passes, on one condition. He insisted that I bring Kay.
Hodges and Kay had a special bond, as they shared the same birthday, June 18. He was a dog lover and a passionate on-air advocate for the Seeing Eye and other services to help the blind. During commercial breaks, Russ would leave the booth to bring Kay dog biscuits and bowls of water. He even recommended a hotel for us while we stayed in Philadelphia. When I went to pay the bill, I was informed by the front desk that Hodges and Horace Stoneham, the owner of the Giants, had picked up the tab, in honor of their friend Kay.
Not every player embraced a dog in the clubhouse. Willie Mays, for instance, turned out to be a good pal to me, but he kept his distance whenever he saw Kay. Willie wasn’t very comfortable around dogs, even well-behaved ones like mine.
In August 1963, as I waited outside the visiting Cardinals clubhouse to say good-bye to Stan Musial, who was retiring after that season, I heard the door open and close repeatedly without anyone exiting. This went on for half an hour. The door would open, then shut, open, then shut. It was either the wind or my imagination. I finally asked the clubhouse guard what was happening, and he filled me in. A star pitcher for the Cardinals, “Sad Sam Toothpick” Jones, was mortally afraid of dogs and would not leave the ballpark until Kay and I did so first, so he kept peeking out to see whether we’d gone, then scurrying right back inside.
Once the baseball season finished, I was able to spend more time concentrating on insurance.
Things were going great at the Wolk Agency; I was selling many policies by phone. Though the majority of calls I made were from the office during the day, I would sometimes have to make them in the evening. If it was a local call, I could easily dial from home, but if it was long distance, I’d walk to the pay phone at Charlie’s Candy Store on the corner of Fiftieth to save my parents from having the extra charge appear on their phone bill.
I carried a pocket full of coins with me. I had no idea how much each call would cost. It depended on the location and duration. If the time bought with the change that I’d put in the slot ran out, then an operator would cut in on the call to let me know that I had to deposit more. It usually went without a hitch, until one day just before Christmas.
I was in the middle of a sales call when the operator’s voice broke in. I was ready for this, and had started to put the change in the slot when I hesitated for a moment. Something about the female voice on the other end made me want to hear it once more. “Excuse me, sir,” came the pleasant sound of the phone company employee, “if you’d like to continue the call, please deposit another ten cents.” My sales call wasn’t leading anywhere, and I was ready to conclude it anyway, so I bluffed a bit.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, as cheerily as I could, “there seems to be a problem with the connection on this phone. Can you stay on the line after I finish my call to assist me?” She seemed puzzled, but agreed. I ended my sales call and spent the next fifteen minutes chatting with the operator.
I admitted my ruse at the outset, but she didn’t hang up. Instead, this beguiling telephone operator asked me questions about my job even as I inquired about hers. The small talk blossomed from there. By the end of our chat, I’d learned that her name was Loretta, and that she was a twenty-five-year-old immigrant from Europe living in a small apartment in Jersey City with her two younger sisters.
Before we had to disconnect, Loretta mentioned that she did not own any insurance policies. I offered to help her with that. We set a time to meet at her home after the holidays. She gave me her phone number and address, then said good-bye in a singsong, whispery way that insinuated that she wanted to talk to me about more than just insurance. I had no way of writing any of her information down. I repeated it out loud over and over again on the jubilant walk back home so that I wouldn’t forget.
I’d gone to the candy store to sell a policy and come away with an unofficial date. Not bad at all.
The evening of the appointment with Loretta, I made my way by bus to Jersey City, ready to dazzle her, if not with my charm, then at least with my insurance policies. I arrived at her apartment, walked up the steps, and rang the bell. I could hear her thousand-watt smile through the door as she shouted, “I’ll be right there, Ed!” That happy tone disappeared as soon as Loretta opened the door and spotted Kay. She reacted to me as if I were showing up at a Yankee fan club meeting wearing a Red Sox cap.
The voice that was so warm and pleasant on the phone suddenly turned as cold as the January air outside.
I quickly realized that this would no longer be a prelude to a courtship, but a rather quick dismissal. I made a few jokes at my own expense, trying my best to recapture the magic from our call. Loretta was having none of it.
My Irish temper started to bubble to the surface, just as it had done with the recruiters at college a few months before. I chastised Loretta for being too shallow. I asked her to think of me as more than just a blind man. She said, “I’m sorry. You’re a good guy, and I liked talking to you on the phone. I just can’t date a blind person, so I think that you should go now.”
I took my cue and had turned to leave when an unfamiliar female voice called out from the corner of the apartment, “I can!”
Loretta shouted sternly back to her, “Excuse me? What did you say?”
The new voice continued, “I can date a blind person, especially one this cute.” My admirer turned out to be Loretta’s younger sister Delilah. She’d been hiding in the back of the room, observing our conversation at the door, and decided to speak up before I left for good.
The fury in Loretta’s voice was evident as she snapped, “I forbid you to go out with him!”
Delilah calmly replied, “I’m twenty years old now, I can date whoever I want. Mom sent me to live with you, but she didn’t make you my boss!” With that, she raced over to me, grabbed my arm, and said, “Let’s go, Ed!” She walked me down the steps before Loretta could object any more. Before I knew it, we were at the Loew’s Theater in Journal Square, holding hands as we watched Sidney Poitier in Lilies of the Field. Our love grew from there.
Delilah, or “Dee” as she liked to be called, was the second youngest of ten children, nine girls and one boy. Her mother was a widow who struggled to support her family on a meager farming income. One by one, she sent her daughters over from Europe to America, with its promise of a better life and unlimited riches. Her only son stayed behind to help run the farm. Dee, as a ten-year-old, was actually sent alone to the United States on one of the last boats to come through Ellis Island before it closed for good.
The fact that Dee was an immigrant boosted her appeal with my father, who was always in touch with his immigrant roots. My mother was thrilled that I was dating. She doted on Dee, treating her like a daughter from the very beginning.
Because I obviously couldn’t drive, and Dee didn’t yet have a license, we double-dated a lot. Gene Mehl and his girlfriend Karen would take us to concerts in New York. Dee and I would go to dances in Jersey City with my friends Bunny Courtney, Annette Spolazino, and Maryanne Donohue and their boyfriends. George Franconero and his fiancée Arlene took us to the movies and Broadway shows. Our social calendar was pretty packed.
It was after one of those nights in New York City that George and I decided to play a joke on Arlene and Dee. As we drove back home along Boulevard East in Weehawken, with its majestic view of the famous Manhattan skyline, George asked, “Ed, what time does it say on the clock at the top of the Empire State Building?”
Stifling a laugh because I remembered that there was no such clock, I secretly checked my Braille watch and replied, “It says 10:45 up there, George.”
