It was supposed to have been a dream-come-true summer back when I turning from eleven to twelve. It was 1967, and elsewhere it was the summer of love. For me, it was going to be an entire summer at Wildwood, a beach resort in New Jersey. My brother Frank and his friend had bought Vince’s Sandwich Shop, a small place on Pacific Avenue, and that was our ticket to weeks at the shore.
Wildwood – what a place! It had all that a kid from Philly could ask for. There was the beach, the ocean and a boardwalk that stretched on forever, with every amusement ride, souvenir shop and food stand imaginable. I can still smell the cotton candy and hear the sound of the wheels of chance being mechanically spun. Back then, a frugal kid with a dollar could be quite well-entertained for an entire day.
When I learned that we would be spending the whole summer in Wildwood, it didn’t feel real. On past vacations, we had never spent more than week or so, and that was usually before the peak of the season when rental rates went up for the multitude of old-fashioned apartments that came with a kitchen but without air conditioning. They had wooden floors with sand that magically appeared no matter how many times the place was swept. Now, we would be staying in one of those apartments “for the season.”
Mom would be working as a waitress in the sandwich shop, and so would Mickie, Frank’s fiancé, who would be sharing the apartment with Mom, me and my little brother, Mike. I was going to be steadily employed for the first time in my life. They told me that I could work a few hours each afternoon in the shop washing dishes. Dad stayed home in Philly doing his music thing. Mike was too young to work, so he was free to be a kid at the beach.
The first couple of weeks were great. I was earning 25 cents an hour, which seemed like a lot because my standing weekly allowance at home was 25 cents. When Frank gave me my first paycheck for $3.75, I felt like a big shot and incredibly proud of myself. With that pay, I opened a savings account at a local bank and kept out $1.75 to use on the boardwalk.
Mike became angry when he saw my money, since he was still getting just 25 cents in weekly allowance and whatever else he could beg from Mom and Frank. A quarter didn’t go far for Mike, as he was constantly playing the prize wheels or putting a dime into the mechanical fortune teller who would answer “yes or no” questions about the future. You would put your coin in the machine then ask your question out loud. Ten seconds later, your answer would appear on a small card that issued from the figure’s hand. Mike once asked if he would die the next day, and the card’s reply was, “Yes, and you did not stump me!”
Mike needed more money than his allowance provided if he was going to continue to enjoy his summer. He put plan B into action – shoe shining. Mike stood out from the other shoeshine boys who hustled for coins out on the streets of Wildwood. First, his homemade box was of a strikingly modern design, with the foot rest in the actual shape of a foot. Second, Mike asked everyone who passed – men, women and children – if they wanted a shine. All were charged the same. Ten cents for a shine, 25 cents for boots and a nickel for a buff.
Mike did not open a savings account with the money he earned. Instead, he did the sensible thing for a kid of nine. As soon as he accumulated 40 or 50 cents, he put away the shoeshine box and headed to the boardwalk. Once the money was gone, he would be back on the sidewalk with his box again.
So, he was happy, I was happy, and Mom was happy. But Frank didn’t seem happy. There was a problem with him and his partner. Then, just two weeks into our glorious summer, Frank told us that he was selling out his share of the sandwich shop. None of us would be working there anymore.
Frank got a bartender job in the Rainbow rock and roll club down the street, and Mom got a waitress job in a hotel restaurant. Mike had his shoe shining gig, but what about me? Who was going to hire an eleven-year-old unemployed dishwasher?
Within a week, my savings account – opened with such pride less than a month earlier – was closed out, and I was down to my last 35 cents. Without money, Wildwood was not a paradise – it was just a place to take a dip in the ocean and then track sand everywhere. My prospects were bleak. Then Mom suggested that I could shine shoes just like Mike did. The next time he visited from Philly, Dad was going to bring an old shoeshine box he had scavenged.
I wasn’t really keen on the idea and couldn’t see myself hustling the way that Mike did. But I didn’t have many alternatives. You know what they say – any port in a storm. So, I was going to be a shoeshine boy!
[TO BE CONTINUED]