My high school and college days working weekends and summers at Dave’s Deli in Northeast Philly resulted in a broad education in business, management, customer service and human relations. Beyond that, it provided a source of funding for my formal undergraduate studies, as described here. My boss, Danny was a great teacher, too. There was just one consistent frustrating aspect of working there. I wasn’t paid enough.
I started out at $1.25 an hour in 1971, and that was less than minimum wage at the time. In my more than half a decade at Dave’s, I never made it up to the prevailing minimum wage level. Of course, I also didn’t receive any standard benefits, or even get time to sit down and eat lunch, which had to be consumed on the run. I did take advantage of an unusual offer from Danny. On the days when I worked fulltime, without a break, I could make up my own sandwich to take home for dinner.
So, I would get a hoagie roll and fill it to overflowing with cold cuts and cheeses, then wrap it up to go. At home, my parents would eagerly watch me unwrap the sandwich and then pull off most of the meat and the cheeses. Mom would put it in Tupperware containers, and the two of them could make sandwiches themselves for a few days.
My dad’s favorite saying was, “If it’s free, it’s for me.” Whenever I brought home an overloaded sandwich, I saw real pride in his eyes, a look that was hard to otherwise earn.
Back to my pay, though, it was measly. No overstuffed sandwich could negate that fact. On a regular basis, then, I asked Danny for a raise. Although I was successful on the rare occasion and got bumped up an additional ten or fifteen cents an hour, such victories were few and far between.
Danny’s typical response was, “I can’t afford to give you a raise now, but when you get married, I am going to take care of you.”
I believed him.
My final summer at Dave’s was in 1976, after which I returned to college in Florida for my senior year. That fall, Barbara and I met. By a year later, we had both graduated, moved to Philly, got entry-level jobs and started making plans for our marriage. Barbara wanted to get married in her hometown of Merritt Island, Florida. So, our wedding date – February 18, 1978 – was set based on when we would have enough money to buy roundtrip Philly to Orlando airline tickets.
It was a destination wedding, but not like the expensive affairs that later would become common. Only my mom traveled down from Philly to be with us. The ceremony and reception were held in the local Methodist church, whose members included my mother-in-law. Other than our wedding night at a hotel in Cocoa Beach, there was no honeymoon. Couldn’t afford it. The next day, we flew back to Philly.
The following weekend, my mom was to hold a reception for us in our small, family home in Northeast Philly. Lots of relatives and friends were invited. And there were two special invitees, Danny and his wife Sandy from Dave’s. Many times, I had mentioned to Barbara the promise that Danny had made on numerous occasions, “… when you get married, I am going to take care of you.”
The party was a success with lots of people, noise and food (ziti, meatballs, Italian cream cake, etc.). A pile of wedding gifts and cards sprouted up on a side table. Just as some of the event’s energy was waning, a snow squall blew into the area ,and humongous flakes fell, coating everything outside. Hurried well wishes and good-byes were exchanged as the house emptied out in minutes.
It was then just Barbara, my parents, me and that pile of gifts, including an envelope that Sandy left there. We put it to the side and planned to save the best until last. So, we opened up all of the presents and cards, with Barbara carefully listing who gave what so that thank you cards would carry appropriate messages. Then, it was time for Danny and Sandy’s envelope. My imagination was running wild. It had to be money, and only God knew how much it would be!
I opened the envelope, removed the card, took the check from inside, blinked at it in disbelief, then handed it to Barbara. “It’s for fifteen dollars! Fifteen lousy dollars,” I sputtered.
I felt foolish, and later I was angry.
That gift was the last lesson I learned from Danny, my mentor and teacher. But what was the lesson? There are many possibilities. Beware, your boss may lie to you. Get paid upfront. Don’t trust empty promises about money. Don’t get your hopes up too high if it depends upon someone else acting against his true nature.
Or maybe the lesson was that running a small business is a struggle, and perhaps Danny and Sandy didn’t have more than fifteen dollars to give.
In any event, Danny did “take care of me,” but in a way that I never had imagined.