Hard Times, You Say? Smile, This Is The Great Depression (eBook)

Chapter Two

Michael, a bright, young 22-year-old man had graduated early from Wharton in 1928 with a master’s in Finance. He landed a job at Morgan Bank and went into a fast-track training program that would have elevated him to becoming a stock trader within two years, on his way to becoming one of the “Golden Boys” of Wall Street. Michael kept an apartment in Pelham and would take the train into Manhattan in the early morning, into Grand Central, then transfer to the Lexington Avenue subway, and on down to Wall Street. From there it was a short walk to the bank. At the end of the day he reversed the trip, at the end of which was a short walk from Pelham Station to the apartment.

Michael stood 5’ 10” all of about 155 pounds, not very athletic, but fit. His brown hair was usually in somewhat of disarray, and his brown eyes were set deep in a long face with a slightly protruding chin and strong, aquiline nose. Some would call him good-looking, if not handsome. He had a serious personage and walked with a purposefulness that gave him the image of a young man of authority. The fact that he always carried a briefcase reinforced the image. He had a borderline shyness about him, giving him the persona of a nerd. He had a tendency, not chronic, to say or do something to embarrass himself. After 15 months as a bank teller, an apprentice in management of folio investments, and various other low-level positions, the dream ended when the stock market came crashing down. Morgan Bank attempted to help stem the wave, making a large contribution to the cause, but to no avail. Michael’s job was eliminated within the next two months. He began looking for work at other banks and investment brokerages in New York and within the commuting area, but the situation was the same all over: zero opportunities, even less-so in finance. His meager savings were going fast and he was at the point where he would either have to starve or give up the apartment. He might become literally homeless but he would make sure to eat for a while. With no fallback, no family to move in with, or to ask for help, he was becoming desperate.

Michael’s mother had passed some years previous. He was estranged from his father who did not take it well when, upon his graduation, Michael told him he did not want to stay and help run the family business, a commodity brokerage for cocoa and unrefined chocolate products. He disagreed with his father in significant ways, with regard to running the business, and his father thought Michael to be too reckless, fearing that he would run the business into the ground. There came the inevitable, “take it or leave it” fight between Michael and his father and Michael took the leave it side, walking away from any support at the time he was at the start of his career.

Now that his finance career job was gone, Michael would travel into Manhattan two or three days a week, knocking on doors, even going to accounting firms that were still operating, eventually to the upscale retail establishments. He liked accounting and consoled himself that it was better than nothing at all, hoping to get some work. He was very discouraged after several weeks, but saw no other choice but to keep knocking.

As was his custom, he would get his breakfast, an English muffin and orange juice, at a favorite diner on 8th Ave, near Grand Central. On a Friday, late in January, he overheard two fellows at the bar, talking about a short-time job in Jersey City. All you had to do was get to the bus terminal on Hudson Street south of Spring Street early, and wait out front for the work truck that picks up labor and takes it to whatever job was available on that day. “It would be better than nothing,” he thought, “I’ll be out of money in a few days, got to do something.”

Early the next Monday, February 3rd, he took his train into Grand Central, had his quick breakfast and asked them to pack him a small lunch. He walked the four miles south to the bus terminal where there was already a sizable crowd, all men, waiting for the call. Several of the men were huddled in small groups, most conversing quietly except for one group of five, making loud, profane conversation. As he approached the throng of job seekers, two men in the loud quintet stopped and looked daggers, throwing him threatening looks, as if they might eat him alive. A shiver ran down his back, causing him to hesitate and reconsider his choice to come there. Somewhat fearfully, he took a spot at the edge of the crowd. It did not take much time for him to realize the fierceness of the competition for the jobs, and that the “regulars” disliked anyone they did not recognize.

Many of the men were sad looking, shoulders sagging and their heads hanging down. Quite a few were in shabby clothing and some with dirty faces, like they had not had a chance to wash in the past few days. Ages ranged wide, from teenage boys to men clearly in their 60’s and older. The conversations, in several languages, were quite subdued. Michael’s romance with numbers obliged him to put the job seekers into categories: age, nationality, alone or in a group, blue collar or white collar. In total, he counted 113 men: 48 were over 40, 11 of those, mostly white collar, were above 60. There was even a man on crutches, trying hard to appear fit in spite of them. Most of the men appeared to be alone. One such man, standing apart near the back of the gathering, looked eager and genuinely happy, a friendly smile broke his lips. He was inches taller than anyone else in the crowd and he was scanning the situation from above. He caught Michael’s eye momentarily, broadened his smile then continued his general review of the crowd. Michael thought him to be in his mid-20s, not much older than he. His bearing was more prideful, not slouchy like many of the others. He was imposing, quite tall, Michael judged, around 6’ 8 or 9,” and physically very strong and fit, weighing a solid 250 pounds. He wore clean, pressed work trousers and an ironed shirt under a light jacket that seemed stretched to reach across his shoulders. A wool newsboy cap rested neatly on his head, with a puff of long, wiry, reddish hair jutting around the edges and down his neck. Michael marveled at the man’s size. He could have been a football player, a linebacker, or maybe a wrestler. Bushy red eyebrows broke out over the top of his wire rim glasses, conveying the look of an academic, a professor perhaps. Michael felt drawn to him and gravitated in his direction, moving over to stand nearby, hoping to open a conversation. Before he had a chance to speak, one of the other men, a member of the loud, profane group, an agitator, turned to the big man, started toward him and said, “Hey, dummy, if you get picked you better not do more than your share. We need to make this job last a while, you understand?”

Dummy, though Michael had doubts that was his name, retorted in a slow speech, enunciating each syllable, “I am not ‘Dum-my’ and I do not ap-pre-ci-ate your in-fer-rence that I am. You are an ig-no-ra-mous and I am more than ten times smar-ter than you. My name is Gun-ther, Gun-ther Mil-ler. Then he spelled it out, “G. U. N. T. H. E. R.”

The agitator came back, “Well, Goon-ter, just do what I say or you might just get messed up bad enough that you won’t be able to work for a while.” With that, he spun around, tripping over his own feet as he did so. His momentum threw him back, right into Gunther. The shocked look on his face was enough to show he really did not want to mess with this big fella. He jumped away and took a clumsy boxing stance. He had embarrassed himself and was hoping to make Gunther look like a troublemaker.

One of the other men from the noisy group stepped up and took hold of his arm. “Leave him be, Jake!” he said. Jake just glared at Gunther, then at his friend. He straightened up, grabbed his belt and hiked up his pants, puffed out his chest. He stood that way for a moment, then turned his back on Gunther and rejoined his rowdy friends. Back within his group, Jake turned to Gunther and said, “Just remember what I said, the day is long.”

Gunther was too smart to take the bait and all he did was huff a laugh, as if to say, “is that the best you can do?”

The accident that left Gunther III an orphan, had left him with a brain injury. No amount of therapy and surgery would return him to “normal.” His badly broken arm and two broken ribs had healed well enough, but the worst injury was his fractured skull. Because of the injury to his brain, it had taken weeks for him to regain speech and his recall of words was hit and miss. When he did begin to speak again he stuttered, and certain sounds were initially impossible for him to pronounce. He walked with an unsteady gait for several months until physical therapy and exercise began to heal the impairment of his motor control, eventually to near normal. Although, if one looked carefully, his left foot turned slightly in when he walked fast, giving him an almost bouncy stride. He steadied himself by focusing on fixed objects.

His release from the hospital was into his maternal grandparents, Olivia and Gunther Sr.’s, care. His grandfather owned a small store in Westport, selling tobacco and magazines and a few books (his grandmother was a reader and she managed the books at the store). He lived with them in their comfortable apartment above the store. Olivia, knowing Gunther’s interest in reading and his fondness for the classics, encouraged him to read right from the start and found that if he read aloud it had the effect of reducing his stutter. His speech generally improved. Grandmother...