by Studs Terkel
You gotta watch. We have a business agent in the area and, oh man, there’s too many guys lookin’ for work. These people coming from Europe, Yugoslavs and Croatians. We’re talking about young guys, thirty years old, twenty-five. They’re nice guys. They talk broken, but you get to know ’em. They bowl with us and learn as quick as they can. A lot less young native-born are in it now. They’ll take a job like a helper until they can find something better. A helper makes $640 a month, five-day week.
Back in the forties a janitor was a sort of low-class job. Nobody wanted it. But during the Depression, janitors were working. They had a place to live and they had food on the table. It was steady work. They had a few clothes on their back. Other people didn’t.
Today a janitor is on the same level as the plant maintenance man. If I leave my work I would have no trouble walking into any plant and taking over as supervisor, maintenance electrical repair. I saw an ad the other day, it took my eye. They’re paying twelve thousand and travel. To me it would be very interesting and easy. But I couldn’t afford to take a salary of twelve thousand dollars. If I’m making more now, I want to better myself. My dad always said, “It’s not what you make, it’s what you save.” (Laughs.)
Most of ‘em will call me an engineer or they will kid me. ’Cause it’s on my coat. I wear regular uniform clothes. Gray trousers, blue. I have different colors. I have green, blue, gray. Shirt and trousers to match and a jacket, sort of ski-jacket-like, with an emblem on it. I try to keep clean because nobody wants somebody dirty around. I’m not a sweeper, I’m like a stationary engineer. I’ve been out with lawyers. It’s the way you conduct yourself. If you know nothing, keep your mouth shut. You learn a lot by keeping your mouth shut.
I got a boy married. I’m a grandfather. He’s twenty, going on twenty-one. He was an honor student in math. I wanted him to go to IIT.27 He run off and got married. A kid’ll do what he wants to do. He hurt us real bad. He said, “Dad, why should I spend all your money and go to college. I can get a job driving a truck and make more money than a college graduate.” I said, “There’s two different kinds of work, though.”
So he’s working now as a janitor’s helper. In a couple of months, he’ll have a building himself and make eight hundred dollars a month and a free apartment. He’ll probably pick up another building on the side and make another two hundred. And this is just a start for the kid. But I wish he’d a went into engineering. I don’t know why, but I feel . . . (hesitates) . . . I believe in college. I didn’t get a chance to go and I believe in it. Even if he comes back to janitoring, he’s still got this in his head. College doesn’t hurt anybody. He’s saved me a lot of money and everything. He’ll do all right for himself, but . . .
A college man is underpaid today. We have a janitor, a kid that eats with us every morning. This guy has all kinds of degrees in electrical engineering. He can’t get a job. They want to pay him peanuts. He’s making more money now.
I carry on the side a criminal investigator’s badge. I can carry a gun whenever I want. I’m registered by the state, with the FBI and with the city police. You gotta be fingerprinted, you gotta be registered with Springfield. It’s marked right on the card, it’s volunteer.
I work for a detective agency because sometimes it’s pretty rough at night. We go down in holes, in basements. We stop a lot of burglaries, people robbing apartments. We can hold ‘em for the police. We arrest ’em and we hold ’em. I’ve worked with the FBI. Watch out for Weathermen and stuff like that in the neighborhood.
I’ve worked with two or three young FBI men, very intelligent men, very respectable men. I really admire ‘em and I love to help ’em. I’m all over the University of Chicago area, so I got it pretty well covered all around. They pass out pictures to watch for. You don’t have no authority, you just kind of see the area. This is for something like dope. We look through the garbage. They’ll tell you what to look for.
Like some of these political kids?
Yeah, in a way. But they never bothered me with that. It’s mostly like dope or something. They’re not talking about a little pot party. About somebody selling it. We had a girl living in one of these buildings, she made trips to Mexico. She was crippled, she was in a wheel chair. They believed she was bringing it back and forth. I don’t get involved because they don’t let me get involved.
You report to them now and then . . . ?
Oh, yeah.
Do a lot of janitors do this?
No, no, no.
Is it because you’re in a university area?
Well, yeah . . . (Quickly) They’re not interested in the kids. They’re interested in the guy bringing the stuff in. They might be watching him for a different reason altogether. There was a case where a kid didn’t report for draft. They didn’t want to arrest the kid or nothing. But they wanted to know where he was so . . .
All they told me is: “You know where he lives? Do you know where he moved?” So I tell them where they move. We saw him walking the street the other day and I called them and they said, “Find out where he moved.” That’s all. They don’t want to arrest the guy, but I guess they want to talk to him. Oh, I don’t know . . . what the hell, these draft dodgers.
The janitor knows more about the neighborhood than anybody, doesn’t he?
He can, if he wants to get nosy, yeah. I enjoy my work. You meet people, you’re out with the public. I have no boss standing over me. People call me Mr. Hoellen. Very respectable. If I’m a good friend, they say Eric. I’m proud of my job. I’ve made it what it is today. Up in the morning, get the work done, back home. Open the fires and close ’em. (Laughs.)
WATCHING
FRITZ RITTER
He’s the doorman at a huge apartment building on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. “I would say about 180 apartments.” It has seen better days, though signs of its long-ago elegance are still discernible. High ceilings, marble pillars, expensive lobby. The walls could stand a paint job. The floor’s tile has had it; its patterns, hardly visible. We’re seated on a divan in the lobby. He wears his uniform. He is bareheaded and is smoking a cigarette.
The neighborhood’s not so good any more like it used to be. Used to be very nice, one of the best neighborhoods in the city—Nice restaurants, nice movies, and nice people. You know what I mean? I mean very high class. The times change and everything. You know what I mean? Sure. Don’t you think so? Sure. There’s still some good ones in this building, very nice ones. Mostly middle class, I would say. And some hippies too. But I think it will go down a little bit more. You know?
I watch who comes in, goes out. If I see a stranger, I stop him and find out where he’s going. We call upstairs, we have to announce him. In the nighttime now, twelve o’clock, you have the door locked. The old days, we had the doors open. I didn’t have to stop nobody. Then it was opened twenty-four hours a day.
I worked forty-one years in this building. I started ’31, ’32, something like that. I worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. From seven to seven, nights. There was no union then, no vacations, no nothing. Now we work five days and forty hours. That’s much better.
In them days, the doorman was . . . ohhh! You had to be dressed nice—white gloves and a stiff collar. And the white tie there, even like the waiters use, the head waiter. Nicer uniforms than this. In the summertime, gray uniform and white gloves, always gloves. You had to wear hats always. I had a problem one time with the boss. I didn’t want to wear a cap. I don’t know why. I always take it off. He comes by, I put it on. He goes away, I take it off. Off and on, off and on. But that’s the way it is.
If tenants came by, you had to stand up. If you were sitting down, you’d stand up. As a doorman then, you couldn’t sit like this. When I was first hired, I sat down with my legs crossed. The manager came over and he said, “No, sit down like this”—arms folded, legs stiff. If tenants came in, you had to stand up quick, stand there like a soldier. You only spoke when they spoke to you. Otherwise, don’t say nothin’.<
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It was real high class, yes. Nice rugs on the floor, nice furniture. Oh, they all had maids. No maid could come in the front. You had to go all in the service, oh yeah. They were working Monday, Tuesday. The service cars would be up and down, up and down. Today they come in the front. They don’t have many maids today like they had before.
When the house was high class, the tenants look down on me. When they used to see me on the street they’d make believe they didn’t know me. There was a restaurant in here. I used to go there once in a while, they’d make believe they didn’t see you. But it didn’t bother me. Because I don’t give a damn if they speak to me or not. Because I did my job a hundred percent. Even to this day, the old-timers, sometime they see you somewhere and they make believe you’re not there. It’s the truth. They think they’re better. Years ago, sure they did. They wouldn’t say nothin’. You couldn’t say boo.
One time I felt lousy, I had hay fever. I was on the elevator, I say, low, “Good morning” to the man. And he says to me, “Don’t you say good morning?” I say, “I did say good morning.” ‘Cause I had hay fever and I feel bad. He didn’t spoke to me no more and he cut me off for Christmas. But I didn’t care. It was about 1932, ’33. See how people are.
I had good times here, don’t get me wrong, very good times. Everyone dressed up, my dear man. They were dressed high as anything. There was movie stars living in this house. Sure. Singers, Metropolitan. Sure. Doctors, lawyers, bankers.
An elderly man walks by, erect, though with a slight touch of fatigue. He is carrying a doctor’s black bag. Fritz calls out, “Good morning.” The man nods, hardly looking our way. “He’s an old-timer. He’s been here thirty-five years, very nice man.”
Times change. Today it’s different. Today is every day more liberal. Today they discuss, they talk with you. Even the high-class ones change. Everybody change today, more friendly today. Today I make a joke, they take it. More on the equal side, more friendship. Before you couldn’t do nothing. I see one time a doorman smokes a cigarette and the tenant went over to the manager and they fired ’im right out. They said, “Go”—just like that. You had no chance at all. Yesterday when payday was, they don’t want you, you’re through. They can’t do that today no more. Today the man is better off.
But I would like to see the house the way it was. If a stranger come in today, I stop him. I ask where he’s going. Some of ‘em give me a little trouble, especially the Democrats, the black ones. I call ’em Democrats. I don’t want to say colored or white or anybody—just Democrats. One time a guy says to me, “Didn’t you ever see a colored man come in here?” I said, “Yes, but it’s my job. I don’t care what you do upstairs, but I have to ask where you’re going, see?” When he came down, he said, “I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t realize that.” Seem with all this liberal stuff you have your ups and downs. I didn’t have that years ago.
You never had to stop ‘em before. I knew who they were. Years ago, they had more family life. Their friends come in or their brother or somebody you knew. Today is more open. They take apartments here, three, four guys, girls, and they have friends come in and you don’t know who is who. You have to stop ’em. I have to tell ’em this is my job.
There’s a lot of trouble around here. Pocketbook gets snatched, things like that. I used to work nighttime. There was a couch here. I slept there and the door was open in the summertime. Nobody came in, not a soul. Today you couldn’t do that. When I was out of the service in 1945, it was pretty good. But in the last ten years you get a little trouble. You walk there in the street, you see it. Drinking, dope . . . The uniform helps, yeah. If I would stay there with the suit on, they wouldn’t respect me. But when they see a uniform, they know who I am.
A heavy-set blonde girl wearing slacks has entered the vestibule. It had started to rain several minutes before. It is now a downpour. She stands against the wall. She’s obviously in a good humor. Fritz approaches her. She smiles at him and holds forth a half-pint. She offers it to him. She has a slight Spanish accent. He declines in a friendly manner. The rain slackens, she waves good-by and leaves.
“You need something?” she said. “I don’t need something,” I say to her. That would never happen years ago, no, no, never. You couldn’t say things like this or “How are you?” I liked it. You didn’t get in no trouble. They think today because you’re friendly they got advantage, you know? Freshness.
The people, they all know me. When they go away here in the summertime, they give me the key and I take care of the apartment. Whatever, flowers. I don’t care what’s laying there, I wouldn’t touch it. They know this. There could be whisky staying there, I wouldn’t touch nothing. If they have a little money in there, I don’t care what they got laying there, I wouldn’t touch it. They know this. They respect me.
In forty-one years, if I took five days off for foolishness, I would be a liar. Oh, I never take off. I betcha I wasn’t late five times in forty-one years. I’m very on the ball. I should get more money because I’m here a long time. A new guy comes in, he don’t know nothing, he gets the same pay I do. But then the other way around: if they would have to pay me more, they would take the younger man and save money.
I don’t care no more, because I’m sixty-five and maybe a year more and I will retire. I hope God is good to me, that I have my health. So long as I feel good, I work, because I have a nice job and I don’t kill myself. I wouldn’t like to take off now and sit on the bench here, with the older men here. I wouldn’t like it every day, like friends of mine. I’m active, I like to do something.
I came to this country from Germany, there were no jobs. This is 1927. I was working in a candy factory. Christmas and Easter we worked. They lay me off. The money I saved up went to hell. So this job was steady. Even if I wanted to change, I couldn’t change, because there was nothing. I was glad to have it. If I was to come to this country again, I would like to be a mechanic. Because today you have golden opportunity.
VINCENT MAHER
Each child has a dream. I had two. One was to be a marine and the other was to be a policeman. I tried other endeavors but I was just not cut out for it. I am a policeman. It is one of the most gratifying jobs in the world.
He is thirty-nine. He lives apart from his family—a wife and three children: two boys, fifteen and twelve, and a girl, fourteen. He presently directs traffic in Chicago’s Loop. He had previously been a member of the Tactical Unit. Due to a personal grievance, he had resigned from the force. For a time, he worked as a bartender—disconsolately. “I had a deputy chief come in and a commander. They said, ‘Vince, you’re a cop. Get your fanny back on the job.’ I came back on the job and I’m happy.”
Two of his uncles had been on the force in New York City, as was his father, “until he lost his trigger finger in a railroad accident.” As he reflects, past and present fuse.
I make an arrest on someone who commits a crime of violence. I have to resort to a physical type of arrest to subdue him, I might have to shoot the person. I’m chastised for being brutal. It’s all right for him to do what he wants to do against myself or legitimate people, but in no way I can touch him. I don’t see the justice.
I’ve been accused of being a bigot, a hypocrite, and a few other niceties. I’m a human being with a job. I judge people on face value. Just because a guy wears long hair doesn’t make him a radical. Just because he’s black —I’d rather work in a black neighborhood. They need me more than the white. White neighborhoods are not as involved in actual crime, the dirtiness, as they are in poor neighborhoods. I don’t mean blacks alone. There are Southern whites that come up here, they live in jungles. So do the Puerto Ricans.
The white man, he wants me to write an illegally parked car or write the neighbor nextdoor for his dog defecating on the grass. I don’t dig this. This is not my kind. I lived in a jungle, I’ve come from a jungle. In those early days, nobody knew the word nigger. There was no hate. You came and went as you pleased. I’ve seen kids come out
of a bad neighborhood, some become priests, some become policemen, others go to the penitentiary. I don’t believe what some judges say: because of environment, this is the way it is. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I never finished high school. I finished the hard way—Uncle Sam and I. I should be a crook because I came out of a slum neighborhood? My dad was a Depression kid. I saw him when he was making four dollars a week, supporting four kids and a wife. (Laughs.) That’s why I became a policeman.
I’m in traffic now—semi-retirement. (Laughs softly, ruefully.) All I ever wanted was detective and I couldn’t make it. When I was on the Tactical Force, I just couldn’t wait. I used to work my days off. I felt I was really functioning as a police officer. I get out there and infiltrate, to find out why, when, and where. We need an element to get out there. I’m not saying it’s the greatest thing in the world, but it’s necessary. It’s a evil because crime is evil. Why do these people who preach liberalism and pacifism require walls around their houses? They need these buffers. That’s what we are, buffers.
If there was a crime pattern working, we’d go out and find out who, what, when, and cleaned it up. We would roam the street as citizens, rather than marked as policemen. We’d wear neat and presentable suits. You can hear a lot more when you’re sitting in a group of hippies or you’re sitting in a restaurant. That’s how I used to operate. I’d pick up information. Nobody knew I was a policeman.
