by Studs Terkel
I enjoy working. (Laughs.) I like to be around people. I coulda quit work five years ago. It’s not that I don’t like home, but it’s monotonous to sit around. With your Social Security and what taxes I pay, I’m just as well off if I didn’t work. But I like to come down. I’m not saying I love people, but you miss ‘em. Some days you go home and say, “Oh gee, I’ve seen so much today. So many guys drove me nuts,” and that and that trouble. I like that. The minute you don’t see anybody and you’re not talkin’ to people . . .
Jeff, the manager, who is thirty, interjects: “I don’t know anybody who doesn’t like to be away from work—except Nino.”
A lot of people, it’s drudgery to go to work. Not me. I don’t say I love work, I don’t say I hate work. I do it. It’s a normal thing for me than just not doing anything. I figure that I’m kinda needed. If you don’t show up, you might be putting somebody out a day. If I took off and walked down the street for an hour, I like to hear him say, “Where in the heck have you been? Gee whiz, it was busy. I needed you.” Some fellas would call that a bawlin’ out and get mad. I wouldn’t. If you come down and they’d say, “We really didn’t need you,” I might as well quit. I like to feel kinda needed. It kinda feels good. You say, well, you’re of some value.
A lot of people just can’t wait to get sixty-five and quit. They’re just tickled to death. I don’t know what for. Then they get home, and I’ve seen wives, they’re sorry their husbands are home and more or less in the way. The average man at home, like myself, when he’s through doing this kind of work, there’s not really much I can do now. That’s why you like to feel wanted.
“I first started workin’ in drugstores when I was twelve years old.” He had lived in a small town in southern Illinois. His father, a stone cutter, had died in his young years. “I’d open the store, sweep up the sidewalk, mop the floor.” In Chicago he attended pharmacy school while working at night. “I used to see my father work hard and people on farms and miners work awful hard for a few dollars a week. I was getting the same amount of money just standing around waiting on people, saying hello. To me that seemed an easy way to make money.”
I never wanted to own my own store. I had chances, but I stopped and I figured. I’d have to pay interest on the loan. I couldn’t run it by myself. I didn’t want my wife workin’ twelve hours a day. A lot of my friends, their wives got in and they pitched and worked hard and they got someplace. They’re welcome to it. It wasn’t my philosophy.
I’ve been boss all right. I managed stores. I used to see girls on the soda fountains at five, six dollars a week. That was the going pay. I’m the kind of guy, I couldn’t ask anybody to work for nothing. To be a success, you have to take a lot of advantage of help. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that to be successful you have to be a rat, but you have to do things—I realized long ago I wasn’t that type of man. Not that I’m such a good man. I’m not a good person, but I don’t want to ask people to do things I wouldn’t do.
“I got quite a bit of colored trade right here, people who work in the neighborhood. They tell me, ‘You know why I’m buying here? They rob me in my home neighborhood.’ It’s the truth. In the old days, I worked out there. I know they take advantage of the poor people in those stores.”
I know I’m not going to be a millionaire. To make a lot of money you have to have a lot of ambition. With me, as long as I pay the rent, eat, go to a ball game, go to the race track, take the old lady out once in a while, and the bills are paid—well, what else do you need? I want to have enough money where I wouldn’t have to be a bum on the street or where I wouldn’t have to take a gun and hold somebody up to get a dollar. It’s a wonderful feeling to go out and earn the amount of money that it takes for you to live on. That’s my opinion—maybe it’s as stupid as a hundred thousand dollars, and there’s nothin’ more stupid than a hundred thousand dollars—but it’s my opinion.
I never cared about being rich. I know that sounds silly. I have a friend, he says, “I never seen a fella like you, who don’t care for money.” That’s a lie. I like money. I know you gotta have a certain amount of it. But how much does a guy need to live? I have a kid brother, he’s a go-getter. He can buy and sell me half a dozen times. It isn’t that I’m lazy. I’m kind of a dreamy guy, you’d say.
I think I’ve succeeded. If they didn’t want me any more, retirement wouldn’t bother me. I’d go to the ball game, I’d go to the track, I’d do a little fishing. There was a little time in my life when I was kinda worried. There used to be an ad in the papers: Pharmacist—do not apply over forty. I was forty-five when that happened. I thought, this is getting to be a young man’s game. But I was lucky. Nothing ever happened.
If I had to do it all over again, I’d be a doctor. I took pre-medics. Then I thought, Oh, four more years is just too rough. But I can’t complain. I’ve been lucky. I haven’t contributed anything to the world. There’s a few men who do. They’re men who are intelligent and probably could have made all kinds of money. But they spend their whole lives in educating. They gave their whole lives to society. You don’t read about them going on big trips. You don’t see ’em so much in the society column. We have some awful ignorant men too. It’s funny how they get to be the head of nations. It’s crazy, right?
I’ve been selfish, like the average man. Probably just thought of myself. Takin’ it easy, havin’ a good time, eat and sleep. There are so few men that have been really good, I can’t name ’em. My work’s important to me, but it’s such a little thing. It’s not important to the world.
Ms. JOHNSON: Of course it is, Nino. You’re very important. How many times have you corrected the doctor on things he’s written? As far as this store is concerned, you’re more than important. (To the others) People love him. He has a terrific following. They bring their babies in, they bring their grandchildren in to meet him.
JEFF: Seventy percent of the people come in here because of Nino.
I don’t know about that. Look around—at the people who do great things for humanity.
Ms. JOHNSON: Oh Nino, you do something for humanity every day you stand there.
(Abashed, he looks heavenward.) Oh listen to that, will ya? Oh my gosh. Jeez.
POSTSCRIPT: There was talk of an old colleague who has since died. He was the strict one. “Some of our worst arguments was on account of me not being strict enough. Somebody’d come in and say, ‘I can’t sleep tonight.’ He wouldn’t give ’em anything unless they had it in writing. They’d walk around the block and come back to me. I’d say, ‘I know you, you’re solid. Oh sure, here’s one or two.’ I would take a chance on humanity. I don’t think that’s a sin.”
EUGENE RUSSELL
He is occasionally seen on the streets of the city, walking or on a bicycle. What distinguishes him, aside from his casual work clothes, is a wide belt, from which hangs a case containing the tools of his trade—pliers, wire cutters, and scrapers of various kinds. He is a piano tuner and has been at it professionally for fifteen years.
“I am a piano technician. He is a dedicated piano tuner. (Laughs.) Piano tuning is not really business. It’s a dedication. There’s such a thing as piano tuning, piano rebuilding, and antique restoration. There’s such a thing as scale designing and engineering, to produce the highest sound quality possible. I’m in all of this and I enjoy every second of it.
“I was a musician for many years, a jazz clarinetist. Played a lot of Dixieland. Every piano I came to was just a little bit unsatisfactory to work with. I’ve been tuning since I was fourteen years old, more to satisfy the aesthetic part of playing than actually commercializing on it.”
His wife Natalie joins in the conversation.
EUGENE: Every day is different. I work Saturdays and Sundays sometimes. Monday I’m tuning a piano for a record company that had to be done before nine ’. When I finish that, I go to another company and do at least four pianos. During that day there’s a couple of harpsichords mixed in. In the meantime, I’ll chec
k with my wife, who stands near the phone. I might see a fill-in sometime in-between. By the time I get through it’s pretty dark.
I’ve been known to go entirely asleep and continue to tune the piano —and no one would know. (Laughs.) If I’m working on some good Steinways, my day goes so fast I don’t even know where it’s gone. But if I’m working on an uninteresting instrument, just the time to tune it drags miserably. There’s something of a stimulus in good sound.
I had a discussion with another tuner, who is a great guitar man. He said, “Why are we tuners?” I said, “Because we want to hear good sounds.” I went into a young student’s home and rebuilt an old upright, restrung it. It sounded lovely. A week later he wanted to sell the piano. I said, “Why?” He said, “I’ve heard the sound I want to hear.”
It doesn’t have to be a grand. It can be a spinet, it can be an old upright, it can be an antique piano from the late 1700s—maybe a harpsichord. They all have to be tuned as often as possible.
The nature of equal temperament makes it impossible to really put a piano in tune. The system is out of tune with itself. But it’s so close to in tune that it’s compatible. You start off with a basic A-440 and you tune an octave down and then tune a relationship of that combination of tunes. Go up a fifth, down a fourth. Go through a circle of fifths within a given octave. When you get that to balance out in fourths and fifths, you take it in thirds, in sixths—so that it’s balanced. Then you go out in the rest of the octaves and tune the rest of the piano. All you have to be able to do is count beats.
NATALIE: It’s an electronic thing now. Anyone in the world can tune a piano with it. You can actually have a tin ear like a night club boss. I have no ear at all, but with one of these electronic devices, I could tune a piano.
EUGENE: It’s an assist, but there’s no saving of time. You get to a point where you depend on it like a crutch. Somebody using it for a long time may think it’s valuable.
I don’t think anyone can teach you to tune a piano. I’d say practice more than training. You go in, you get your feet wet, and you just practice, practice and practice until it becomes a natural thing with you.
NATALIE: Gene has one of these extraordinary ears. It’s as close to absolute pitch as I think any human ear can be. Any sensible boy can really learn to tune contemporary instruments, but very few people have learned to do what Gene does. We know of only three other technicians in the country who do what he does with antique instruments, and two of them are retired. Sometimes he has to make the machinery, make the tools. He’s worked on virginals and very, very early harpsichords. It’s really a lost art. It doesn’t seem to be the thing that attracts young men. Gene has had a series of apprentices, but they lack patience.
EUGENE: There are fewer younger men in tuning because you don’t make money fast enough in the beginning. Most people in it are musicians, who are having a hard time and are looking for something in their idle time. There’s as much piano tuning as there ever was. It’s strange, but during a recession or depression, the piano tuning business goes ahead. People have more leisure time and they want to develop their artistic capabilities. And they want their pianos tuned. A piano can last for several generations if it’s properly cared for. It isn’t like a car that becomes obsolete next year. It’s possible for a piano to keep going for two hundred years. Old people are going into things they know are ageless. Most of the older musicians are going into piano tuning because you can make a living at the age of a hundred. In fact, the older you get, the mellower.
NATALIE: He doesn’t mind a bit when he’s called a piano tuner. But little kids are very status-minded. When people say Billy’s father tunes pianos, my child wants to go up and kick them. Almost anybody’s father, if he has normal intelligence, could tune a piano. But no one can do what Gene does. We’re terribly proud of him. My child is very clear and precise about the nature of his daddy’s work. We think that’s rather nice, too. I had no, idea until I was a teen-ager just precisely what my daddy went off on a train to do every day. Presumably it was legal. (Laughs.) That was all I knew. But Billy knows and he’s proud.
EUGENE: It’s immaterial to me what I’m called. If anyone wishes to call me a piano tuner, it’s perfectly all right with me. I am not the slightest bit status conscious.
NATALIE: Oh, but he’s had some very strange experiences with high rises. We’d decided Gene must carry his tools in an attaché case. When he’s gone in for a club date in a dinner jacket to play at someone’s party, he’s treated with great courtesy. But when he walks in with his tool kit, dressed like Doolittle the Dustman (laughs), they look at you and wonder. What is he really?
EUGENE: Oh yes, I have to check through security in some of the high rises. I sign my name and where I’m going and what time I got there, and when I come back through security, I sign out and everything. If I had a business suit on and an attache case, I could go on the elevator directly.
I realize these buildings have to have security, so I forget my personal feelings. Although once in awhile I resent the idea of going down into the basement. Sometimes you have to go to the receiving room and sign in. It wastes so much time. It takes forever to get where you’re going on a service elevator. I have gone to an apartment as a guest on an elevator. But as soon as I have that tool chest in my hand, I have to take the service elevator. It’s the same doorman. Oh, once in a while I get mad . . .
NATALIE : My son and I are buying him an attache case for Christmas. We’re afraid he’ll lose his temper one day and something foul may happen.
“I’ve been stopped by the police and they’ll ask me, ‘What’ve ya got in ’at case?’ And I’ll say, ‘A do-it-yourself burglar kit.’ And they‘ll say, ’Dump your case out.’ ” I had this metal cylindrical tube, which I keep blueprints in. They actually stood fifteen feet away with drawn guns while I took the cap off to show them there was nothing in it. (Laughs.)
“I walk along with my work clothes, with my tool chest. They’ll pull up. ‘Whatcha got inna case?’ ‘Tools.’ ‘What kind of tools?’ ‘Working tools. They’re for my business.’ They don’t ask you what your business is. They want to see your tools. After I show them the tools, they’ll say, ‘What business are you in?’ ‘I’m a piano technician.’ ‘Are ya sure?’ ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Up the street.’ ‘Show us where ya live.’ I brought them over and they had me dump all my tools out on the lawn. They looked it over very carefully and they said, ‘I think you’d better come down to the station.’ ‘I don’t think I’d better.’ ‘You could very easily break into houses with ‘these.’ ‘I know that, but I never have and ! I have no reason to break in a house. These are legitimate tools for a legitimate business, which keeps me going very nicely.’ ‘You show us where you live.’ So they ring the buzzer and they holler, ‘Does Eugene Russell live here?’ ‘Yes, he lives here.’ ‘We were just checking out.’ And good-by. I knew it was a routine checkout so it didn’t bother me. There was no reason to be angry.”
EUGENE: It’s a competitive business. If you’ve got a plum and some other technician wants it, he’ll go after it. I can’t do that. There’s plenty for everybody. I try to keep my fee to at least ten dollars an hour. Somebody who’s been a customer of mine for many years asks, “How much do you want?” I always say, “You know.” They look at what the check was before and that’s what they pay.
NATALIE: Gene is terribly modest, which is why I’m being so terribly pushy. There’s a technician we know who has two shops. He would call Gene in to redo the unsatisfactory work he did for his customers. But he’s a marvelous merchant. He’s terrific, an absolute whiz of a businessman. Gene didn’t tell you, but he’s also a dealer on a very small scale. With keyboard instruments, buying and selling them. Right from our home, from the kitchen, I buy them and sell them. It is more cutthroat than you would believe, especially the antique business.
EUGENE: Square grand pianos and things like that. I have a lovely old square grand with an organ
built into it, unusual—
NATALIE: I do an awful lot of work just as a piano broker right here in the kitchen. Bill tells me a piano’s for sale and people call him and want to buy them. That phase of the business is exceedingly cutthroat. Oh, frightfully.
When you’re a broker, you don’t take title to the merchandise, you don’t warehouse it, you don’t usually move it. It’s like dealing in securities. And I don’t always collect because I’m not a businessman. We buy old instruments too, and Gene restores them and we sell them. We work in our home. Anywhere, garage . . .
EUGENE: I don’t see any possibility of separating my life from my work.
NATALIE : Because we are—as the French say—of an age, so many people say, “Mrs. Russell, how did you and your husband hit on such a lovely retirement business? What did he do before he retired? Is he a retired army-type?” They think it’s something adorable. What a sweet old-couple to open an antique shop, who’s gotten into this sweet little old-fashioned craft sort of business.
