Tales of a Traveling Salesman

By Sheryl Aronson

Allan Gladstone
on the road in New England

I’ve been traveling the roads of New England and New York State for over 30 years. I must have slept in a thousand hotels and motels – eaten in some of the finest and worst Yankee restaurants from the coast of Maine down to Rhode Island. I’ve seen the development of the highways and parkways as I drove tens of thousands of miles – and how a little town had become a big city as the mom and pop stores were torn down and replaced by the big department stores.

It was back in 1946, right after the War, that I procured a job selling uniform shirts with Wide Awake Shirt Company. I had been a private in the army working with radio systems and interpreting the German codes. However, jobs in the communication field were hard to come by after I got out of the service. My father then helped me and my two brothers get started in business. He had been a salesman for 10 years now and so as the saying goes … like father, like sons, we all accepted his offer. It was a great opportunity for a young man of 25 who enjoyed talking to people and wanting a bit of adventure. Little did I know what was involved. It would have been impossible for me back then to even conceive the wide range of human experience I would partake in. For I discovered where there are people there is always a story to tell – and somehow it is worth the telling – simply because it reflects human nature.

It was summertime and the New England countryside was in its glory. The trees by the road stood thick and abundant. My coal black 1934 Dodge chugged down the dirt road at 40 miles per hour. As my elbow rested out the window a cool breeze rushed over my arm while the sun’s rays provided a blanket of warmth. There were no cars on the road – the land was desolate – peaceful – and every so often I would pass a farm and the farmers would stop their work and wave at me. I felt happy and anxious all at once, for I was embarking on my maiden voyage as a salesman driving my very first car that cost me $600.00.

A feeling of serenity settled in as I absorbed the scenery. I had worked up a smooth rhythm between my car and the road and they seemed to interact like old friends who knew how to support one another.

Part of me was conscious, part of me day dreamed, then suddenly as I turned around a bend my right foot smashed on the brake – 5 feet ahead of me was a tractor plodding along at 15 miles an hour. The driver didn’t notice me. He sat rigidly with his head fixed straight ahead as if he might drive off course. Not only was the tractor blocking my vision, the farmer had a huge frame himself. His back resembled a wall. He wore navy overalls with a bright red and black plaid shirt. I slowed down and patiently followed my harrowing guide.

After the first mile I felt like I was being tortured, but I didn’t want to be rude. The black interior of the car created heat like an oven, my tailored shirt was sopping wet. I knew I couldn’t stand driving one more inch, so I honked my horn lightly.

The farmer turned and smiled. “Well son, what’s the problem? Did you run out of gas?” He bellowed. His hard crusted face loomed over me as I stuck my head out the window.

“Would you mind if I pass you, sir?”

“Why sure, go right ahead. I’m in no rush.” With that he turned back in his seat regaining the same exact rigid position. He turned the wheels of the tractor to the right and pulled over.

I needed no further encouragement, I gunned the gas and flew by that patient pilot. I could have sworn I heard him say, “Godspeed.”

At eight o’clock that night I reached my destination. The streets were deserted as I pulled up to the large, red wooden building that was marked Bangor Hotel – which was the only hotel in the city. As I stepped out of my car, the sharp, fresh country air intoxicated my senses. Twilight had approached and the day’s blue sky was transforming into a shiny blackish gray. Even though I was exhausted and starving, I glowed with happiness. My legs wobbled a little when I took the first steps toward the hotel, but soon they became accustomed to the solid ground underneath.

When I walked inside the hotel, the lobby warmly welcomed me with maroon velvet clad couches and green and red plaid sitting chairs.  Paintings depicting lobster boats hugging the Maine coastline and paintings of the emerald green forests hung on the walls. Behind the check-in desk stood a tiny, aged woman dressed in a gray flowered cotton dress. Her head barely reached over the top of the counter. She was fidgeting over the guest sign in book and talking in low tones to herself.

“It’s been a busy day,” she said looking hard at me with ice-blue eyes.

I smiled trying to empathize with her. “I have a reservation here, Mr. Allan Gladstone.”

She peered down and her granny glasses slipped far off her nose. “Oh yes, Mr. Gladstone.” She cocked her head side to side and gave me the once over. “What’s your business here young man? “

Her bluntness struck a nervous chord, so I instinctively pulled out a cigar from my coat pocket and lit up. Her mouth puckered into a small ball while she glared at me. I puffed away on my cigar attempting to calm myself while a look of increasing disapproval rampaged over that tight face.

“I’m a salesman, mam. I sell shirts.”

“Where you from … must be a city fella.” She seemed determined to crack my serene demeanor.

“I’m from the Bronx … New York.”

“That’s where they’re all from – New York City – you fancy city boys with your cigars and shining new suits.” She never explained who they were and I wasn’t going to ask. “How long you staying?”

“Just one night. I’ll be leaving for Presque Isle in the morning. My father, Jules Gladstone will be wiring me some money here, so I’ll be coming back in two days.”

By some magical occurrence, I watched those cold blue eyes twinkle with laughter. I shook my head confused as to the sudden turn of mood.

“Mr. Gladstone, you have just burned a hole in your suit jacket,” she said matter of factly.

I looked down and saw to my dismay a small hole on the lapel of my brand new suit.

Holding out the key to the room, she barked “Room 32. Good night Mr. Gladstone.” With that she went back to looking over the books.

I heard my stomach gurgling. I hadn’t eaten since snacking on an apple and crackers when I was driving during the day. A sign pointed the way to the dining room so I picked up my suitcase and walked briskly down the hall imagining the delicious home cooked meal I would devour. Approaching the dining area, I noticed the doors were closed and it was dark inside. I looked at my watch in disbelief – it was only 8:30.

Horror and hunger struck all at once and I longed to be back home eating one of my mother’s tender pot roasts with boiled potatoes, carrots and onions. This only made my empty stomach ache more. I turned abruptly and smacked into a young man drinking from a Coke Cola bottle. As the bottle clanked against his teeth, a fierce look flashed through his blue eyes. I quickly blurted out an apology, grabbed my suitcase that had fallen to the floor and began walking to my room.

“Hey fella,” the guy called as he ran up to me.

“His firm grip on my shoulder stopped me in my tracks, so I stood my ground, prepared for a fight.

‘What’s your rush?” He drawled in the Yankee tongue. “You damn near knocked me down.” A strand of his jet black hair fell over his forehead reminding me of Humphrey Bogart. Those gray blue eyes dug into mine as we stood head to head. Let me say that I was no stranger to boxing. I had boxed in the Army and had been a middleweight champion. My knuckles were flexing ready to drop the suitcase if necessary.

Instead of a fist, he held out his half finished bottle of Coke then brought out a small box of Baracinni’s chocolates from his coat pocket.

All threatening signs had dissolved and I accepted his offering. I took a swig of Coke, popped a dark chocolate into my mouth, and sighed.

“This tastes heavenly. Thanks so much.”

He laughed as if he had been part of a joke that had been played on me. “Not used to our ways up here,” he said. “People get up with the dawn and end the day early in evening.”

I continued sipping the Coke while he talked and popped another candy in my mouth. While chewing, I informed him, “I’ll have you know I also get up at dawn. I was in the Army during the war and that’s my waking time.”

He looked amused. “That’s good because you’ll probably miss breakfast if you don’t. Here, keep the whole box.” I eyed my dinner as the young man disappeared around the corner.

I finally reached my room after walking up three flights of stairs. I didn’t even mind the drooping mattress, the tiny closet, and that the bathroom door wouldn’t close. As I slid on my pajamas and set the alarm for 5:30 am, I was satisfied I had a warm place to spend the night after driving steadily for 12 hours. My body listlessly sank into the middle of the mattress where I proceeded to make a night’s cocoon as comfortable as possible.

Sirens screamed out into the night. I opened my eyes and the room spun around me. It took a few seconds for me to adjust to the darkness then I attempted to reach over to the clock to see what time it was. However, I sunk deeper into the creased middle of the mattress and was stuck. I decided to go back to sleep rather than investigate.

The next morning I hit the dining room at 6 am sharp and was rewarded by freshly brewed coffee that steamed over the edges, French Toast with home made maple syrup, sausages and freshly squeezed orange juice. I knew that this meal would provide all the sustenance I needed to drive to Presque Isle.

When I walked through the lobby to leave, the little woman behind the desk ordered me to stop. A slight shiver ran through me. What had I done now? She eyed me suspiciously as I walked over so I straightened my tie and jacket… What could possibly be wrong? I reached for a cigar but then remembered that scrunched up face.

‘Yes, mam. What can I do for you?”

“I hear you were deprived of a meal last night.”

Oh my God, I must have run into her grandson, I thought. “Yes, mam, but that’s fine.”

“You city folks will never learn. We don’t keep the same hours as you do up here. Next time get here at 7 pm then you won’t have problems.”

“Yes mam.”

“Did you hear the fire engines last night?” She asked.

“I heard some alarms, but I didn’t know what it was.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“No mam.”

“Some man burned down his house because he was smoking in bed. Imagine someone being so foolish.” She turned those icy blue eyes on me.

My right hand reached up to the pocket where my cigars were. “That’s a shame mam.”

“Yup.”

“Well, good bye and thanks for the hospitality.”

“When you come back here again, it better be before 7 pm,” she yelled after me. “Godspeed.”

Nothing like a good ol Yankee to shake up your morning, I thought. I threw my suitcase into the trunk and headed toward Presque Isle.

About 50 miles out of Bangor the road suddenly changed. It wasn’t that the driving was smooth before but now I had hit a ocean of bumps. I felt like a ship ebbing and cresting each wave. My breakfast churned inside me, my head kept hitting the roof of the car, and the steering wheel shuttered in my hands as I steered. I was afraid the car would fall apart, but it chugged along without an incident. Finally after a half an hour of bouncing, the road calmed down and I was at the beginning of a dark pine tree forest and the road that took me to my next destination.

The silence was unfathomable and wrapped its profound arms around me as I drove. There were no people, no cars, no signs of life. I was 800 miles from home in the New England wilderness. Out of nowhere, a memory from the war crashed down upon me. Me and hundreds of other Jewish soldiers were celebrating the first night of Passover, April 7, 1944 in the Bavarian forest. At this point in time, no one had discovered the atrocities Hitler had committed against the Jewish people in the concentration camps. Passover, the holiday of liberation from the Egyptian Pharaoh who had enslaved the Jews, was now taking place in another land, another time, where Jewish people were hated and desecrated.

Allan Gladstone posing in Scottish garb, World War II

The ironic juxtaposition of American Jewish soldiers freely enjoying a spiritual holiday while millions of German Jewish people were being exterminated had had a transformative affect on me when my battalion found out about what Hitler had done. I vowed never to hate anyone and to treat all men and women with the upmost respect. I had been tested many times on my return to the Bronx after being discharged – where I came up against discrimination as a Jewish man in my own neighborhood. My brothers and I had been called dirty Kikes and spat at by some Irish and Italian boys. My brothers and I were not allowed to play golf at certain courses because we were Jewish. I had been called a cheap Jew and asked if I grew horns from my head.

My father, Jules Gladstone had come to the United States as a little boy from Russia in the 1890’s because Jewish families were also being killed in the Pogroms and kicked out of their homes by the Russian soldiers. Yet, his outlook on life was always positive and welcoming.

Now, in this wilderness in the upper regions of the United States, I was heading toward a new destiny for myself. I at once felt homesick and imagined hearing the loud clanging trolley cars of New York City – I smelled the sweet treats from the neighborhood bakery – I saw the millions of New Yorkers, people of diverse ethnic backgrounds, fill up the sidewalks – I heard the bats cracking at Yankee Stadium as Joe DiMaggio and Lou Gehrig hit home runs. I saw my family sit down to Shabbat dinner on Friday nights as my mother lit the candles.

The smell of the pines were refreshing and the density of the trees created a cool climate for driving. Every once in a while a deer or squirrel would run across the road. My car had established a rhythm again with the road and I relaxed into the beauty of my surroundings for the rest of the trip.

I was going to see my first client, Baker Army and Navy Store. My father had warned me about the Yankee businessman. He wisely advised, “They do business backwards son. You see, most clients will see what you have and buy 70% of your stock then 30% later on as the year passes; but those hard crusted New Englanders don’t trust you. They buy 30% of what you have and 70% later.” I was worried about these statistics because I had to do well my first time out. My boss told me in a friendly way that if I didn’t sell a certain quota over a period of 6 months, I might be looking for a different job.

I didn’t sell your ordinary man’s shirt. I sold uniform shirts, the type policemen, firemen, and soldiers wore. It was an excellent line to be selling because the sales didn’t depend on the whims of fashion. But somehow I couldn’t fathom how many police or firemen there were in these little towns. What would my welcome be like here?

At the end of the woods was the town of Presque Isle. Baker’s was on the main street. In the front window there was a cluttered display of army and navy pee-coats, boots, madress shirts, and blue jean overalls. Inside, the interior showed the same type of clutter. The pants were piled to the ceiling, shirts and coats hung on top of the other on the racks, and there were boxes and boxes of shoes which formed a mountain. The store had a musty smell and was stuffy. On my forehead beads of sweat formed under my hat and I took out a handkerchief to wipe off the perspiration.

“May I help you, young man?” A large man with steel gray hair and a stern face came over to me. He wore a blue and yellow pin-striped suit with a navy tie and white shirt. I presumed he was Mr. Baker.

I reached out my hand to shake his hand, but he just stared at me.

“Yes sir, my name is Allan Gladstone and I’m with Wide Awake Shirt Company.” He looked at me oddly, but still said nothing. I went on. “Mr. Perkins used to come to see you sir, but he has retired from the company so I’m taking his place.”

“Mr. Perkins?” Mr. Baker scrunched his brow up trying to recall the name.

“Yes, Mr. Perkins used to sell you uniform shirts, the gaberdine ones with straps on the shoulders.”

“What colors do you have the shirt in?”

Finally, we were talking business.

“Mostly beige. They are very fine shirts, made excellently …”

“I remember Perkins now. He worked for Wide Awake Shirt Company. Good man. We did a lot of good business. He always came through promptly with my order.”

“I have a few more types of quality shirts you might be interested in.”

“Nope.”

“You don’t want to see any other shirts, sir?”

“I’ll take 100 dozen of those gaberdine shirts.”

“Of course I didn’t hear you right sir, you want 100 gaberdine shirts?”

“Perkins could always hear me correctly and he was an old man. It’s a shame a young man like you can’t hear well.”

My heart was beating so fast. Did he really say 100 dozen? I knew I still didn’t hear him correctly.

“Get out your pad and let me order some shirts,” he demanded.

I pulled out my pad from the briefcase and he dictated the sizes to me. I must have been writing for 30 minutes. My hand cramped from writing so much but I felt exhilarated.

“Excuse me for asking, sir, but why so many shirts?”

He was shocked by my question. “You must know nothing about this part of the country. Every single potato farmer in the state will buy a few of these shirts. I couldn’t sell enough last year. They love the army straps on the shoulders plus the shirt keeps them warm when they’re in the fields.”

I tried to picture the farmers sitting on their tractors wearing uniform shirts as they worked in the fields. Well it wasn’t my job to question, just to sell.

Unfortunately, my other perspective stores weren’t as profitable as Mr. Baker. The other merchants I met reminded me of the desk clerk at the Bangor Hotel. They eyed me suspiciously as I walked into their shops. They would look at my samples, but refused to buy anything. “Come back some other time … maybe then,” I heard over and over. By the end of the day I was totally depressed and had completely forgotten about my huge success with Mr. Baker. What depressed me even more was that Mr. Baker would have bought those shirts from anyone. It wasn’t my craftsmanship as a salesman that won him over. The more I thought about this, my confidence and good spirits slowly drained away.

Weariness overtook me so I stayed in Presque Isle that night. My trip back to Bangor the next morning was tedious. Being a nice guy wasn’t enough to get you sales, I discovered – especially with the New Englanders. By the time I reached Bangor, I had talked myself out of being a salesman. My father had wired me some money at the hotel so I could continue my trip to Connecticut.

Once again, the cranky desk clerk gave me a hard time. She handed me the envelope with the wire but I stuffed it in my pocket without looking at it.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” She asked.

“No! I’m afraid not!” I jumped back at her.

I made up my mind. I was driving straight home and telling my father that being a salesman might be good for him, but not for me. I had enough of these New Englanders who had a bad attitude and were so unfriendly. I was ready to drive back to the Bronx right then and there.

I rushed out to my car, jumped in and turned the key. Nothing happened. I tried again and the car didn’t ignite. Now what? I couldn’t possibly spend one more minute here. I hoped I was out of gas. I decided to look under the hood to see if there was engine trouble. That was an understatement! As I raised the hood, the entire engine crashed to the ground. I stared in disbelief at the large, monstrous hole with the engine resting on the ground.

I’ll hitch-hike back to New York, I’ll get a bus ticket out of here, I declared to no one. Instead, I stood there in shock.

“Having car trouble?” It was the same young man who had offered me his Coke Cola.

I didn’t answer as he sauntered over. “Oh my word, I’ve never seen that happen before,” and he joined me in staring at the engine. He placed his hand on my shoulder and gave me a few friendly pats.

“Hey neighbor, we have a very good mechanic in town that could fix that for ya.”

“Take me there, please.” I replied.

As fate would have it, I was stuck in Bangor and at the Bangor Hotel for 5 more days. My father had to wire me another 200.00 to fix the engine which I gladly accepted as a gift. When I collected my wire at the front desk this time the little old lady handed me the envelope with a smile.

“Nice to have loving parents, huh? Ones you can count on no matter what happens.” At that moment her grandson, my new friend Stan came up around his grandmother and gave her a big hug.

“You’re the best granny. You sure bailed me out of a few difficult times.”

“Stan, get back to work,” she pushed him away but her face had turned red and a tinge of a smile appeared.

She turned her attention back to me. “By the way, your father called when you were out. He asked that you call him back.” She scrutinized my face for a moment then said, “I think you’re a good son, a good young man. Why you smoke those darn cigars, I’ll never know. Remember now, no smoking in bed.”

I went to my room and called my father.

“How you doing son? We miss you here.”

“Pa, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a traveling salesman. I hate rejection. I don’t understand the New England mentality. They’re so close minded.”

He chuckled and said, “You’re discouraged already, son? It took me a week before I got fed up and wanted to quit too. Luckily I got some good advice from an old veteran salesman who had travelled the roads of New England for many years.

‘What did he tell you, Pa?”

“He said, Jules you might think those Yankees are a hard lot of people and grant you they are, but once you’ve gained their trust they are loyal to you forever. So Allan you must be patient, toughen up a bit son, and by all means do not give up.”

I promised him I wouldn’t give up no matter how much rejection I experienced. I thought about my ancestors surviving slavery in Egypt, I thought about the multitudes of Jewish people that were killed throughout all time just for their religion, I thought about how I survived the war and all the soldiers that didn’t. Then I saw those Maine farmers wearing their gabardine shirts plowing the fields and I was sold. This was my place in life – I was a traveling salesman.

And even when I stopped for a light in New Haven, Connecticut a few days later and the back wheels of the car separated into a spread eagle then fell to the ground and I had to take a train home, I didn’t give up. I laughed and I laughed.

I decided this job had one very good side to it. Think of all the stories I could pass on to my children – traveling salesmen stories – how original!

My father and me on Cape Cod.

Allan Gladstone at his
granddaughters Bat Mitzvah.
Neil Aronson, Sheryl Aronson, Claire Aronson