I was searching my desk for some old story notes and found a confusion of old business cards. I scraped off the gooey mess that had been rubber bands and found myself in a time warp.
On top were two cards: One from the Imperial Wizard of the Invisible Empire, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and the other from the regional consultant of the Zionist Organization of America.
That was for starters. Underneath were belly dancers, gun slingers, rock collectors, politicians and a whole gamut of life in Palm Beach County, and some distant ports. I whooped, laughed and sometimes groaned through the 2-by- 3 1/2-inch slivers of paper. It was funnier than sloppin’ hogs.
I forgot what I had been looking for originally. I had interviewed the Zionist and the Ku Kluxer within a few days of each other. Dr. Michael Leinward was a quiet, well-spoken, friendly person who looked the stereotype of a crisply dressed WASP banker rather than an advocate of the Biblical homeland for Jews.
Imperial Wizard Bill Wilkinson was a quiet, well-spoken, friendly person who looked the stereotype of a crisply dressed Jewish banker but was an advocate of white, Protestant supremacy in America.
You can’t tell about a man by the way he looks at first glance. That night I saw Wilkinson slide a hooded white garb over his slick business clothes at a Klan cross-burning rally near West Palm Beach. His words were not so quietly spoken. I never saw Leinward give a speech, so I can’t comment on how a change of clothing at a Zionist rally would make him sound differently.
Another two cards moved me to a fantasy world of wild West gambling saloons and Dodge City shoot-outs. Joe Colwell of Phoenix, Ariz., offered “any supply for the gunfighter.” I got it at a Boynton Beach fast-draw competition. The card from Joe Nelson of Boynton Beach offered fast-draw exhibitions, shows and instructions.
These modern gun-slingers use specially made revolvers and wax pellets to shoot balloons, competing against time clocks. That solves the problems of clearing bodies from the street after a shoot-out. But there’s still bloodshed.
I saw a trigger-quick Boynton Beach man who kept shooting himself in the thigh until his pants were shredded and bloody.
“Aw. I just started last week,” he explained with a foolish grin.
He was doing it because his wife, father-in-law and mother-in-law “were nuts about fast draw.” And he was newly married.
How long does a man have to be married to stop shooting himself in the leg? I wondered.
I treasure the card handed to me years ago by the late Robert Golden, supervisor of sanitation for Boca Raton. His name was in gold. Scripted under it was: “Golden’s my name, Garbage is my game.”
Bob always dressed like a corporate figurehead. I upheld the dignity of the newspaper by wearing a tie. We kept a shine on our shoes. And we had experiences in common when our shoes didn’t shine.
We chatted and joked about the wretchedness and drollery to be found in working on two garbage trucks. I don’t mean those fancy, enclosed, deodorized packers used today. We laughed about things that happened working on open garbage trucks. Oh well, it was a living.
I have a card from Tarina — exotic dancer; and another from Rajia — authentic Middle Eastern dancer. Simply put, that means they are belly dancers.
Rajia, who thought of her dancing as an art form, was introduced to belly dancing in Egypt, Greece and Middle Eastern countries. When not performing or giving lessons, she was a private secretary to a Boynton Beach city manager.
She gave me a private demonstration of her exotic dancing in her home. Believe me, it was an art form the way her tummy rhythmically rippled and rolled on command.
Tarina gave me a demonstration of her exotic dancing at her home, too. The other spectators were her husband, two children and mother-in-law — all applauding.
When not at her job as a nurse in Boca Raton Community Hospital, or riding her motorcycle for fun, she moonlighted for Eastern Onion Singing Telegram Service, which listed her performance as “the sexiest (message) of them all, the Bellygram.”
I agree. I remember her closeness, and the sensuality of her movements and the perfume she wore. But I can’t remember what I wrote about her. Oh well, I still have her pink card.
I don’t remember all the stories I have written, so it was nice to find these old cards. Otherwise I would have forgotten Deerfield Beach’s Ellis Traub, musical saw artist. He played something classical for me. I admired his saws, which could cut wood as well as make music.
The old cards also made me remember M. Carroll Owen, counselor-at-numbers. She could count the letters in your name and tell if it augured good or bad.
I told her about my annoyance when an editor took the middle initial from my name, shortened the first name, and used it for a byline “to make it fit the column.”
She told me not to worry. If the number count is off, I could always add or shorten my signature to make it more auspicious. She had done it to her own name.
Well. I can’t complain. It’s at the top of this column and you read it, didn’t you?
I was puzzled by some cards in the pack. Why would I have a card from Frank R. Hinds, consul for Iceland? I never met the man. Or from E. Ray Kennedy, chief psychiatric social worker at the Palm Beach Institute? Or from M.B. Whitmer, bottleogist of Key Largo? Someone will tell me someday.
Then there are the funny cards. Like the one without a name but with the message: Isn’t this a beautiful day? Just watch some bum louse it up.
One from J. William Schmalz listed his status as: retired, no phone, no address, no money. That wasn’t exactly true. Bill Schmalz was a very active gadfly who buzzed and buzzed around the ears of the Delray Beach City Council and got things done.
In the same category is one with two words on it: My Card. I know it was given to me by Merritt Jacobson, once a photographer.
If he could write his name, he would still have a byline, on this paper. Wouldn’t he?
Then there are a couple of cards from two Japanese heavy equipment salesmen who had an idea they could sell Delray Beach some bulldozers that could operate underwater.
So, if a storm washed away the beach, a city crew could don snorkling gear, go to sea, find the sand and push it back to shore.
Yeah. Who brings them their coffee during break?
