Someone who has a connection for making things happen or for sourcing something hard to find says, “I Know a Guy.” That something could be nefarious, illegal, or just items that only super clever people know ways of getting hold of the goods.
My mother, who knew how to stretch a dime into a dollar, knew not one, but three “Guys” who were part of a large Irish American clan.
Their names were Mike aka “Sapp the Klim”, Jim, aka “Swimbo Jimmer”, and Pat, aka “The Bright One.” These three Guys were my mother’s suppliers.
Every Sunday the Guys gathered under the darkness of night, usually at 3 am, when all was quiet on the city streets and only the night stars or full moon gave the dimmest light — conditions that were perfect for meeting at a certain street corner — in every season and all sorts of weather. Under a huge water tower and a single street lamp, they showed up in the wee hours to start their mission.
A large trunk rumbled to their corner. The driver, Louie, a hulking man, always dressed in soot grey coveralls, climbed down from the truck, nodded, grumbled something unintelligible, took the butt of his cigarette from his mouth and flicked it to the curb. Louie was nothing if not particular in this routine.
Beyond the cigarette smoke, he had a certain smell, not unlike the greasy aroma of a car mechanic who had permanent motor oil and grease stains clinging to the cuticles on all ten of his massive gorilla-like fingers. He smelled more like really old ink, ink that never washed off no matter how hard he scrubbed.
Lumbering to the back of the truck, Louie grabbed the heavy wrought iron handle and cranked it hard ninety degrees to unlock the heavy rear metal doors that swung open wide. Given his bulk, he was surprisingly nimble as he hoisted himself up to the waist-high floor of the truck. Years of repetition made his motion look effortless.
With each hand he grabbed a large heavy bundle, bound with industrial strength twine, then launched them airborne out the back of the truck. Two by two they thumped heavily on the paved street. Bundles down, Louie jumped from the truck, closed the doors, threw back the crank, gave one nod, mumbled a couple more words, climbed up to the cab of the truck, then drove off.
Sapp the Klim, Swimbo Jimmer, and The Bright One loaded the bundles into heavy duty cross-body canvas shoulder bags, and into an even larger bag attached to the tall U-shaped handlebars of their gold Stingray bicycles with banana seats — handlebars that mimicked those on the Harley Davidson motorcycles the guys envied. With a bag across each shoulder and the third canvas bag up front, they got on the Stingrays, balanced their loads, then used their high top sneakers to kick off the pavement and pedal their laden bikes slowly along the still deserted dark streets.
Back at their clubhouse, aka our living room floor, Mom’s three Guys, or as I called them, my three big brothers, cut the twine from the large bundles of thick, multi-section Sunday morning newspapers and the weekly circulars that contained my mother’s most prized booty — the retail adverting inserts and supermarket discount coupons.
Boxes of thick rubber bands circled the living room carpet. Sitting cross legged on the floor, each boy folded, then with two swift circling motions of the oversized rubber bands, secured each issue of the Sunday Oklahoman, along with the coupon circulars. Once banded, they again loaded the dozens of newspapers to their Stingrays and took off to deliver them before sunrise along their designated paper routes.
Each Sunday the circulars outnumbered the newspapers. Mom’s Guys left the circulars in a corner of the living room. As she sipped her morning cup of always black coffee, Mom sorted, cut, and stacked multiples of the prized coupons.
The Irish American clan that Mom’s Guys belonged was my family of nine. With a perpetually slim food budget and a Depression era baby’s mindset, Mom proceeded to compose her grocery list and plan the weekly shopping based on the coupons and discount items advertised in the supermarket circulars. Since there were seven growing hungry kids and two hardworking parents to feed, my mother skillfully planned how to make each penny count. Since her sons had gotten their hands on the highly valued goods (coupons) her daughters were tasked with accompanying Mom to each of a few grocery stores every week.
In those days, most coupons had restrictions. For example, a single coupon for canned green beans, discounted to four cans for a dollar, had a limit of four cans per coupon, and only one green beans coupon permitted at checkout.
Savvy, my mother divvied up the coupons, among her four daughters and a set of coupons for herself. She gave each of us enough cash to individually go through the cashiers’ checkout lanes and each buy the discounted food. Four daughters plus one mother, each with a coupon, equaled a cool bounty of 20 cans of discounted green beans.
Score!
Hence knowing “three Guys“ plus five skilled grocery shoppers, all blessed with extra coupons, meant that our family of nine had food on the table every week.
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