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Players from miles and miles away would come to browse and carouse. Cadillac Broughams. Buick Roadmasters and 225s. Lincoln Continentals with the suicide doors. Oldsmobile Super 98s. Chrysler Imperials. And, the only global standard that could pa** the test at that time was called Rolls. Rolls Royce.
The whole scene captivated and inspired my imagination far beyond my youthful circumstances. I wore short and sneakers in the summer, pants and shoes when the weather turned cold. But the players on Howard Street were a parade of sports jackets, silk suits, sharkskin suits, Brooks Brothers, Botany 500s, and Hickey Freeman.
On top they wore beaverskins, Panama straws, Saratoga Stetsons, stingy brims, herringbone caps, and fedoras. On their feet were Florsheims, Stacy Adams, Italians, Wagoner Marsh, and Silk Lace shoes.
I made sure I had some of the best rags and brushes and that they were always clean. The last thing a customer wanted to see used on his or her shoes was a dirty rag or clumped-up brush.
But the lifeblood of my business was polish. It was mandatory that I keep two cans each of brown and black polish on hand and ready to go at any time
Later on, I would add a bottle of white liquid polish for all my women customers who were nurses and sanitarium workers.