Page 163 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

A new baby and a new business

That machine I threw out afterwards. Then he wanted the wooden
pressboard, but I would not give it to him, and I never saw him
again. Well, that week I took in eighteen dollars’ worth of work; the
cleaning cost a couple of dollars, and the rest was money earned from
my labor. It was a life-saver—or, rather, a three-life-saver, for a third
one was on its way to participate in the earnings.
We moved then to 816 Wall Street, into Mr. Barry’s house. He
was an old man with a wife and two spinster daughters. They lived in
one side of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Herman were in the front two
rooms, a woman with a young daughter were in the back, and we had
one room and a kitchen, also in the back. That house must have then
been about thirty-five years old, and when you go by today, it is still
standing there between big commercial buildings, with the traffic
court of Los Angeles across the street. Very few buildings of that
type are to be seen now in this city. Our furniture—a stove, a bed,
and a table and chairs—was bought from Goot’s second-hand store,
which was near my shop on Seventh Street. I furnished the place for
forty dollars, and it was one block away from my business.
The pressing and cleaning business was not as big as we see it
today. My shop was not located in a crowded settlement with
apartment buildings, and, in general, people were not as sporty and
loose with their dollars as they are today. One could make a living if
he did the pressing himself and a little repairing, which made the
most profit; but as I was never a cleaner or tailor, I eked out a mere
living. Pressing I learned quickly, but shortening pants, relining
sleeves or ladies’ coats and skirts was my difficulty. The women’s
styles, although not as changeable as today, gave me some trouble.
Serge was the style of the plain people, and a lot of pleated white or
blue serge skirts came in. It was not a high-class neighborhood, and
the women’s skirts, especially the white serge, were spotted and dirty.
The cleaners were not as scientifically educated as they are today, so
they had to wash those skirts and all the pleats were blown out. What
grief I had pressing back those pleats!
Since Fannie had no friends, she was in the store most of the time,
and helped me to get those pleats together—sometimes she basted
them down. I sweated over those pleats, and she hadn’t known about
this business, but she was bright and learned quickly. Being a woman,
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