Nogales international., 1944-05-12
Write to a Friend
Write to a Erlen'
in the Service
Marty's S
Letter
BY MARTY
LOUGHNIAN
Private w. N. Scatena,
APO. San Francisco, Calf.

Dear Bill.
Well, your old man and 1 were
cutting up a few touches here the
other night about the crazy times
we had when we worked together
35 years ago in the San Francisco
market. I don't know who wound
up the biggest liar, but brother, we
had two of the best together
Anyhow, your pop recalled the
time we were both working for the
craziest guy ever in the produce
business. Your father was the
country buyer and prize salesman.
I was the cashier. Sounds like a
swell title, but the cashier in those
days was a guy that used to stand
up in a stand. like an auctioneer,
and try to collect the money that
guys like your father used to charge
for produce.
Imagine ten statesmen hollering
sales to young punk like me, and
the boss insisting that we collect
for every sale Anyhow, the routine
every morning would beat Laurel
and Hardy or Abbott and Costello.
Remember this nut we worked
for was named Charley Campodon-
leo. No, you can't remember be-
cause you weren't here yet. Anyhow,
it would go like this:
We started work at l O'Clock in
the morning. We would be selling
produce that your father had bought
in the country the day before, and
the boss, Campodonico, would
come up to the desk and ask, How
much is Billy making on thata
stuffa?"
I'd look at the sales sheet and
say, well, he made money on the
first half of the lot but now he's
just about breaking even"
BOOMl-he' blow his topper and
shout ''Give-a him his-a de wage,
Tina gonna fire-a him.
I'd say to the boss, "Okay, boss,
I've got it here in an envelope.
You fired him yesterday
so, I fire-a him yesterday, he
comma back today, no wonder my
biz she's a go to hell!''
60 to hell is right" I sez.
"Oh. so you smarta guy too, tell
ine me so to hell? LisSena you
skinny Irisha son-on1- 1-a-so-an'-s
you fire too," he sez.
Listen sez I, don't you call ME
skinny. you garlic-eating spaghetti
hound. I quit - And then I'd pick
I'D the sack with the days receipts
and start OH.
He'd holler at me: Where you go
wit that moneta (money, to you) ?"
why. I'm gonna take it home
and count my salary and deduct it. "
mo. NO, MOI no like de de-
ducks. You stay here-I give-a you
five dollar more each week you stay
here"
"Okay. boss. I'd say, but what
about Billy?'
''Him-a too, he stay here, but you
both drive-a me nuts
Then your pop would say. "Okay,
boss, I'll drive you
The boss would say, Where you
drive me?'
And your pop would say, NUTS!
"Nuts-a to you too" would say the
boss. and so it went on for years.
The boss is dead We're both
alive. There's a moral there.
Sew Hector Larriva here. After
c--c~ f-r-o years in the Pacific he
looks like a million dollars in his
sailors uniform. I'll say this: II
he is half the sailor that his sister
is a seller, he's cinch to be an
admiral
Best regards,
MARTY.
Psf you can find native in
the jungles that can throw cocoa
nut with a reasonable amount of
control, please cable his name so
that we can arrange transportation
for him to come and pitch for the
Nogales international ball team. A
couple of good thieves would do too.
We haven't got guy on the team
that will even steal second base
Also send three guides that can find
third base. We've only had two
men on third all season.
.S-Don't blame me about
last weeks letter. For change the
...4 .l.,,..lr II rood lilo