Tri-State Grocer

by

04/13/2024

Neighborhood: Co-op City

Co-Op City

Ever since I’d gotten the job as a reporter/assistant editor on a small trade paper called the Tri-State Grocer with the help of its secretary — who happened to be the wife of one of my father’s friends — I knew something was wrong.

The pay was terrible — not enough for me to move out of my parents’ Co-Op City apartment, where I’d involuntarily been living since coming back to New York from a temporary job in the Midwest. There also was an atmosphere of deadly silence throughout the Tri-State Grocer’s Midtown office. Mr. Zimmerman, the publisher, didn’t want people talking to each other unless it was about work. There were no birthday parties, no holiday celebrations. The aforementioned secretary once whispered to me that Mr. Zimmerman even discouraged people from going to lunch together.

I wasn’t going to be eligible for health insurance until I’d been working there for a year. On a day-to-day basis, I had to learn how to avoid some of Mr. Zimmerman’s pet hates — like an organization known as the Food Merchants Association. Not only did he not want the group mentioned in print, if you even said the name in the office, he’d explode in anger.

On top of it all, the managing editor, Rob Stroczek, whose chief claim to fame was having worked for the National Enquirer, kept firing people every two or three weeks. In an editorial department of only three people, that was quite an accomplishment. You never knew if you would be next.

“What a lousy job!” my father yelled over dinner, temporarily turning his attention from the New York Post. “Why don’t you quit? I’ll support you until you get another one!”

As it turned out, I didn’t need to quit. The next Friday, the advertising guy, John, passed me on the way to the bathroom and smiled. “You’re a good kid and a good worker,” he said, “and I’d keep you here! But some of the other people…” Was this a friendly warning?

On Monday, after the other-reporter, Julie, went to lunch, Mr. Stroczek closed the door. “Ron,” he said, “I have bad news for you.”

“You’re firing me?”

“Yes. Two or three of our sources said they didn’t want to talk to you. And remember that incident when you took two cameras to the Key Food opening?” I remembered — I’d been a little uncomfortable with the camera they gave me, so I had taken my own just in case.

“That showed me that you don’t have self-confidence,” he continued. “And look at your desk, how messy it is. When I see you, I see disorganization. Look, your shirt is out of your pants in the back. In a way, it’s a shame because you’re such a good writer; but if I kept you here, I’d have to give you more responsibility and I don’t know if I can do that.”

I started to object, but he interrupted: “Look, I’ll give you a reference, but it has to be a job where you’re only a reporter and don’t have a position of responsibility or leadership, where you’re just taking assignments — ‘Do this, Do that. Go here, Go there.’ You’re too disorganized for anything else.”

I then did something that I’d fantasized about. I barged into Mr. Zimmerman’s office and told him what had happened. I complained about the unfriendly atmosphere, the low pay, the constant firings, even the paper’s giving extra, free space to advertisers in its news section.

“Well,” said Mr. Zimmerman, “I trust Rob’s judgment. As far as everything else you mentioned, I’m sorry, but at the Tri-State Grocer, we are what we are!” I gathered my things and headed for the door.

On the way out, I told the secretary what had just happened. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, “he fires people all the time. Was it because he said you’d made a mistake? Listen, he makes mistakes, too. One day, when he went to the printer’s to lay out the paper, he realized that he left a $2,000 ad in his desk!” I laughed and headed into the hallway

Normally, I would have gone straight home on the Co-op City Express Bus. But something told me to use my new-found freedom to stretch out a little, to take the train to Allerton Avene. A group of my friends used to live in the Allerton area back in my late teens. And although none of them were there anymore in 1982, I thought it would be nice to see the old place again.

I got off the train, and there was the same old newsstand. It still displayed “Crain’s Chicago Business” alongside more commonplace fare like the Daily News and the Post, Time and Newsweek.

“Two people buy that Chicago magazine every week, without fail,” the proprietor once explained. Strange.

I walked east — past the pizzeria, past the fruit stand, past Sal and Dom’s old-fashioned Italian bakery — to Richie’s candy store, whose cartoonish sign declared, “You don’t like candy? Everybody likes candy!” I sat down at one of the counter stools at Richie’s and asked the elderly woman behind the counter for a vanilla egg cream. Next to me, a Black guy and a Puerto Rican guy, both a little older than me, were talking. I started eavesdropping on them.

“I come in here when I want to chill out, when I want to do some writing,” the Puerto Rican guy said.

“And what kind of writing do you do?”

“I write songs, man. I’m a songwriter! I’ve written about 300 so far and gotten them all copyrighted.”

“Really?” the Black guy asked. “I write songs, too. Some of them have been recorded by major artists. I’m also a backup musician, on bass and keyboard. I’ve been on stage with Luther, with Peabo Bryson….”

“Hey, give me your number! Maybe we can write some songs together!”

I paid for my egg cream and left. Back out in the street, I reflected. Those two guys in the store, and the old woman who worked there, too, were REAL New Yorkers, not the phonies at the Tri-State Grocer and in a thousand offices just like it. Right here, and in working-class and middle-class neighborhoods throughout the city, was where the real life was!

Smiling, I crossed the street and waited for the Bronx 17 bus to take me home.

***

Raanan Geberer grew up in the Bronx, went to the Bronx High School of Science, and currently lives in Chelsea with his wife Rhea and his cat Bernie. He’s a semi-retired journalist whose most recent job was as managing editor for the revived Brooklyn Daily Eagle and who still writes a local history column for the Straus chain of weekly newspapers in Manhattan. He graduated SUNY Binghamton (B.A.) and Boston University’s School of Communications (M.S.J.). Aside from writing, music is his main hobby, and he plays several instruments.

Comments
Rate Story
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (No Ratings Yet)
Loading...

§ One Response to “Tri-State Grocer”

  • Jack Szwergold says:

    This is a beautiful story. Simple and succinct! And fact you were fired because you went to the grocery store event with two cameras? Beyond hilarious! Were your shoes untied too? LOL!

§ Leave a Reply

Other Stories You May Like

Nearby Co-op City Stories

The Therapist Who Was Always Late

by

As a young man in my mid-twenties in the late ‘70s, I was in a precarious state. I had just [...]

Sexual Frustration at the NYPD Police Academy

by

Most people see the “Police Academy” movies and laugh. I went through the real Police Academy, and felt nothing but [...]