My father had a textile waste business. He bought cuttings from large factories, sorted them, and resold them. From the early 1930s, after he recovered from pneumonia and found the world had been transformed by the Great Depression to 1966 when he died.
The business never thrived. How could it? Textiles had become a dying industry in New England well before the Depression. The business employed only a few people. My father. My uncle. A handyman/helper. My cousin, three or four years older than me worked there full time after he finished school, part time before that.
By the time I was old enough to work on Saturdays or for a few weeks during the summer, the handyman was gone. Too often drunk, I think. He was replaced by Charlie Babbitt.
Charlie was in his early 20s. Married with two children. A young Black man. He was ambitious. We would have lunch together on the loading dock. He’d wonder about the art schools advertised on match book covers. In my early teens, I knew enough to be skeptical of that. We could hear, but not see Providence’s South Main Street. He’d like to try a visit to the night club on the hill between North Main and South Main.
Charlie had a better idea for his ambition. Boxing. He knocked out his first opponent in the first round. And in his second. He lost his third bout. Boxing was not his route out. He worked hard. He learned how the warehouse area was organized. He learned not to waste time creating a box or a bale filled to maximum capacity. There was no point in redoing a box or bale that burst its seams. He learned something about the business – such as it was.
I went away to college and lost touch with Charlie Babbitt. He, however, found his touch. I don’t know how he made the connection, but somebody staked him to purchasing an Arby’s franchise.
When my father died, Charlie Babbitt stopped at the funeral home. He left a note. He thanked my father for teaching him how to run a business.
Then I read a story that mentioned Charlie in the Boston Globe. The story was about Marvin Barnes, the great Providence College basketball player whose transition to the Boston Celtics was unsuccessful. Barnes, according to the story, hung out in the South Providence club owned by Charlie Babbitt =e. Charlie owned the club and a string of franchises, not just one Arby’s.
Years later, when computers could do searches, I decided to look Charlie up. Nothing. I looked further. I found a criminal conviction. At his club, he bought a small amount of drugs from a hanger on. My suspicion. Charlie was making the guy feel like he was earning a living instead of getting hand-outs. The hanger on was working. He setting Charlie up for the cops. Charlie was convicted on a drug charge.
Surely, he lost his liquor license. I have no idea what else he lost. I could not find a trace of him after the trial.