We begin some 50 years ago, two years after I graduated from Saint Mary's High School; I was working for Sam Drey. To appreciate the full story, I must first explain the relationship I had with Sam, and what he taught me.
Working for Sam Drey was the first real job I had as an adult; as you'll recall, Sam was quite a character. Before he retired to Arizona, Sam was a 'ward healer' and 'fixer' in Chicago. His cousin was Jake Arvey, former Chairman of the Cook County Democratic Party Central Committee and the Democratic Party National Committeeman for the State of Illinois. He was a power in Chicago.
In addition to the political work that Sam took care of for Jake, Sam was a produce jobber. Sam had retired to Phoenix. I met him while volunteering on some political campaign. Sam took a liking to me, and offered me a job. I would be Sam's driver and "Go-for".
My duties for Sam included picking him up at his home in the morning, then driving him to Katz's Delicatessen on North Central Avenue where we ate breakfast with the gang. I would then drive him to his office.
The office was small, a one room cinder block building, only 20 by 30 feet, with one door and three windows. It sat on the edge of the sidewalk, on the parking lot of the Jewel Box Pawn Shop, across the street from the Hotel Westward Ho, caddy corner from the Old Post Office Building near the Northeast corner of Central Avenue and Fillmore in downtown Phoenix.
Sam shared the room with a CPA, an old guy named Bernie. A handful of old buddies were always stopping in. The place had the ambiance of a barber shop or shoeshine stand.
Sam was about 70 years old at that time. He was thin, short, and always wore Windowpane Check patterned sports coats, with gray or black dress slacks, penny loafers, a red tie, and thick black horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Think of Johnny Carson, without the eyeglasses, and you'll get the picture.
Although Sam was retired, he still kept a few business deals in his pocket. As I mentioned, Sam was a produce jobber, and he dealt in box cars of onions. Sam was called 'the king of onions'.
When somebody needed onions, Sam knew where to find them, and at the right price, for which he took a small commission. When you're dealing in box cars of anything, the pennies add up. That was one of the lessons Sam taught me.
Another lesson was about the importance of relationships. They also add up, especially all the little ones, and Sam had boxcars of little relationships.
In the morning Sam would sit with his friends at Katz's and kibitz; then I would drive him to the office, and he would be on the phone pretty much nonstop through the morning.
I would sit behind a small desk next to his, place his calls, run errands, file papers, and watch the master. It was a great opportunity for a young man to learn how to tend to relationships, and make a deal. it was very much... old school.
One of my duties in the morning was to scamper across Central Avenue to a smoke shop in the Hotel Westward Ho, and purchase a stack of assorted daily newspapers. In addition to The Phoenix Gazette, The Arizona Republic, The Tucson Daily Star, The Scottsdale Progress and The Mesa Tribune, Sam would read over The Chicago Tribune, the Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Kansas City Star, The Saint Louis Post Dispatch, and any other newspaper that he might think of that day.
As far as I know, Sam never read a book, but he would always glean eight to ten newspapers a day. I recall that he once called Rabbi Plotkin and asked him if it was permitted to read some small pamphlet on Jewish culture. He said, "If Rabbi says it's OK, then fine; if Rabbi says it isn't, it's in the trash."
The newspaper routine was always the same. Sam would see an article in a paper, circle it with a pen, and jot a name on top of the page; he would then hand the paper to me. I would cut the article out, put it in an envelope, address the envelope to whomever he wanted it sent to, and then hand the envelope back to Sam. He would jot a quick note, place it in the envelope with the article, and then hand it back to me again. Then I would put a stamp on the envelope, seal it, and walk across the street with it to the main post office, where Sam had a post office box. There, I would hand the letter off to a mailman at the counter, and then check Sam's post office box. If I recall correctly, his box number was somewhere in the 40s.
For lunch we would go over to the Arizona Club, which at that time was located in the Luhr's Building; later it moved to the top floor of the First National Bank Building. Or, we might go to the Adams Hotel, or the Hotel Westwood Ho, or the Phoenix Press Club, or to Durant's. Sometimes we might slum it for lunch, and go to The Busy Bee Coffee Shop, the Roadrunner Truck Stop, or The Nogales Café. Wherever we went, Sam was always kibitzing with someone.
Sam taught me that with a good joke, and a story, you could move mountains, or boxcars anyway. And it was important to stay connected to people.
Anyway, at some point I said to Sam that I wanted to start a business for myself, and I wanted to get a post office box at the Main Post Office, and I wanted a post office box with a low number.
Why the low number, you might ask
Well, I wanted to go into business as a political and promotions consultant. I was going to call myself a 'press agent'. The only two problems with that plan were, one, I didn't know anything about what I wanted to do, and two, I didn't have any money.
I bought my suits at the Disabled American Veterans thrift store, and if I was really lucky, I might find a nice suit that fit me from Goldwater's Department Store, or Hanny's Men's Store. That would be a good week.
Sam would say to me, "always get quality, and always get it for a bargain."
I couldn't afford the tuition to attend an Ivy League College, to say nothing that I didn't have the grades to get in to an Ivy League or Stanford, so I went to Phoenix Junior College.
And, I figured that since if I didn't actually have the blue blood bonafides and credentials, at least I could snag a prestigious address for a business card. The only problem was I didn't have money to rent a prestigious location, or any location at all.
So, the way I figured it, a P.O. Box with a low number would convey some panache.
I had a plan, my card would read:
William J. Black
Press Agent
Post Office Box "#"
Phoenix, Arizona 85001
Phone: ALpine 8-7611
Of course, I would spell out 'Post Office Box', to further highlight the single, or two digit, number, and I would use the older 'alpha prefix' for the phone number. "Yah, that's class", I told myself.
When I went to get a post office box, I was told by someone working the front counter of the Post Office that the PO Boxes with low numbers where reserved for large companies, law firms, and banks; and it would not be possible for an individual, much less a college kid, to get a post office box with low number.
I mentioned this to Sam. Well, Sam knew most everyone at the main post office, and he said to me, "Blackie" (that's what Sam called me) "go talk to so-and-so in the back, his desk is by the loading dock, and tell him 'Sam sent you'". So, I went and talked to so-and-so, and I said "Sam sent me", and I told that guy that I wanted a post office box with a low number.
Well, that guy said "that might be hard to do… but give me a couple of weeks, and I'll let you know". About a week later, when I was picking up the mail for Sam, that same postal employee motioned me over to the counter, and he said, "I've got a box for you".
I said, "Great, what is it?" He said, "Box 17".
I was flabbergasted that I could get such a good number. He smiled and said "Just tell Sam that I took care of you". "Of course and thank you" I replied.
That's how I got Post Office Box 17.
A few years after that, when I joined CBN, you'll recall that as part of our agreement, I transferred my ownership of Post Office Box 17 to CBN, with the understanding that I could always use it for my personal or business needs, and if CBN where to ever give up the box, I would have first dibs on it.
Relationships. You never know where they might lead.
Sam was a great story teller, he never forgot a name, and he could remember the smallest detail about a person he met yesterday or thirty years ago. He was a networker, a dealmaker, and a natural mentor.
Bobby, every time I see Post Office Box 17 on our letterhead, I remember Sam.