Maxie's

Of shopping for himself, my daddy would say dryly, I am a man of humble beginnings and modest needs. Let us go and visit my friend Maxie.

Maxie's Second Hand Suits & Goods was a dusty and dimly lit little shop that kept its windows soaped over ( to discourage break ins ) and favored hand lettered signs ( cheaper than neon ). It sat on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Magazine, a narrow, one way street of tenement housing and liquor stores that catered to the homeless and the led astray. My daddy would don a shabby overcoat and take off his tie and lead me across the sleaziest section of the square, past the neglected but always well attended Greek Orthodox church, the Bickford Cafeteria, the out of touch antique shop, the only still doing moderately well florist, the Army Navy Surplus Store and a half dozen questionable but always busy bars. Streetcars were still electrified then and we crossed the above ground tracks with care - the square was always claiming the life of some careless drunk or weaving prostitute in high heels and black stockings - the demise of an arrogant but indiscreet bookie was not uncommon nor always accidental.

Maxie himself, a wizened and tiny old man with red apple cheeks and a witch's cackle of a laugh would greet us from his cracked leather barstool behind the ancient counter. The shop smelled of tobacco, shoe polish and disorder - everything was in a jumble of disarray and clutter with towers of shoe boxes stacked to the low ceiling, plastic wrapped dress shirts haphazardly piled in a shadowy corner, several racks of ties attached to the walls with fishing line. A mannequin in fox hunting attire hid and guarded the entrance to our final destination, Maxie's back room.

Here it was pristine - dust free, well lighted and orderly - rack upon rack of three piece suits and dress coats, jackets and ties, a size arranged shelving unit of designer label shirts, a glass display case of mens hats. Twin mahogany chests with gleaming brass handles held undergarments and an entire wall was devoted to tuxedos and formal accessories. The changing room was paneled in oak, the floor plushly carpeted, classical music emanated from wall mounted speakers and a small sitting area with two high backed velveteen covered chairs beside two glass and chrome end tables sat invitingly amid it all. Maxie's brother, Mr. Rosen, emerged from yet another well hidden room, a tape measure around his neck, starched collar open at the throat, a small pin cushion and a piece of chalk in one hand, a silver plate of iced cookies in the other. We are delighted that you have come to visit us, he said and smiled. I leave you in good hands, Maxie added as he set a china pot of hot cocoa and two delicate rose patterned cups beside me. A small bell tinkled from far away and with a smile and a slight bow, he hurried away to the public and, I realized much, much later, the legal -part of his shop.

And now, my old friend, Mr. Rosen said to my daddy, What can I help you with today?

We left with two new dark suits, one with a muted and elegantly formal gray striped vest, one a simple two piece in charcoal, a conservative and quiet tie, several pairs of black socks and a pale blue dress shirt with French cuffs - all in nondescript, plain brown paper handle bags. Remember, my daddy told me sternly, Your mother doesn't know about Maxie and doesn't need to. She still thinks I shop at Robert Hall. Accustomed to keeping secrets such as this, and bought off with cookies and cocoa, I nodded and crossed my heart. I wasn't old enough to know about illegal enterprises and things falling off trucks, about how some inventory might be on the shady side of the law and how a man from humble beginnings with modest needs might want to save a dime and take a risk all in one breath.

As walks on the wild side go, I suppose it wasn't much - I doubt receiving stolen goods or even buying them second hand would've received much of a penalty, the Boston underworld and the police who pursued them had far more lethal things to worry about and being as the funeral home also served as the City of Cambridge's morgue, we had highly placed friends on the police force - but there was something daring and mysterious and elegant about our visits to Maxie's, something that made the tiny forbidden-ness of it worthwhile. It might have been recklessness or adventure or just a private, playful afternoon with the young, handsome stranger who was my daddy.