Document text
Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview
FORM k
Circumstances of Interview
STATE New York
NAME OF WORKER Frank Byrd
ADDRESS 110 King Street, N.Y.C.
DATE March 6, 1939
SUBJECT Pullman Porters Dining Car Workers Stories.
1. Date and time c interview March 6th, 1 P.M.
2. Place of interview 200 West 135th Street
3. Name and address of informant Leroy Spriggs,
200 West 135th Street
New York City
4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in
touch with informant. Met him in pool room.
5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you
No one.
FOLKLORE
NEW YORK
6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc. Office building with branch
office of P.P. union, cabaret in basement, bar and pool -room on street
floor.
(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each
bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)
-dce:/4 Po•v? 4:7;i4A 64.4./Lot,t;rw.S. &et_
zL
FORMA
ciww-totwv of -P.t.--anhp,
SW" New York
NAME OP WORM Frank Byrd
40DUSS 110 King Street, 11./W.
bet March 6, 1939
suaotoT Pullman Porters t Dining Car Workers Stories.
1. Data 04 etme of luterVlew Iftroh 6th, 1 P.M.
11304 Qf ntoiryiew 200 West 135th Street
3, Name 404 444rOaa or inforeatit Leroy Spriggs,
200 West 135th Street
Weir York City
NW *A 041.0011 of person, ir 44Y, *40 put pitu in
tow ilitit'inliftiont. Met him in pool roam.
0* Na* 414 Wet.* of per -6401 it env, aocoepallYi YOU
Wo one.
6. 0,00104440 o POOOY 00e4e. 6404YM4441466, (AO* Offioe building 'with branch
office of P.P. union, cabaret in basement, bar and pool -roam on street
floor.
FORM C
-Text of Interview (Unedited)
STATE New York
NOE OF WORKER Frank Byrd
ADDRESS 110 King Street
DATE March 6, 1959
SUBJECT Pullman Porters Dining Car Workers Stories
.72/....--
CHEF WATKINS' ALIBI
FOLKLORE
NEW YORK
Chef Watkins was a short, fat squatty little Negro with
the meanest112§t one;Ilispbsition of any cook I've ever known;
and I've known SOMA) mean ones in my time. He had a jet black
skin, full pork -chop lips and a belly on him that shook like
tapioca when he was working the lunch-hour rush. He could
like a top -sergeant and seemed to take a fiendish delight in
giving the boys hell.
When we had taken auout as much of his crap as we could stand,
the boys got together and hatched up a plot to get rid of him. The
trouble was, he stood in too well with the big bosses. He was one
ackYkts
of those kow-towing, old-fashioned, nandkerchief-headed-slarkwys who
would grin and yes a white man to death and give his Negro subordinates
hell from morning till night.
We all knew that Chef Watkins was killing the Company for everything
he could steal. He had bought a huge, ramulint; old country house down
in Maryland and a large breeding farm for jumping horses and prize
stoc
and you can't do that on what the Pullman Company pays you
even if you have worked for them twenty years and have full senior-
ity rating.
-2
Nothing wes too big or too small for him to steal!. He had worked
out a system with the commissary steward and between them they did
an awful lot of bill
hams, chickens, legs
children whenever he
padding. In addition to that, he used tbYthrow
of lamb and anything else off to his wife or
passed his place near Bowie. You know, that
junction where the Pennsy crosses the Seaboard?
Well, the boys got together and decided that old Cheffie had to
go. So what we did was to drop a little hint here and there to Ur.
Palmer, our chief steward, that if he'd just happen around the
kitchen when we were nearing that Seaboard crossing, he might find
out what was happening to all our missing supi_dies that he was catc_i-
ing hell about back in the New York commissary.
To make it short and sweet, when we neared the junction this day,
Chef -Watkins was busy, as usual, getting his hams and chicktA3 to-
gether to toss out the window to his wife who was armed, as was
customary, wi-Aher old petato sack in which she carried home the
bacon; hot to mention eggs/ (well -packed of course)S
Just as the train slowed dawn and the chef leaned back, ham
poised like a football about to take flight, old man Palmer drawled
in that deep Southern accent, as only old man Palmer could: "at
in hell do you think you're doin' there Watkins?"
Well, you could have knocked the chef over with a feather. He
stumbled, coughed and did everything but turn pale. It's the only
time I've ever seen him stuck for words.
"Know one thing, Mr. Palmer?" he finally spluttered, liere's a
01' black, nappy -headed woman who stands out dere by duh crossint
and cusses me ant calls me all sorta names ever time I pass hyeah,
an' it makes me so mad I just grabs up duh fus thing I gits mah
han's on an thlows it at\er."
-3—
Old man Palmer just looked at him with a cold stare and a wise
smile playing about the corners of his mouth.
That was the last we saw of Chef Watkins. But, back in the yards,
we heard that he was not only transferred to a lousy run but also
lost his twenty years seniority that he was always crowing about
the old bastard.