My first order of business in Louisville was to find a job. I got a cheap carriage house apartment to rent in St. James Park, but I was subsisting on one can of tuna per day.
As before in Detroit, no local comrade could help me find UAW or Teamster work, because our kind were already known to their employers as “communists” and “nigger-lovers.” I turned in my applications as a complete stranger. My references were two thousand miles away: would you like to call them?
No one did. My appearance was deceiving.

The first position I found, I discovered in the Courier Journal classifieds. It was for a stock clerk at the largest department store in town, Byck’s. It reminded me of the old I. Magnin’s in San Francisco. They featured a glove counter, perfectly lit. Perfume tables filled the entryway with aroma on the first floor. The most expensive ladies’ garments were on the third level, where…