When Selling Books and Saving Souls Made Downtown Fun

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Photo Courtesy of Augie Ray - OldMilwaukee.net

Wisconsin Avenue

Before the ‘70s, Downtown Milwaukee was a place that attracted shoppers, moviegoers, diners and workers with white collars, blue collars and some with no collars at all. The sidewalks bustled with sailors out for the day, probably headed for the Moon Fun Shop to buy the phony rubber dog poop or a Jimi Hendrix blacklight poster. Kathy, the daffy clerk, told me more than once she held the store’s record for selling masks. And Frankie Scalisi, the personable bundle of energy at the newsstand on Third Street.

Remember the street photographer who snapped candid pictures of couples strolling by? A hand-out envelope allowed subjects to purchase their photo by mail. Using a Minolta twin-lens reflex camera, the friendly paparazzo worked six days a week from 4 p.m. to midnight. He developed and printed his negatives in a broom closet, once part of a movie theater. Those pictures of our parents and grandparents have since become priceless heirlooms in many family photo albums.

When the dauntless shutterbug fell ill after 40 years of prowling the concrete, a kindly theater manager named George stored the photo equipment in the basement. Five decades and $140 million dollars later, that movie house became the Bradley Symphony Center, the new home base for the Milwaukee Symphony. Perhaps one of the renovation’s above-grade archaeologists found those unclaimed suitcases full of cameras and darkroom gear. If so, they belong in a museum.

Adventures at Schroeder’s Books

In 1969 I was crazy about Edgar Rice Burroughs, the Shadow and Doc Savage paperbacks. Sometimes they’d turn up at rummage sales or a church bazaar, but the best place to find them was Old Man Schroeder’s used bookstore near Seventh Street. Mr. Schroeder sat in a tiny C-shaped enclave to the right as you walked in. His store’s street level literally sagged under the weight of 100,000 dusty Westerns, science fiction classics, girlie paperbacks, and hundreds of vinyl LPs double stacked along narrow, dead end aisles. Another 200,000 books that no one wanted were crammed on shelves in a musty basement that hadn’t been mopped since Lincoln wore short pants. A sign at the top of the rickety stairs proclaimed, “Everything Half-Price.”

The old guy sure knew how to run a secondhand bookshop. When I asked if he had any old Burroughs novels, he barked out what might have been a laugh and waved an arm behind him. These were not the 50-cent books on the shelves, they were the gold stored in a temple and guarded by Samson. That’s when I pulled out my secret weapon, a rare copy of the first Doc Savage paperback. It cost me a dime at the Red Owl supermarket’s sidewalk sale. The bookseller’s eyes glittered like the diamonds in Cartier’s window as he instantly and accurately appraised the book. The snarling was gone.

“How much you want for that, kid”, he purred. “I want 10 of those books behind you”, I said. We haggled and settled on seven, my choice. Years later I found out the old man had been married five times and kept a coffee cup filled with vodka under the counter. It didn’t matter to me. I had Mr. Schroeder’s respect and he greeted me by name every time I came in.

Manic Street Preacher?

Forty-five years ago, truck driver Ron Santis began a distinctive street ministry like no other. In 1981, he was accused of sexually assaulting a woman at a party and several angry, intoxicated men pointed guns at him. Santis fled in panic and prayed until dawn. He promised to stop drinking and smoking for a life dedicated to Christ.

Santis attended church for the first time in his life but struggled with organized religion. He was 36 years old when he covered his station wagon with myriad Christian posters and stickers. He mounted a loudspeaker on the roof that carried his own interpretations of the Bible interspersed with gospel music and took his mobile ministry downtown. Not all of messages that adorned Santis’ automobile were faith-based. A half-dozen carried political jabs criticizing tax increases and local laws. Santis quickly became a local celebrity under the name Brother Ron. As part of his daily drive, Santis made stops in front of taverns that he called Satan’s churches. He played his music and sermons, hoping to draw even one or two patrons from drinking alcoholic beverages.

Unfortunately, Brother Ron’s inspirational efforts incurred many moving violations that included blocking traffic, noise violations, and inability to see clearly through the windshield. His inordinate number of citations made Santis a frequent and recognizable figure at the County Courthouse. Some people praised his work while others denounced him as an angry, puritanical religious zealot who drove a “Jesus-mobile.” Santis always responded with a psalm and requested a donation to his ministry. He wasn’t the easiest guy to talk with. Brother Ron babbled a lot while persuading me to change my life for Jesus.

Chewing Cigars

I roamed old-school Wisconsin Avenue for 25 years. I met the cashier at Uhle’s Pipe and Tobacco store who chewed a cigar that hadn’t been lit since the Truman administration. There was Marsha at Mike Crivello’s Cameras, Sol at Stein’s pawn shop, Dick, the manager at the Army-Navy Surplus store, and Walter, an Iwo Jima veteran who once took pictures at the old Alli-Chalmers plant. They’re all gone now, hanging out in some dusty corner of the mind.