Visit to a Galveston Brothel

 From 1962 through 1965 I worked for the National Cash Register Company in Galveston as a cash register serviceman. One of the routine chores for me was to install a new ribbon on a merchant’s cash register. The charge for this was the cost of the ribbon plus the hourly rate charge of $15.  One day – I think it may have been in 1963 – I was assigned a call to install a new ribbon on a cash register at one of the notorious establishments on Galveston ‘s notorious  Postoffice Street. No name was give for the destination – just the street address. It could have been something like “2710 Postoffice Street.”   

I knew what business was conducted there.

I drove to the location, found 2710, walked up to the front door and knocked. The door was locked, and nobody responded. I stood there, knocking repeatedly, and feeling frustrated and puzzled.

A man walking along the sidewalk took pity, and explained to me:

“Ain’t nobody gonna answer – that doe’s been locked fo’ years. You gots to go ‘roun back.”

(You will note that this was in the “colored” part of town – where residents and most businesses were Black.)

I thanked the gentleman, and drove around to the alley. 

(The city blocks in Galveston are divided by an alley, running parallel to the letter-named Avenues, providing access to the rear of every property for various services, and to provide access to garages and apartments – many of which faced the alley).

My immediate challenge was to identify the door that belonged to the address I was given. There were no street numbers on the many doors to the alley.

I selected one that was half hidden under a stairway to the second floor. I knocked, and a sliding panel at eye level opened and a face asked “Yes?”

“Is this 2710?”

“What do you want at nine in the morning?”

“I’m from NCR. I’m here to put a ribbon an a cash register.”

The panel closed, and the door opened. The bartender led me to the deserted bar-room, where the register sat behind the bar.

“There it is.”

The register was a Class 100, the least of NCR’s product line. Installing a new ribbon required only opening the printer door, lifting out the old ribbon and placing the new one on the spindles. It would reasonably take about thirty seconds.

The minimum service charge was $15.

Many merchants bristled in anger at a $15 charge for less than a minute’s work. So I made a show of cleaning around the type wheels of the printer, and trying to make it look like I could justify the exorbitant fee.

“Bill” – from his name-tag – was working nearby. In casual conversation I asked him “How much do the girls charge a man to take him upstairs?”

“A dollar a minute.”

I immediately slammed the printer lid shut and handed him a bill for $16.50.

In a local bank a book-keeping machine that NCR maintained required work, and there was no one available in our office to handle the chore. So NCR sent an expert from the Houston office to do the work. Somehow I was assigned the responsibility of escorting the out-of- towner to unfamiliar locations.

When his day’s work was done the expert turned to me for help finding his supper. I took him to Hill’s seafood restaurant – NCR was picking up all tabs – and afterwards to Omar’s. This was a small barroom run by a lady who dressed in belly-dancer costumes to serve drinks to the gentlemen who danced to the music of the juke box. We sat at the bar and ordered drinks. He sipped his Scotch, and I drank a bourbon and coke. He inquired about the “houses” on Postoffice Street. He said he’d like to visit one.

Having just two days previously made a service call in one, I knew the way.

At the under-stairs door I knocked. The panel slid open. The face was cautious. We looked like Law!

(All NCR servicemen wore white shirts and neckties)

I told the doorkeeper that I worked for the National Cash Register Company. He asked me for the name of my manager. I told him, and he let us in. I regarded it as “cool” that my boss was well known at a brothel, and his name got me admitted !

We were seated at a table beside the dance floor, and the waiter took our drink order.

The drinks were delivered by a beautiful young woman. She asked if she could provide any other service. Our NCR expert left me at the table to sip my bourbon and Coke, while he sought stress relief upstairs in the expert hands of the gorgeous practitioner.

Another young woman approached my table and offered. I declined, explaining that I was just baby sitting an out of towner. She understood, and accepted my offer to buy her drinks and share some trivial conversation.

In a half hour my “out of town expert” returned, content, and we left.

So I have twice been in a Postoffice Street brothel in Galveston. And emerged unscathed both times.