WHO’S YOUR DADDY

WHO’S YOUR DADDY

My first job in high school was as a busboy for the Marott Hotel. The Marott Hotel was built by George Marott (no relation to the Marriott Hotel Brand of today) in 1926 for the Indy bigwigs, fat cats, and the silk stockings set in Indianapolis.

Indiana Historical Society photograph.

The building, 26 blocks north of downtown Indianapolis, served as a luxury hotel hosting the famous. And included apartments used by the Bigs of Indianapolis. It was very modern (for its time, 1926) and was a significant building when it opened. You might ask, who stayed at the hotel? How about Winston Churchill, Herbert Hoover, Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, Bob Hope, and Marilyn Monroe?

Over time, the building underwent various changes, or maybe I should say Indianapolis did. Other venues opened and started competing for the limousine money. George Marott died in 1946, and the building slowly fell into disrepair. In 1978, fewer than 12 people lived in the building. Then, in 1981, electrical power was disconnected, and windows were boarded up. Then, in 1982, the building was placed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Reva & Kenneth A Puller

Ken Puller (Monarch Mortgage Associates) purchased the building in 1983 and converted it into one-and two-bedroom apartments. Ken invested $17 million (about 45 million in 2025 money).

WORKING AT THE MAROTT

My Grandmother (Sarah) worked as a seamstress in the hotel basement in the mid-to-late 50s. Grandma told me they needed a part-time busboy in the dining room. She suggested I might find the environment interesting. I decided to give “honest work” a shot, rather than the fifty-cent allowance I was getting from my father. This would be a new experience for me. The idea was that I would get paid for doing something, anything. This was going to be a real eye-opener.

We all know what a busboy does. Being raised next to a corn field, I was lacking some of the social graces necessary to function among the swells. It didn’t take long for me to adjust to being in the same space with “people with money.” In fact, I liked the atmosphere. As a busboy, I was busy, and then, at times, I wasn’t so busy.

The job was easy to grasp. It was simply a cycle of dishes. It operated much like a clock. I pick up dirty plates and silverware (quietly, of course, with dignity, flair, and class) and carry them to the dishwasher guy in the kitchen. He washes the plates and silverware and stacks them for the chief/cooks to use again. They then go back out to a new customer. It’s a revolving clock of sorts.

I noticed everyone employed had a job and was very focused on their career. Again, I saw the operation looked like the cogs of a wheel; each person had a job to do, and it made the wheel work flawlessly. Of course, it doesn’t take long for me to realize I was just a small cog in a big wheel.

The dishwasher never said a word, and the chief/cooks didn’t talk much either. The waitresses went out to the dining room with smiles on their faces in their crisp white Marott Hotel uniforms. But they came back to the kitchen ready to rip the cooks a new one, because of something the customer didn’t like about the food. I decided to do my job, keep my mouth shut, and stay out of the way. It was serious business at times. Not always a fun place to work. It did cross my mind, is this what I have to look forward to when I grow up and work full-time?

One day, it was slow, and I jumped up on a kitchen counter to rest for a few moments. Darleen a very serious and focused waitress with very tight black short hair came in the kitchen and had a heart attack when she saw me resting and began to rip my ass a new one.

“Excuse me? What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your ass off the kitchen counter, now! You never put anything on the counter you’re not going to serve to the public.”

I immediately jumped off the counter. I noticed the dishwasher turned and looked at me. He had a blank stare on his face. I didn’t feel he was looking at me as if I were guilty, more like a look of, “You just felt the wrath of the buzzard, like the rest of us.”

One of life’s lessons I learned the hard way. I still think it was an interesting comment. How would I serve my ass to the general public? But that would be me, trying to retort and think of a sarcastic comment. Thankfully, I kept my mouth shut and kept the job for the rest of the summer.

Darleen and I never spoke to each other after that. She was tough as nails. And I stayed out of her way. Of course, looking back on the experience, I know a waitress works for tips. And her income was dependent on tips. So, hey, (Follow the money.) You never know if someone is under financial pressure and needs the money to survive.

Plus, the Marott Hotel was a high-priced hotel/restaurant and expected a certain standard of conduct. Darleen was giving me an education on how to operate among the well-heeled.

The point I want to make here is that I was exposed for the first time to ‘fine dining’ and how wealthy people enjoy and expect when being served. I reasoned that someday I would be able to eat there myself. I certainly didn’t have the money as a high school kid to enjoy a meal at the Marott Hotel. I could only stand in the shadows and watch how the elite meet to eat.

21 CLUB NEW YORK, NEW YORK

The former “21 Club” was a legendary upscale American restaurant and former Prohibition-era speakeasy located at 21 West 52^nd Street, New York, New York. It was famous for the iconic jockey statues lined up outside.

I was in New York, attending the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and was told to talk to Jack Kriendler (the owner), who needed a part-time “boy” for the hat check room. This place catered to the “Who’s Who” of men. But I was told women were welcome too.

I talked with Jack; the job was simple. “People come in, they offer you their hat, give them a ticket with a number on the ticket, and when they leave, make sure you give them their hat back. Be nice. You might get a tip.”

The “21 Club” was a men’s club. While women were welcome, the décor was heavily skewed toward men.

I needed a part-time job. I found out I didn’t have the aptitude necessary for the job. It seemed simple enough. People come to the “21 Club,” and they might have a hat or a coat. I would take their hat and give them a ticket with a number on it. I would hang the coat or hat on a corresponding hook in the hat check room. These same people would then have lunch, and as they were leaving, I would give them back their coat or hat. What could go wrong?

Frank Sinatra came in on my second day and handed me his hat. I proceeded to give him a hat check ticket. Jack rushed over and took the ticket out of my hand, apologizing to Mr. Sinatra and ushering him into the dining room. I did something wrong, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I stood there with Frank Sinatra’s hat in my hand.

Jack came back and was furious.

“Kid, what’s your problem? You don’t give Frank a hat check ticket; you remember his hat. Everybody knows Frank. That’s the way it works around her. Don’t you know how to treat people?”

I didn’t realize some people were treated differently. It’s the subtleties of life that I had to learn. When I got the lead on the job, I was told that the “21 Club” was a very formal and historic restaurant. I will learn a lot about people if I get the job. What I didn’t know was the fine art of “Who’s Who.”

OTHER RESTAURANTS

Over time, I have had the opportunity to eat in some interesting places. I never got to have lunch at the “21 Club.” And even today, I can’t always afford the high-end steak houses either. But I have eaten at my share at some very fine places.

There was a TV show called Cheer’s. “Where everyone knows your name.” I don’t think I would consider Cheer’s a fine dining establishment.

But the show's writers wanted you to believe it’s a place where people feel at home. A lot of restaurants try to emulate the feeling. But not enough in my opinion. Maybe it’s because I don’t get out as much as I should, or I don’t eat at the same place often enough for the staff to get to know me. Or the work staff comes and goes. Never getting the same waitress for one reason or another. Always a new hire. The franchise places seem to have more employee turnover than the mom-and-pop places.

I have a couple of restaurants in Indianapolis that I favor, and I’m recognized in some of them, some of the time. They may not know my name, but on occasion, they will nod their head and give a smile.

On the northwest corner of Indianapolis is a small town called Zionsville, with a mom-and-pop place called The Friendly Tavern, owned by Scott Barnes. When he sees me, he always makes his way over to me to say, “Hi.” Which makes me feel great. Plus, the food is good. The Chicken wings, in my opinion, are the best in Indianapolis. Scott has owned The Friendly Tavern in Zionsville for 46 years. I assume I eat at his place a half dozen times a year. Yes, that is not enough visits to develop a long-term relationship with staff, management, or ownership. Logistics is a little bit of a problem for me; it’s a bit of a hike from my home to his tavern.

DADDY JACK’S

Another mom-and-pop, or should I say family place or hang out, I like a lot, is Daddy Jacks. Jim Thompson bought a failing restaurant in 1990. (I never met Jim) I was told Jim never met a stranger. Jim passed, and his son Jack keeps the place humming. How long has this place been in business? 35 years long.

Jim Thompson believed he had a winning concept. And there is no doubt that if you like an upscale, manly ambiance with mahogany-paneled walls, ox-blood leather-colored booths, and low lights, this place is for you. If you are lucky enough to get Michael as your waiter, you will experience the “21 Club” style of service. May I suggest you ask for one of Michael’s tables?

I have lunch at the place two or three times a year. It’s a little upscale on the prices, not crazy upscale, but it’s easy to create a lunch bill for two, with tip (no alcohol), around $60.00.

Looking back at my life, let me take you back to my early days as a mortgage loan officer. Sounds impressive, right? I was a commissioned on-the-street sales guy. The only job worse than a Life Insurance Salesman was a Life Insurance Salesman. But honestly, I didn’t and don’t know anything about insurance salesmen. My job was to make as many loans as I could. And of course, I asked how I do that? You must remember this was the late 60s and early 70s.

LONG LUNCHES

If you have ever seen the TV show “Mad Men,” it should give you an idea of the culture that existed during this period. While I was a commissioned sales guy, I was also given charge cards for gas and entertainment. It was customary (even encouraged) for me to take “clients” to lunch. Clients were called Realtors. And 80% of the Realtors were women. And a lot of them enjoyed lunch, then a cocktail afterward. Lunch, at times, could turn into a very long afternoon.

I can remember more than once going to someone’s home to take a mortgage loan application, loaded after a long lunch. It was ‘one way’ to generate business. I didn’t say it was a good way, just a way.

BETH

I was able to function in that environment. Or at least I kept telling myself I was able. One afternoon, I was in a real estate office when Beth came up to me, her hand on her hip, and leaned against the counter where the fax machine was.

“I notice you only take young, good-looking women to lunch. What about us older women who actually sell real estate?”

“Beth, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you had time to lunch with me. Would you like to have lunch someday? “

“That’s very nice of you to ask, but I don’t have time. I have a question about the FHA program called 221D2. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“How does it work?”

“Whatever the borrower’s income, we take 25% of his monthly income, and that will be his first-year payment. We raise the payment annually when the borrower earns more. At the end of five years, the borrower will be required to pay the full amortized payment.”

I have a loan application for you. (She handed me the name and phone number of the family.)

Beth was a workhorse; she was a highly focused, productive real estate agent. She spread her business around to different mortgage companies, but I did notice she would give me the raspberries about my lunch activity with the women in her office. Apparently, she wasn’t that busy.

THREE YEARS LATER

Three years later, I was recruited by a different company. And I lost track of my customer base. The company that hired me was a Private Mortgage Insurance company. (PMI) Which means I competed with FHA and VA. Keep in mind, FHA and VA were/are nothing more than an insurance company. The government is guaranteeing the lender that if the loan goes bad (defaults), FHA or VA will buy the defaulted loan back from the mortgage lender. The lender has nothing to lose. Make the loan.

(The trick, of course, is to get FHA or VA to insure the loan.) On the conventional side of lending, there is no FHA or VA insurance. The lender wants to make sure they will not lose money if a conventional loan defaults. So normally, they require a 20% down payment. Not everyone has 20% of the sale price to put down. That’s where I came in. A Private Mortgage Insurance company offers a 20% guarantee if the loan defaults.

(I hesitate to put in the paragraphs above; I doubt anyone will take the time to read them.)

I was given the state of Indiana as my territory. I called on Banks, Savings Banks, Savings and Loans, Credit Unions, Mortgage Companies, and Mortgage Brokers. We insured single-family residential, commercial, and mobile home loans. I had quite a ride for those 4 years.

The job required me to attend all the annual conventions, too. The yearly conventions were meetings during the day, and entertaining during the evenings. My bar bill was astronomical. I asked the accounting department, “Do you want all of this expense showing as alcohol?” They told me to call it ice.

I hesitate to tell stories about conventions held at the French Lick Hotel. But, being there for the Bankers Conventions, the Savings and Loan Conventions, the Mortgage Bankers Conventions, and the Mobile Home Industries Convention, I’ve seen things that made my eyes glaze over. Alcohol can make or break a good party. I believe I heard the term, “Who’s your Daddy,” for the first time coming from a closed bedroom door. Each convention was an experience in itself. But that’s a whole different story. Let’s move on.

WRITING A POST

Very briefly, I started writing these posts you are reading now, back when my mom died in 2003. Dad had a hard time with it for a while, and then he had a prostate problem and found himself in the hospital.

His church and work friends were very concerned about Dad. So, I was on the phone a lot. I decided to ask for people’s email addresses and promise to keep them informed about Dad’s health.

As the list of people grew. Back in the early 80s, I was only allowed 25 names per email. More names than that, I was considered spam and would be blocked. So, what to do? That’s when the concept of a blog was introduced to me.

So, I started writing about Dad. My first blog was called Friday Night Fish at Lincoln Square. Then I became a little more creative in my portrayal of Dad’s life and activities. I received an email from Mike in Texas, and he said,

“Mr. Duncan, I believe everything you say in your blog, but some of it I honestly question. Is it possible you might be exaggerating? May I suggest you change the title of your blog to FRIDAY FISH TALES.”

FLORIDA

I’m going to jump ahead and talk about Florida. I moved to North Fort Myers in 2014 with Dad, and while I was there, I was writing these posts/stories on a different platform. (ByDuncan.com). I had to give up that platform; the cost exceeded my ego.

So, I looked for free platforms and found a free Google account called Blogspot.com. They wanted to charge fees for storing my pictures in my posts. I was then made aware of Substack.com. And here we are. Free to me and Free to you to read. However, I still would like to encourage you to subscribe. That way, I know if anyone reads this what I write.

While living in Florida, I received a text from Beth. You remember Beth, the Realtor, who wanted to know about 221D2. She also moved to North Fort Myers and said,

“You never took me to lunch. It’s about time you do! I live in North Fort Myers, too.”

Well, you can imagine my surprise. So, I arranged to have lunch with Beth. She was living in a condo with a pool and a water feature in the middle of the complex. Very interesting. She invited me to her condo for lunch. I brought the salads, and she supplied the wine.

We were sitting on her veranda when a young, muscular pool boy came to clean the pool. I had to laugh at Beth's focus on the young man. He was in his late 20s, wearing a very tight T-shirt and shorts. He went about his business by adding chemicals to the pool and running a strainer over the water to pick up any stray leaves or debris. He left, and I heard her say, “Oh my, I always love when he comes to clean my pool.”

I noticed beads of perspiration on her forehead. But I laughed and sipped my chardonnay. While living in Florida, I think Beth and I had lunch three times.

AFTER FLORIDA

My father (George Ronald William Duncan) passed in July 2018. I stayed in Florida for another year and then decided to move back to Indianapolis. I returned to Indiana in October of 2019.

I received another text message from Beth. She, too, had decided to move back to Indiana. She was buying a condo on the north side of Indianapolis and needed a ride to the City-County Building to resolve a flaw in her purchase. Beth was always a stickler for details. Would I be able to give her a lift and help her navigate the halls of the City County Building? I, of course, said sure, but she would be required to ride downtown in Mean Yellow. She said she could handle the pressure.

DADDY JACKS

Over the years, Beth has become one of my Personal and Very Close Friends. We have decided to have lunch about once every three months. (honestly, it’s about once every six months). In December (2025), we were due again. I asked her where she wanted to go for lunch. She said she knew I liked Daddy Jacks, that it was close to where she lived, and we decided to meet there at 11:30 AM.

We arrived almost at the same time. We were seated on the terrace.

Social media is hard to get away from. And the way I get away from it for a couple of hours is to have lunch face-to-face with a friend. We talk honestly about life, because we both know we are not promised tomorrow. Beth has a sharp tongue and tells it like it is. We seem to be a little more “forthcoming” at this stage of life.

The conversation goes like this: How’s your health? What have you been up to for the last 3-6 months? What are you sad about? What are you glad about? Then we reminisce about the glory days. We have all had glory days. I remind Beth that today, here at Daddy Jacks, lunch will be one of our glory days.

For a couple of hours, we talk shop, the economy, working associates that we loved and hated. I’m not sure “hated” is the right word today. Let’s call them eccentric. Or a pain in the ass. We have all had them, and we laugh about them now. We talk about the people we know who have already passed. We talk about “who was doing who” back then. I have been known to say,

“I didn’t know they were doing each other.”

Interesting what I missed right below my keen observational nose. We talk about our family relationships, past marriages, and do you remember so-and-so? I always come away with the feeling I missed a lot of gossip. In some cases, I’m glad I didn’t know.

So here we are, I have had lunch with other people. Yesterday, I had a Christmas afternoon house party I need to tell you about. It went well into the night. But I will hold that story for the next post, too.

THE POSTMAN

Before I run off, I was taking the recycling waste basket to the large tub outside when I noticed the mailman was coming around the corner. It’s in the mid-50s today. I decided to check on my young postman and chat with him for a few seconds. He is new to the route, and I don’t really know him. I do that from time to time. Talk to the mailman and the trash guys. As he pulled up next to me, he handed me my three pieces of mail, and I asked him,

“Did you wave at me the other day when I was driving the red SUV?

He said, “Yes.” So, he is comfortable waving at me when I’m away from the house.

“Well, did you run off to some exotic location for Christmas?”

“No, I stayed at home with the two dogs.”

“What kind of dogs do you have?”

“I’ve got a Labradoodle and a Labrador Retriever.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“May I ask, how old are you?”

“37.”

“You're 37 and not married?”

“We had a four-year relationship, but she decided that she wanted a relationship with the people she worked with more than a relationship with me. I wasted four years of my life.”

I wanted to offer some helpful advice if possible. “Well, look at it this way, be glad you found out before you married her, and now you don’t have to split things down the middle.”

I knew he couldn’t spend all day talking to me; he has a route he needs to complete. I wished him luck and told him to give me a wave when he sees me. He gave me a grin, adjusted his baseball cap, and drove off to the next mailbox. I walked back into the house. I thought, you know, you never know what challenges people are facing until you talk to them face-to-face. When I see him now, he will be a real person, rather than a silhouette in a mail truck. And maybe when he puts my mail in my mailbox, he will remember me, too.