Tales of the Klondyke – Mr. Roosevelt

VICKSBURG, Miss. (VDN) — The first two weeks I was at the Klondyke were with Mr. Cook. He took care of the people who came in there like they were his children, and he wasn’t going to let just anyone take over the Klondyke. While Mr. Cook and I agreed in principle he would sell me the Klondyke, it was on the caveat that he thought I was qualified to run it. One of the regulars later told me he was going to shut it down because he couldn’t find the right person. But, apparently, I passed the audition, and Eddie and Janelle Cook got to sleep in and catch up with their kids and grandkids. They had owned the store for close to 20 years and were both heading towards their mid-sixties. That concrete floor does a job on you after a few years, and Eddie struggled to get around and was always in pain. Selling the store let him get some rest and stretch out a bit.

Janelle did the cooking. Meat pies, crawfish pies, pizza puffs, red dogs, chili dogs, hamburgers, and fried chicken. A lot of fried chicken. The first week I was there, we ordered 24 cases of chicken with 16 cut-up chickens in each box. That’s a lot of chicken for a mom and pop. She also made cakes and other treats from time-to-time, telling me to use Sprite instead of water and maple syrup instead of sugar. Whatever mojo she put on them, they were some fine eating. I never saw her check the fryer temperature when she fried chicken. She would put some in until the oil looked like it had gone cold. She never timed anything, but she watched the vat and pulled that chicken out at just the right time.

If you ever had the original Klondyke chicken, it was some of the best you’ll ever eat. I say the original because about 3 years into owning the Klondyke, the supplier of the chicken powder we used to batter the chicken stopped production of that powder. I tried to get the recipe and tried several other batters they had in an effort to get an exact match. What I came up with was close, and when I added some white pepper oil to it, it was really close. Only a couple of our regulars noticed the difference, and we sold just as much as ever, but to me it wasn’t as good as the original.

The Klondyke hamburger/cheeseburger was our second biggest seller. We’d sell a couple thousand a week, each one handmade to your specs. We also kept six or so in the hotbox, packing it out with all the other goodies. It was grab and go for the working guys. Most of the time, they would come in, grab a drink, get their food, pay, and be gone in less than 2 minutes. During busy times, that hotbox would empty out, and it might have taken them 3 or 4 minutes because of the line. Business was good, and we kept two registers ringing non-stop at lunch.

The Klondyke opened at 4:20 a.m., often sooner if someone came to the door. By the way, that time means nothing more than the dozen or so folks who had to be at work at 4:30 got some food. We got in there around 3:30 in the morning. It was work, it wasn’t always fun, but I showed up every morning, Monday through Saturday, to serve the working folks who came in there. Over time, we attracted the rest of Vicksburg, who were introduced to the unique variety of unhealthy food we served. In 2013, we opened the bar in the evening, meaning I got a break from waking up in the early morning. It ended up being a trade to already being at work in the early morning instead. The bar was a hit, and we were busy making it necessary to be there until 2 a.m. After cleaning up and stuff, it would often be 3 a.m. before we were done, just in time for the breakfast crew to waltz in. I can’t tell you how many times someone would oversleep or just not show up, and I would be there until after lunch, working 24 hours straight. I’d crash in the back, where there was an old camp trailer and a bed, and be right back at it a couple of hours later. It is amazing what you can do when you have to do it.

Eddie was sharp and as kind and nice a person as you would ever want to meet. I heard, but couldn’t confirm, that he loaned money to the working guys if they ran out before payday. They would pay him back on payday with maybe a bit extra to cover his trouble. I also heard rumors the Klondyke had gambling machines in the back storage area at one time, and nobody really cared. That is, until the casinos showed up and the authorities suddenly had a problem with the Klondyke having pull tabs or an electric poker game. About three years after buying the Klondyke, a friend gave us some really nice wood shelves that were first-generation cuts from the late 1700s. They were like stone and weighed a ton. One of the regulars installed them, perfectly level all around the dining room, and with a slight back tilt so if anything fell it would fall backwards toward the wall and not on a customer. These guys were the best.

As we were placing things on the shelves, there was an old stamp machine. A stamp machine was like a small vending machine that held stamps. People used to mail a lot of stuff every week, and stamps were needed. As we moved the machine, it rattled. There were still coins in there. I looked at the guys at the bar, and almost all of them said, “Dave, put a quarter in it.”

What? But they had just put up some really heavy shelves, so I did. A pull tab came out, and I won my quarter back from myself. Apparently, not all the old gambling machines were properly dispersed. That machine with coins in it, and I assume a lot more pull tabs, was sold with all the artifacts when we sold the Klondyke. It’s probably sitting on a shelf somewhere with those old coins and pull tabs still in it.

I bought a lot of junk over the years. Someone would come in with an artifact or found item, and I’d negotiate with them. Seldom did I pay over $10 for anything; well, honestly, it was closer to $5 for any artifact. I found that if I refused the item, the price would drop significantly. A couple of folks who were just getting by would bring in real junk or trash, something with no value, but it was all they had. I would trade them a burger, lunch, or something for the item. One guy in particular showed up regularly with artifacts and traded for lunch all the time. I thought he was a street person, but he was always so polite and well-dressed. He walked with a cane, but I think it was an accessory and not a tool. He traded a lot of things.

Several years after buying up enough things to fill every spare inch, I ran into that guy at the Old Courthouse Museum. He was in there selling items to them, and I got a kick out of it until I saw that he had some top-quality Civil War artifacts and could fill you up with several paragraphs of information about them. I was shell-shocked for a minute as I realized this guy had taken me for years, and I thought I was one getting over because every once in a while, he’d bring in a gem.

We sold the Klondyke in 2020 and kept some of the cooler items we bought and found someone willing to take what was left for what was probably about 10 times what we paid for it. He was thrilled, and we were thrilled because his team came and packaged it all up and moved it out of there. When the building was basically bare, it reminded me of the first month I had the Klondyke and how I was close to the same age as Eddie Cook when he sold it to me. My feet used to hurt all the time because of that concrete floor and the several miles I would walk on it every day. I remember Janelle dropping into the Klondyke 5 or 6 years after she sold it to us, and I teased her, saying, “You miss this chicken, don’t you?” “NO! I haven’t even had chicken in my house since we sold!” She was serious, too.

I felt her pain and still can’t think of a single time I fried up some chicken for dinner since we sold the Klondyke.

During my audition phase with Mr. Cook, there was an older man whom everyone called Mr. Roosevelt. I later learned he was in his 80s and thought his advanced age was why everyone was so kind and respectful to him. That may have been some of it, but more than anything, people were afraid of him. Apparently, one of the things he did was remind people when they didn’t pay back the money they ran out of before payday. I’m not sure why or how that thin old man was able to convince the young, strong men, but he did, and they caught up their tabs with the most polite apologies and promises to never let it happen again. Mr. Roosevelt also had a girlfriend who was in her 30s, and when the weather was nice, they would ride his motorcycle down the winding trails of the Natchez Trace.

His girlfriend always looked exhausted.

I didn’t have a need for Mr. Roosevelt’s services, but he regularly visited Klondyke since he lived less than a block away. One day, I noticed he hadn’t shown up in a while, and the next time I saw his son, he told me his dad was fine, but I made him mad about something, so he wasn’t going to give me another penny. That bothered me, and I couldn’t think of anything I had done to make Mr. Roosevelt angry, so I knocked on his door to apologize for whatever it was I had done. He glared at me without saying a word. Looking him dead in the eye, I quickly understood why he was so effective at reminding folks to get their tabs caught up. Mr. Roosevelt was well into his 80’s, but his stance told me he was in charge, and my life didn’t matter. It was a hell of a look. I was certain he had killed many men, women, and a couple of children just for the street cred. After a couple of seconds of me waiting for him to speak, I realized that wasn’t happening, and carefully went into my pocket and attempted to hand him a penny.

For some reason, I thought it would make him smile, but he didn’t break form and didn’t hold out his hand, so I left it on the step as I slowly and carefully backed away. Not unlike what you’re supposed to do in front of the King or Queen.

Two years and several months later, his son told me he was sick and in the hospital, and it didn’t look good. I think I was scared, but I didn’t go to see him. Several weeks after that, his son gave me the news that Mr. Roosevelt had broken up with his girlfriend and had a new, younger girlfriend. That was at least 15 years ago, and Mr. Roosevelt is probably still out there somewhere riding his motorcycle and exhausting young women, but I ain’t knocking on his door to find out.