Ort: The Atlanta Years

(Doug Monroe and Ort Carlton share laughs and lunch, summer ‘22. Photo by Shannon Byrne.)

It's August ‘75 and hotter than the Atlanta summer was the newly-opened Peaches Records and Tapes on Peachtree Road. What a scene. People from all walks of life crowded our aisles day and night, most looking for the hits while a few searched for the obscure titles -- records with no chance of ever climbing the charts. But we promised if a record was in print, then we'd have it. Peaches wanted every customer to be happy and we sure wanted them to happily empty their wallets at the cash registers. 

In its first couple of years in Atlanta, Peaches regularly had at least 50 employees on the payroll, most of them to cover the various departments and wait on the customers. It was a diverse and riveting crew. Think Monty Python meets Funkadelic. Several of our employees had developed followings among the customers. They were trusted for their knowledge of the various musical genres. Brent Sorkin and Bill Norman in Jazz, Greg Biggs in Imports. Joe Gegan in Classical. Marty Feldman in Folk. In R & B, we had KB. A ton of personality on the sales floor. But the ambiance expanded further on the day Greg Biggs introduced me to our newest employee, Ort Carlton. A very friendly guy with a generous spirit, he called out my name and said, "I've seen your reviews in The Great Speckled Bird!" I appreciated him saying so and we chatted a bit. 

In just a few minutes it became clear Ort knew something about everything, the perfect employee for the customer who wanted to know if we had "Puppet on a String," Bob and Earl's follow-up to "Harlem Shuffle," released in 1964. It peaked at 111 on the pop charts, but of course, Ort knew the record. He could easily retain knowledge of recordings that succeeded in the 20th century, as well as the classical pieces that went back a couple of hundred years. It was more than having a steel trap for a brain, it was his desire to learn and embrace the lesser-known and esoteric in music -- and life itself -- that drew many of us to Ort. He would always impart more on any subject than ever thought possible. It was clear very soon that William Orten Carlton would be my most interesting friend. Ever. 

Ort and I both worked the night shift at Peaches, 5:00 pm to midnight and later. I pulled that shift 6 days a week while Ort only worked weekends. He had business, such as it was, in his hometown of Athens, Georgia on the weekdays, including his weekly "Ort's Oldies" show on WUOG. Ort was no doubt his town's leading ambassador, filling in his new Atlanta friends on all things Athens -- the accessible and the arcane. Life was better than ever: Ort’s new weekend gig gave him center stage in the big town's hottest attraction and he was going to enjoy it. So would we. 

The 5:00 - midnight shift wasn't much for one's social life, yet working with Ort was a social and sociological study. In a business where the latest was always celebrated, Ort had great respect for what had gone down before and the older folks who remembered it. If an older client came in the store, carrying a list and needing individual attention, Ort would provide it, creating many additional sales the store wouldn't make otherwise. His encyclopedic knowledge and respectful nature won him many new friends and the store many repeat customers. You could just hear them telling their friends, "You know, there's this guy at Peaches, he's a bit wild and loud, but he knows about every record ever released and he is thrilled to help you." 

Not all of Ort's fellow employees were happy with his style. It's rare to see a new hire hustling the sales floor and exhorting his colleagues to do the same. "If a customer asks where an album is, you don't point at it,” he instructed, "you take him over to the album and put it in his hands. The customer deserves absolute individual attention." Even with his closest friends at the store, the service creed could get old. One evening we were particularly busy but it didn’t matter that much when a young lady friend came in to shop and talk. Talking to her seemed more important. Ort saw what was happening and he galloped on over and exclaimed, "For God's sakes, man, I can't handle all these customers alone. C'mon and help me take care of them." I said I'd be right there but found it hard to get away from my friend in less than two minutes. Ort returns. "Man, you've got to help me out, this isn't right," he shouts. I move on, spot a customer who needs help while hurling a bit of profanity Ort’s way. I help the customer and think no more of it. Then Ort steps on over and tells me the manager wants to see us in the office. Blissfully unaware, I wondered what the manager wanted. At the office door, he tells us we’re not to argue on the floor and there certainly isn't supposed to be any swearing in front of the customers. So, Ort and I were fired. Just like that. We were stunned. The manager who loved hiding in the office away from the customers stated in his barely audible monotone that we no longer had jobs. However, Ort and I headed back to the sales floor. We did not clock out. I told him I'd get our jobs back. In five minutes, having conjured some remorse, I persuaded the manager to give us our jobs back. We finished the shifts, appearing extra dutiful and headed back to my apartment where Ort would crash on the couch. 

Quite often after a long weekend night at the store, Ort and I, sometimes joined by other employees, would head to the Krispy Kreme on Ponce de Leon Avenue, near my place. The bigger the crowd, the more likely Ort would hold court for the folks in for coffee and a sugar high. If it was just the two of us, Ort would concentrate on eating. He'd ask the waitress what's hot and she'd reply crullers, his favorite. "Jeff, let's have a dozen," he'd exclaim, happily grabbing his seat. We'd get a dozen. I'd have three and Ort would devour the rest.. 

Ort Carlton was a very happy man when he made his weekend trips to Atlanta. He was in his element at Peaches, where employees were free to engage in their own brand of performance art. Ort would lecture, sing “I’ll Never Smile Again” at the top of his lungs, describe the eating habits of his alter ego, Dr. Lothario T. Pharthaus, all while scurrying across the sales floor to give a customer absolute individual attention. You couldn’t miss him. With his pants hiked up high and proudly adorning his Peaches T-Shirt, he added another special touch to his wardrobe. Instead of just wearing a Peaches employee button on his shirt, he attached it to a coat hanger that he stretched open and wore around his neck. The button wasn’t necessary; everyone knew it was Ort.

He thoroughly enjoyed Atlanta. It turned out that Ort had worked for the Atlanta City Directory a few years earlier, going door to door, learning about the city and not forgetting a thing. I had not lived in the city that long, having grown up in the south side suburb of Forest Park. After my culturally-barren youth, I wanted to learn more about Atlanta from an unimpeachable authority. Ort was just that. Most of our tours of the city and environs included an eatery as our featured destination. Sometimes I would drive but now and then we’d climb in Ort’s ’62 Chevy II and go exploring. One afternoon we drove through some of the in-town neighborhoods, down on their luck at the time. Neighborhoods like Morningside and Inman Park. We’d pass many empty lots where houses used to be. The houses were demolished or moved to make way for either the extension of the Stone Mountain Freeway or I-485. Ort knew all about the neighborhood revolts that led to those projects being cancelled. He gave a thorough accounting of the planned roadways which would have laid to waste what would become some of the city’s most vibrant neighborhoods in the decades ahead. Ort had an authoritative manner and he got it honest: his father had been a professor of botany at the University of Georgia. When he and I were driving through Atlanta’s downtown one Sunday morning in the spring of ’78, he felt pride in his other hometown and wistful for his late father. “I wish my dad could see this,” he said as we passed the Peachtree Plaza and other John Portman buildings, “he’d say, ‘What a city!’”

The road controversy was a big part of Atlanta history in the mid-twentieth century – and it would emerge again in the ‘80s (until a very favorable conclusion for the neighborhoods). Ort loved discussing the issues and the people involved, but he also loved little pieces of history and he loved sharing them. He’d discern history in the lives of the employees and clientele at diners, such as the Majestic on Ponce de Leon. My first visit there was with Ort. It was fascinating. It seemed as if I had walked into a Tom Waits song. Hash browns, hash browns, you know I can’t be late.

Ort’s longest journey for food easy on the wallet took us to Union City, deep in the south of Fulton County, about one hour from Peaches. The destination: Melear’s Barbecue. Melear’s was legendary in the distant south side suburbs for its all-you-can-eat deal, serving pretty good barbecue on school lunch plates. Beef or pork, served with Brunswick stew, potato chips, pickles, and bread was the standard meal at Melear’s. The plates didn’t hold that much food, so to get the most of all-you-can-eat, you’d have to repeatedly send the waitress back to the kitchen for refills. Ort (and those of us joining him) was up for that. Being a savvy diner with very little money, Ort came up with a plan to get his meals free at Melear’s. The restaurant had plates with renderings of churches from Georgia and beyond on the walls of the dining rooms. Quite often Ort would visit thrift and charity stores and spot some church plates. He’d wheel and deal for the plates and save them for his next trip to Melear’s. Then he would wheel and deal with Mr. Melear: a church plate in exchange for a meal. For a while, Mr. Melear must have thought Ort had cornered the market on church plates as he’d show up 3 and 4 days running, ready to deal. Eventually Melear’s had enough church plates and Ort made fewer trips to Union City.

Tracking down the next meal was always of utmost importance to Ort and everyone around him knew it. Ort also suffered from hypoglycemia, which meant that he should follow strict dietary rules, except when he chose to ignore them. Like the nocturnal revelries at the Krispy Kreme. At such times, his concerns were not so much about hypoglycemia, but putting on weight. If the first order of crullers was not enough, he’d order another and then say, “Jeff, I will work so hard tomorrow, running around the store, that all this will disappear.” So damn the dietary rules, full speed ahead.

Mealtimes with Ort always served as material for a possible novella because there was a sense of adventure in every journey. If we had just a little time for dinner, we’d settle for the Shoney’s or Bonanza on Piedmont Road. Once there, Ort would distract us from the taste of the chain food by rearranging the items at the salad bar in alphabetical order. Or if we went to Ma Hull’s Boarding House in Inman Park, he would get us there by taking the most out-of-the-way route possible. When headed to some remote destination, I’d ask him why. “Because we might learn something,” he’d reply. OK, that was reason enough.

One weekend I learned what happens when Ort decided to take his hypoglycemia seriously. Around 1:00 am, after the Friday night shift at Peaches, my stomach was rebelling. I wanted to get home and not emerge for a couple of days. I mentioned that to Ort and then he asked if it was okay if he crashed at my apartment. I said sure but I planned on calling in sick the next day. He then asked if I could still drive him to work in the morning (his Chevy II was not running) and I said sure. For most of the night, I slept very little, getting out of bed early to watch TV. With Bugs and Daffy fighting it out on the tube, Ort walks in, ready for work earlier than usual. So we get into my car when he says, “Jeff, I need to get breakfast before we go to the store.” Thinking he wouldn’t turn down a cruller, I suggested we go over to the Krispy Kreme. “No!!!!!” Ort shouted. “ I must have eggs! I’m hypoglycemic, I can’t eat that kind of food in the morning. There’s way too much sugar. I MUST HAVE EGGS!!!!.”

Slightly inspired, I asked if we could pick up an Egg McMuffin in Buckhead. He could eat it as I drove the short distance to the store. “No!!!!!!!” he shouted once more, “I can’t eat like that. I’m hypoglycemic. I must dine. I have to dine slowly and enjoy my meal. I can’t rush it.” While explaining it all, Ort moved his hands around as if he was gracefully lifting a fork to his mouth, over and over again.

Then I thought of the Steak ‘n’ Egg Kitchen just south of the store, near Piedmont Hospital. “Say, Ort, we could go to Steak ‘n’ Egg, you could order eggs, grits, and toast to-go, and eat it in the break room at the store. You can dine on a Peach crate,” I explained, trying to make it sound civilized. Ort gave it some  thought and decided it was a great idea. We pull up to the diner, he gets out of the car and goes inside to place his order. Of course, it seemed to take a half hour for his order to arrive. Still feeling lousy, I watched from the car as he was chatting up everyone there, making new friends for life. Finally he made it to the car, his breakfast in the sack, nourishment on the way. Again, Ort was a happy man.

(Ort at the Manhattan in Athens, Georgia, photo by Shannon Byrne)

Being in Atlanta was great fun for Ort. He loved Athens with all his heart, but he needed a break. Over one of our dinners at Melear’s, he complained of how he couldn’t walk a block in Athens without someone stopping him. Of course, he brought that up while showing me a story that featured him in one of the Athens newspapers. He was quite proud of that, just as he was of his stature in Athens. It was just that every now and then he needed to get away. Atlanta and Peaches Records and Tapes gave him asylum, but he was also becoming a celebrated figure away from home. Working at Peaches gave him a new identity. Peaches was the place to be and he was one of the reasons that was so. All that vinyl in less than a city block was a great working environment for Ort. While he wasn’t one for Top 40 music, he’d prance up the aisles, arms waving while shouting “Hey, Hey, Hey” to Kool and the Gang’s “Hollywood Swinging.” Later on he’d be entranced by a Sun Ra album our Jazz guy put in the evening’s rotation. He’d come over to where I was handling a shipment and say, “That’s really out there, but I really like it.” Well, as Sun Ra said, “space is the place” and Ort filled whatever space he chose.

Eventually, store management decided Ort was more personality than needed to make the business successful. Ort was out. That was ridiculous. Management could have easily fired any one of a dozen employees who goldbricked through their shifts, adding nothing to the bottom line. Yes, Ort could get loud and he may have been too colorful for some of the clientele. Sometimes he’d announce to everyone that the store was badly managed. And he may have given just slight attention to basic employee rules, meaning his lunch hour could last 160 minutes. (One day I asked him if he thought he could get away with things because he was Ort. He didn’t miss a beat, answering, “Yes.”) But Ort also embodied the free spirit we heard in much of the music we sold each day. Peaches Records and Tapes was a destination, not a record store in the mall. It was a blending of the big top and the sanctuary. Ort Carlton belonged right in the middle of it.

Just because Ort was fired didn’t mean he’d stop coming to Peaches. On the next Friday night, Ort showed up, ready to forgive management if they changed their minds and ready to just hang out if they didn’t. He’d overhear a customer request on a little-known record and he’d jump right in, taking the customer to the record and putting it in his hands. His eyes would gaze across the aisles, looking for someone who needed individual attention. His mission was to get his job back, all the while enjoying the friendship of the employees and customers who’d chat him up. He might disappear for a few hours, walking up to the Mad Italian for a Philly Cheese Steak and a few beers, but he’d be back by closing time. Then employees and a few customers would be invited to his car in the parking lot. There he’d pop open his trunk and conduct his own little market, selling rare albums he had purchased at thrift stores and garage sales. Ort knew exactly what Marty Feldman, Bob Bailey and Sebastian would want. He’d name his price, pocket the cash and his weekend expenses would be covered. Then it was off to the Krispy Kreme or the Majestic. Ort possessed a philosophy akin to Elwood P. Dowd’s. Every day was a beautiful day and he didn’t want the day to end until he exhausted every opportunity for good conversation, food and drink.

Now and then, Ort could get frustrated with people, as demonstrated by our little tiff on the Peaches sales floor, but his anger didn’t last long. He didn’t hold grudges. The man with the great memory would forget it. But his firing at Peaches was a different case altogether. As far as he was concerned, firing him made as much sense as removing the Miles Davis albums from stock. Just last year, he told me that the manager who fired him “hated my guts.” “He was a meanie and he stank,” Ort continued, “He ought to be made to eat earthworms.” The manager was like Nick the bartender in It’s A Wonderful Life, saying, “We don’t need any characters around to give the joint atmosphere.”

Those of us who were bothered by Ort’s firing let the manager know it, but in a creative way — by giving our joint atmosphere, or better yet, Ortmosphere. We started to talk like Ort, imitating his voice over the store’s P.A. system or when just chatting, calling each other “doorknob teeth,” one of Ort’s favorite epithets. We’d rave about small town newspapers, like the Morristown Daily Gazette and Mail, a subject dear to Ort’s heart. We’d loudly chant that Tennessee paper’s slogan: The Paper That Prints The Truth …. All of It. On some afternoons, an employee would get on the P.A., asking the customers to clear the Rock aisles so we could conduct an Ort race. Two or three of us would line up, hike up our pants and take off, swinging our arms in front of our chests, chins held high. There was no one who inspired good times like Ort Carlton.

The good times would roll another 47 years for Ort. He’d show up in Atlanta on the weekends, hang out at Wax ‘n’ Facts, the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club and go exploring in whatever direction his Dodge Dart Swinger took him. On an evening in the fall of ’82, I got home from work to find Ort in the living room, talking with my wife, Gena, ready for a night on the town. From Grant Park, he guided the Swinger south to Melear’s, taking a route that had us on one cow path after another. Three- four hours later, we got back to Grant Park. It had been a long day for Gena, a first grade teacher, so she stayed home as Ort and I hit the streets again. First to a friend’s house in Inman Park, then to Manuel’s Tavern, where he explained Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” to Tom Teepen, editorial page editor of The Atlanta Constitution. “It’s Wop Bop A Loo Bop A Wop Bam Boom,” Ort said, filling the room with his voice. After some Anchor Steams we headed to the Majestic. I could hardly hold my head up but he was still going strong. “Jeff, let’s go see Sebastian,” Ort said, never minding that it was 2:30 in the morning and that Sebastian may be asleep. But we went over to his place near Emory anyway. All the lights were off. He decided Sebastian must be asleep.

Ort would put off sleep as long as possible because he thought he’d miss something. And he didn’t miss much. One day I told him about hearing a lecture by former Georgia Governor Ellis Arnall, a rare liberal from the '40s, and afterward asking him to sign his two books. “The Shore Dimly Seen and What The People Want,” Ort rattled off, recalling the titles that had been out of print for at least two decades. You couldn’t get anything by Ort. And now we have to get by without him.