Tom Nix is tall and trim with quick grey locks, narrow-set eyes and faintly ruddy epidermis. He has got a 40-foot ship he loves to sail off Catalina Island, plus the sticker in the bumper of their brand brand new Lexus states that thatвЂ™s what heвЂ™d instead be doing. He wears a bankerвЂ™s suit, also for ambling around Compton and Watts, that he does such as a small-town mayor, greeting everyone else whom passes by. вЂњHow you doing?вЂќ he said, nodding, even as we passed a new black colored man in a baggy Sixers jersey that hung right down to their knees. Nix is white; the majority of their customers aren’t.
Nix found myself in check cashing by accident. Their dad, Tom Nix Sr., handled a fleet of motorists whom delivered bread door to home, the means the milkman delivered milk. By the 1960s, distribution had been a dying company, but in the warehouse in south L.A. where NixвЂ™s motorists loaded their vehicles, locals, mostly bad, mostly black colored, would come around to get bread that is day-old.