A Hole Digger excerpt

November 7, 1956

A Face From The Past

            The Grand Canyon is indeed grand, both, in scope and beauty.

            The Petrified Forest does, no doubt, have petrified trees.

            The Painted Desert, yes, sir, at times does appear to be painted.

            The Great Salt Lake is unquestionably salty.

            The falls at Niagara certainly fall, and...

            The Windy City is not called the Windy City for nothing because...

            “Holy shit!” Walking south on Michigan Boulevard, Mitchell Lipensky’s body was bent so far forward that were the wind to suddenly stop blowing he would surely fall flat on his face. His hair fanned straight back, his coat, buttoned from the highest to the lowest, winnowed to the rear as though a small parachute, and, if not held tightly within his leather gloved hand, his sample case would have aspirations of emancipation.

            If the wind in the song from the play, “Paint Your Wagon” is called “Mariah”, then the wind of the Windy City might well be called “Big Bertha” because, short of a hurricane or tornado, which are fortunately uncommon occurrences in Chicago,  Big Bertha does come visiting on a majority of winter days in Chicago and, oh, yeah, “woe be onto they” who must brave the streets of the easterly tip of land that sits on the westerly shore of Lake Michigan.

            The words “wind chill factor” must have had their origin on State Street, Wabash Avenue and Michigan Boulevard and had to be concocted by those who make their living by scurrying from the entry of one building to the entry of another building.

            453... 457... Watching the addresses of the buildings, “Holy shit!” he yelled once again, but his closest neighbor in passing: a middle-aged, gray haired man barely heard him above the baying wind and gave Mitchell but a cursory glance before returning his attention to remaining on solid ground as his 36X36 art portfolio suddenly went from vertical to horizontal as, Jesus, Mitchell thought, if the guy had an art-case in his other hand, too, and a feather in his ass he’d become airborne.

            461... 465... Thank God! Going through the revolving door from the outside world of bone

chilling, face numbing, squalling wind to the warm silence of the heated, wood panel and marble lobby, he stood a full thirty seconds acclimating himself to the physical and mental stillness, then, removing a rubber-band packet of 3X5 index cards from his coat pocket, he looked at the top card, then at the building’s glass enclosed directory... “Freeholdt & Hardison, Advertising... Room 1533”. Writing the room number on the card, he returned the cards to his pocket and, using the reflective glass of the directory as, somewhat, a mirror, he unbuttoned his coat, straightened his tie and the lapels of his jacket, combed his windblown hair, went into the nearest elevator and pushed the “15” button.

            ... Smiling his best smile, “Hi!” “Handing the receptionist a business card, “My name is Mitch Lipensky and I’d like to speak to whoever purchases photography, please.”

            Glancing at the card, lifting the receiver off the multi-lined phone on the desk, punching a button, “I’ve someone from ‘Walter Lewis Studio’ here to see you, Mister Munchnick. ... Yes, Sir.” Punching the ‘hold’ button, “Do you have an appointment?”

            “No, Ma’am.” Thinking, You dope! How could I have an appointment if I didn’t even know the guy’s name?

            Pushing the flashing button, “No, Sir. No appointment. ... Yes, Sir.” Putting the phone onto the cradle, the ‘Munchnick’ button went dark. “Mister Munchnick advises you call for an appointment.”

            “Yes, Ma’am.” Taking the index cards and a pen from his pocket, “How would you spell, Mister... uh?”

            “ ‘Munchnick’! M-U-N-C-H-N-I-C-K.”

            In the lobby again, with the ‘Freeholdt & Hardison’ card on the bottom of the stack, Mitchell looked at the numerically arraigned card on the top:  ‘Hillhouse & Hodges,  690 S. Michigan’.  Standing to the right of the revolving door, thinking, One and a half blocks to the next one. He buttoned his coat from hem to chin, took a last breath of warm, still air, then pushed through the door to make his seventh, frigid, non-productive call of the day.

            ...Once again handing a receptionist his card, “Hi!” smiling his ‘I want to impress you’ smile. “My name’s Mitch Lipensky...”

            When he came through the door, the receptionist, a young woman of approximately Mitchell’s age

looked up and followed his progression to her desk with her eyes focused sharply on his face, thinking, could it be? And when he gave his name... Yeah!

            “... and I’d like to speak to whoever purchases your photography.”

            As though confirming what she knew to be a fact, looking at his card, appearing slightly flustered, “Um, yes.”  Pointing to the sofa, “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll see if Mister ...” making no effort to lift the phone, “... Nocera’s available.”

            “Yes, thanks.” Removing his coat, going to the sofa, he sat, then looked at the young woman behind the desk, whom was now openly staring at him.

            Mitchell’s red, wind blown face, that had regained some of it’s natural color during the wait in the lobby and the elevator ride to the fifteenth floor, once again became flushed, not with cold, though, but embarrassment as their eyes locked and held for a number of seconds, till, forcing his away, he thumbed through one of the magazines on the chrome and glass table.

            “You don’t remember me, huh?”

            ‘You don’t remember me?’ Looking up. Should I know her? Sitting behind the desk, he had no idea of her height, but could see she was homely and, by her upper body, that she was thin. “Sorry, I...”

            “We were kids. It’s been about, oh...” Breaking her intense gaze, she looked at the ceiling, then back at Mitchell. “It was before Korea, so it’s got to be... what? Seven, eight years.” Waiting for recognition, the young woman thought the historically accepted – but in his case the erroneous fact that – a guy is never supposed to forget his ‘first piece of ass’.

            “You sure it’s me you think you know?” Leaning forward, studying her face, “I mean, maybe you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

            She had mousy brown, shoulder length hair. Her face long and thin with a nose to match. The only thing attractive about the young woman are her eyes: her light blue eyes...

            And the tendril of a remembrance worked its way into Mitchell’s mind. 

            “No, I ain’t got you confused with anyone. Remember? Frankie...”

            “My, God!” Remembering, the name ‘Frankie’ tore at his heart. “Yeah!” Standing, approaching the desk, “You’re...”

            “Gina.” She said, coming from behind the desk. “I’m Gina.”

            “My God!”

            Gina Glambos and Mitchell Lipensky came together in front of the reception desk in the offices of ‘Hillhouse & Hodges’ and shared the embrace of two, if not long lost friends, than the embrace of two with a long bygone and, all but forgotten, ‘carnal knowledge’ of each other.