Squat & Gobble: Radio Spots

Taking the entire floor, Radio Station W.H.I.P. was situated on the second floor of the three story building located on the northwest corner of downtown Peoria’s Main and Jefferson Streets. The third floor consisted of attorney and accounting offices. At street level, on the corner was a Walgreen’s Drug Store. Around the corner, facing Main Street, running to the alley, which was also its driveway, was The Union Bus Depot containing a small, independently owned sandwich shop, that was also a thinly disguised ‘bookie joint’ that was owned and operated by one of Peoria’s ‘original characters’, Mister Herbert Berger.

                                Peoria, Illinois  

                              December 9, 1960

Sitting at his usual place on the end stool, the nagahide seat swiveled so he could rest his back against the wall, wearing wrinkled Chinos, a beige poplin jacket and, a fringe of curly, white/gray hair showing from beneath a Chicago Cubs baseball cap, absently turning a cup in its saucer with his right hand, studying it intently, in the elderly man’s other hand was this day’s Scratch Sheet.

“Morning, Sir.”

“Whoa!” Jerking his hand, the cup clattered onto its side spilling the remaining ounce or so of coffee onto the Formica counter.

Not intending to, either Mitchell had approached so quietly that he’d startled the man, or the man had been so engrossed in what he’d been studying that he hadn’t noticed the young man approach.

“Jesus, fella,” placing his right hand over his heart, “you scared the crap out’a me.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Glancing about the sandwich shop, looking through the half wall behind the service area of the well worn Formica counter, noting that no one was in the kitchen, rightfully assuming that... “You the boss here?” Mitchell asked.

“Yeah,” holding his hand forward. “Name’s Herb Berger.”

“Mister Berger,” shaking the offered hand, “I’m Mitch Lipensky and I’m with...” Jerking his head upward and backward, “Radio W.H.I.P..”

Glancing upward and forward, “My neighbor, eh.”

“Yes, Sir. And I’m wondering why you’re not advertising with us.”

Actually he’d thought about it: knowing that some business other than that of people waiting for or between busses couldn’t hurt. And that it would be ‘kind’a neat’ to –  in a roundabout way – advertise his 'bookmaking' business. Also, that his cronies would get a kick out of hearing his ‘joint’ advertised on the radio.

 So saying something Mitchell did not quite understand but, surprised at the ease of making this sale, knowing that he had made the sale...

“We take all bets.” Herb Berger said.

                    December 10, 1960

“Mitchie,” she said as he stepped out of the elevator, “Mister Russell would like to see you in his office.”

“Okay, thanks, Nancy.”

His inbred guilt taking over, illogically wondering, What did I do now? Knowing they couldn’t be too unhappy with him after writing two, thirty day renewable contracts in just two days. Forgoing his trip to the broadcast studio to nod his ‘good morning’ to his friend Jay – the morning slot disk jockey – the door to Larry Russell’s office open...

Seeing Mitchell, waving him inward, “Morning, Mitch. Come on in.” Russell motioned for him to sit.

Noting that both men had serious looks on their faces, “Yes, Sir... Morning Jim.” he said, sitting on the unoccupied chair facing the station manager’s desk.

“First off,” Russell said,” I want to tell you we think that in the month you’ve been with us you’ve done a really good job and we’re happy that you’d decided to join us...”

Unaware that he’d been holding his breath, Mitchell exhaled, but knowing he was there for some reason, knew there a “but” coming, and...

“But!” The production manager said, holding what Mitchell recognized as the contract sighed by Herb Berger...

“But!” Larry Russell added, still appearing to be somber...

Now both men smiling...

“But what in the hell,” the station Manager asked, “can we say about...” laughing, “Squat and Gobble?”