_______________________________________________________________________
“Nocera! The guy you want’a talk to is Lester Nocera.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Marking the name on the index card.
“Yeah!” swiveling the chair, turning her back to him, “see you ’round sometime.”
“Yeah, so long, Gina.” Taking his coat and sample case, anxious to be out of there, he put his coat on in the elevator.
Downstairs, outside, taking the pack of index cards from his pocket, removing the Hillhouse & Hodges card, tearing it in pieces, Mitchell let the wind of Michigan Boulevard take it.
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Chicago, Illinois
October 30, 1956
The payment book came from Polk Brothers.
With interest, the EZ Credit payment for the easy chair, coffee table and hook rug came to $21.73 per month.
Mitchell’s weekly draw check from Walter Lewis Studio, after deductions, came to $62.50.
Though he’d been responsible for the opening of two small accounts, there were no sales that even came close to covering his draw, and weekly the difference between what he actually earned in commission and what he was paid went into the “red” side of Mitchell’s ledger.
Because Marsha was pregnant and could not work, and would not go back to work after the baby was born and because he drove to and from downtown five days a week and walked around every day—“Who knows what could happen to him? He could be hit by a car. A brick could fall on him.”—Rhea convinced Marsha that Mitchell should have life insurance. And he did, of course, need car insurance. And now that the ’52 ford was almost five years old things were starting to go wrong with it and it did cost money to take care of those things. The rent was $115 a month, and there was food and medicine for Marsha so, with just everyday living, Mitchell’s “take home” was spent before he got home.
“It’s about two months before Christmas,” Rhea said over lunch. “Why doesn’t Mitchell look for a part time job someplace?”
****
“Mitchie, Christmas is coming,” Marsha said after dinner that evening, “and the stores are probably looking for extra help by now, so why don’t you see if you can get a part-time job somewhere?”
“A part time job?” Looking up from the television, “What kind of part time job?”
“I don’t know. You sold shoes when you were younger. Try a shoe store or a clothing store.”
He hadn’t thought of a part time job and the thought of rushing home from work then going back to work repugnant to him, “Marcie, I leave home at eight in the morning and don’t get back till five-thirty or six in the evening and I’m really beat by then and don’t want to go back to work!”
“Mitchell, the stores are only open on Monday and Thursday nights so it would only be for two nights a week and on Saturdays. You don’t work on Saturday anyway, and if you make enough we can pay off the furniture and not have to make a monthly payment.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Asked belligerently, “Back downtown?”
“No, try around here! Go to Devon Avenue. Go into Evanston.”
“When’d you come up with this idea, Marcie?”
“It’s been on my mind for a couple of days now.”
“You were with your mother today, weren’t you?” Living in the same building, he knew Marsha saw Rhea every day and, actually, was a bit jealous of the time his wife spent with her mother. “This was her idea, wasn’t it?”
“No!” she lied. “But what’s the difference whose idea it is? You’re not making enough on your regular job and we do need the money! And besides, you don’t work all that hard that you can’t work a couple of hours in the evening twice a week.”
Knowing she was right, but, “And on Saturdays!” he added angrily.
“Yeah!” she replied just as angrily. “And on Saturdays!”
“First off, Marsha, you don’t know how hard I work! You think it’s easy being out there all day having all those assholes say no to me all the time? For your information I do work hard! And secondly,”—when you know she’s right and you’re wrong, it’s time for a little spite—“I guess if I’m working on Saturdays that means you can spend another day with your mother, too, huh?”
“Stop acting like a baby! My mother has nothing to do with this, Mitchell! You’re going to be a father and we do need the money and fathers”—thinking of her own father—“work!”
“Tell you what, Marsha, why don’t you get a part time job?”
“Me?” Pressing her hands over her stomach, “Who’d hire me?”
“You’re always telling me how much they liked you! Go back to, uh, where you worked before I met you, the girdle shop! They only deal with women, and if anyone’ll would hire a pregnant woman, it’ll be them!”
“It’s a lingerie shop! And I did call Lanathans!” she lied. “And they’ve already got more help than they need.”
“You called them, huh?” Not believing her, “Yeah, sure!” but yet reluctant to call her a liar, however, “and I remember you saying that you’d never go back to work!”
Knowing he knew she hadn’t called Lanathans, not pushing her anger, “Mitch, I haven’t been feeling well!” True. “And standing on your feet all day is the worst thing a pregnant lady can do.” This, also, was true . “Besides…” now letting her anger through, “Besides, you’re the man here, and men work!”
Snarling, “Okay, Marsha!” Going to the closet, he angrily snatched the trousers he’d worn that day off the pants hanger. “I’ll go find a job, tonight!” Hoping she’d say: “No, you don’t have to go, now!” But…
****
Driving south to Devon Avenue, he went into the lower end men’s clothing store Robert Hall: No help needed. Then to A.S. Beck and Chandler’s, both women’s shoe stores. Although he did not care to work in either of those places, Mitchell filled an application at Chandler’s. Then, going in the opposite direction, he drove to the North-western College town of Evanston.
Parking in one of the diagonal spaces in front of Marshall Field & Company, he started into the large department store… But compelled, turning, stopping, he stared at the Walgreens Drug Store on the other side of Chicago Avenue… Sighing, turning back, he pushed through one of the revolving doors, which coincidently opened directly into the men’s clothing and accessory department. “Hi!” Speaking to a woman stooping behind a case straightening ties, “The manager around?”
Straightening, glancing about, “Yes.” Pointing to a partially bald, middle aged man, “That’s him, in the blue suit: Mister Bornstein.”
“Thank you.” Turning away, rightfully feeling the woman’s eyes on his back, he crossed the showcase strewn marble floor.
Waiting until the man was through speaking to a customer, “Mister Bornstein, my name’s Mitch Lipensky,” he said, offering his hand, “and I’m wondering if you might be looking for a part time salesman.”
Appraising him, instantly liking the young man’s mannerism and appearance, shaking the offered hand, “You have any selling experience?”
“Yes, sir.” If he was going to be forced to work, Field’s seemed like a pretty classy place to do it. “When I was younger I sold woman’s shoes.” Not telling Bornstein he’d been fired for spending more time looking up their skirts than down at their feet, “And I also sold men’s clothing over on Maxwell Street.”
“Maxwell Street, you say!” Sy Bornstein had worked for his father on that pushcart littered street until the old man died, then he’d upgraded himself from the second hand clothing store on Maxwell Street to Field’s, where over the years he’d worked his way into his present Sales Manager position. “My father had a place there, and I used to know everyone. Who’d you work for?”
Surprised and encouraged by this revelation, “Solomon and Sons. Joey Solomon and I were friends.”
“Yeah, Morris Solomon! We were just down the street… What do you do now, Mitch?”
“I work for my dad selling photography for advertising. But I just got out of the service and, to be honest, it’s taking me longer to start pulling commission than I thought, and my wife’s pregnant and can’t work, so…”
All part time help normally hired by this time, however, having fired a man just the day before, “What time can you be here, after work?”
“Whenever you want: Five-thirty, six.”
“When do you want to start?”
“Uh, I’m hired?”
“A fellow Maxkavite? Sure! Be here Thursday, at six.”
****
“You’ve been gone a long time!” She’d imagined Mitchell would put in a half-hearted effort and be back in about an hour, but by now it’d been better than two.
“Yeah, well,” he said sadly, “like you said, most everyone’s hired all their Christmas help already. I’ve been to Devon…”
“Couldn’t find anything, eh?” Expecting this, and another argument when she broached the subject again.
“Yeah. Then I went to Evanston…” smiling, actually looking forward to it, “and got a job at Field’s and I’m starting Thursday.”
“At Field’s!” Smiling, coming off the sofa, putting her arms around his neck. “Thanks, Mitchie, you won’t be sorry.”
“Yeah, okay…” He hadn’t mentioned the subject for over a week and driving home that night thought that, maybe, it might be a good time to ask her, again, but then thought better of it… but, “Yeah, okay. But now that I did something for you, you do something for me! Okay?”
Dropping her arms, knowing what was coming, her happy look changing, if not to anger, then to sadness, “I know what you’re going to say, Mitch, and please don’t ask me again!”
“Why? Why do you think you’ve got the right to expect me to do whatever you want and not to ever have to do anything I want?”
“Getting a job! Earning a living! Doing what your family needs is for you! For us!” Marsha said, poking her finger onto his chest. “And I’ll do everything I have to do for us, too! But what you want isn’t for us! What you want me to do is for your mother! And I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, Mitchell, but I won’t do it till I’m ready to do it, and her nagging you and you nagging me isn’t going to make me want to call her ‘mom’ any faster!”
The two did not speak to each other again until he returned from work the following evening.
November 1, 1956
Finished with his calls early, Mitchell was home by four. Marsha made him a dinner of Campbell’s tomato soup and two toasted American cheese sandwiches. He put on a clean dress shirt, changed into his tan slacks and brown sport jacket, tied his tie into a neat Windsor knot and was off to his first evening as a part time, men’s shirt and accessory salesman at Marshall Field & Company.
Marge, the woman he’d spoken to on Monday, was assigned the task of breaking him in on the merchandise.
In a multitude of materials, Mitchell was shown dress and sport shirts, socks, ties and handkerchiefs—both for show and for blow. And underwear—boxer and Jockey types. Along with belts, suspenders, pajamas, bathrobes—wool and silk. And gold and gold plated cuff links, tie bars, tie tacks, key chains and “$”sign money clips. Also leather travel cases with hairbrush, comb, toothbrush, tweezers and scissors—for toenails, fingernails and nose hair. And neat, self contained plastic packages containing a rain hood or raincoat and rubbers (the kind you’d wear on your feet).
Turned over to Mister Bornstein, the sales manager gave him a 5x7, three part carbonized sales book. “This is your number, Lipensky.” His name and the number 211 were written in heavy black grease pencil on the cover. “Part one’s for us, part two is the customer’s and part three stays in the book. When you take a new book, you put your name and number on it.” Going to the cash register on the dress shirt case, taking a long, thin key on a snap chain from his pocket, turning it in one of the four keyholes on the machine, Bornstein pushed the “No Sale” button and the third drawer popped open. “This is your cash drawer. When you come in each day, go to the office and they’ll give you your sales book, the register key and a cash drawer that’ll have $25 in start up cash. When you’re through for the day, bring your key, drawer and sales book back to the office and punch out… Come on.”
Mitchell followed the older man through a “NO ADMITTANCE—EMPLOYEES ONLY” door, where Bornstein took an unmarked time card from the top slot of the time machine, penned in “Lipensky 211,” and under “WEEK OF” wrote: 10/28/56 to 11/3/56. Alongside of “THURSDAY IN,” he wrote “5:00,” and, as it was well after 6:00, initialled the line. “Any questions, Lipensky?”
Actually, surprisingly, “No, sir.”
****
“Yes, sir, may I help you?”
“Yeah. Couple’a white Arrow shirts: 16/34.”
Nervous with his first few customers, Mitchell soon remembered that each time he marked a sale in his book it meant a commission in addition to his hourly wage.
After the windblown, frigid hours he’d spent pounding the pavement looking for customers, receiving rejection after rejection, now, having customers come to him was almost relaxing. Before this first evening was through he was asking, “How’s about a tie to go with that shirt, sir?” And, “We have a beautiful selection of cuff links! Would you care to see them, sir?”
Saturday, November 3, 1956: A Memory Put to Rest
Walgreens, and the memory beckoned.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Though the day after Thanksgiving was historically considered the start of the Christmas shopping season, this wet, darkly overcast day drew thousands of early, pre Thanksgiving Christmas shoppers to Evanston and throngs of people had poured through Marshall Field & Company since it had opened at nine.
“Thank you, ma’am. Would you care to see a tie to go with that shirt?”
Walgreens, and the unwanted memory beckoned.
By twelve-thirty Mitchell was well into his second sales book of the day and, as busy as he’d been, each time he was close enough and in position to see it, he glanced through the revolving doors.
Knowing he was going to have a lunch break on this day, he also knew—although he absolutely did not want to—where he would be compelled to take that lunch break.
Waiting until Mitchell finished with his present customer, Bornstein tapped him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you break for lunch now.”
****
Outside, the drizzle had changed to light snow… Just as it had on that day.
That day! That weather! This place was so familiar he had the eerie feeling of déjà vu. Except, for Mitchell, the déjà vu was mildly sensed in the pit of his stomach rather than actually felt as a soft pain,
Going to the corner, waiting for the light to change he felt… actually felt, actually saw this now as though it were actually happening now rather than…? Hell, he thought incredulously, it is… actually, just two weeks short of five years ago! When…
“Hey,” he had said when his father had suggested a cup of coffee, “how’s about Walgreens! You can get coffee, Dad, and they’ve got a soda fountain that makes a great hot fudge sundae!”
The light changing from red to green, Myra, Walter and Mitchell had crossed Chicago Avenue…
Just as he was now doing.
His mother, his father and Mitchell had sat on the long side of the L shaped counter…
Just as he was now doing.
When…
Within moments the two sat kitty corner from them.
He could almost see her.
Closing his eyes, Mitchell could see her…
I sat there. Looking to his right, to where he had sat five years ago, then at the kitty corner stool…
Susan was there!
Feeling Susan’s presence a deep sense of hollowness overtook him as it all came rushing back:
The eight months of their so passionate, all but sexual love.
The eight months of lying about his past scholastic record, and his academic and future career aspirations.
The eight months of tutored cramming for an entrance exam.
The eight months of praying he would pass that exam…
And his failure, and their breakup and his, Oh, God! depression because he was still in Susan’s world but was no longer allowed to be a part of that world…
So Mitchell Lipensky changed worlds.
