Peoria, Illinois
October 11 through December 31, 1960
Continuing a line of light chatter since he’d stepped into the line behind him, “You from Chicago?”
Standing in the slowly moving line, waiting to close in on the Peoria Chamber of Commerce’s “Let’s Meet Our New Members” semi-annual buffet table. “Yeah, sure,” the affable, sandy haired, rather good looking man about Mitchell’s age answered. “Isn’t everyone in Peoria?”
Glancing about the crowded room, “Guess so, at least at one time or another.” Holding his hand forward, “Mitch Lipensky.”
Returning the handshake, “Jay Shapiro.”
“West side? North side?”
Knowing what he meant, “North. You?”
“West originally, then Skokie. Where’d you go?”
Knowing what he meant, “Roosevelt.”
“You?”
“Harrison, then Niles.”
Estimating him to be few years older than Marsha, “By any chance you know Roger Goldman?”
“Roge! Yeah, sure, we’re club brothers.”
“Really? No shit! I’m married to his sister.”
“Really? Marsha!” Remembering Roger’s kid sister as just that: a kid. “No shit!”
“Yeah! Matter of fact we had our second kid about six months ago.”
“Two kids!” Moving forward, now five people away from the buffet table. “Really? Roger’s little sister’s got two kids, eh? How long the two’a’ya been married?”
Calculating their first marriage as their real marriage, though really Mitchell thought it just gave Marsha a reason to expect two anniversary gifts, “Next week’ll be five years.”
“Five years! Jesus, when’d you marry her? When she was thirteen?”
“Nah.” Mitchell smiled. “Nineteen.”
****
“Hi, baby.” The Chamber dinner through, calling to say, “Hey, I met an old acquaintance of yours.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Name’s Jay Shapiro.”
Thinking… Remembering she’d had a bit of a crush on him when she was about thirteen. “Jay! Yeah, sure! He’s living here? What’s he do?”
“He’s a disk jockey at WHIP. Uses the name Jay Stanley.”
“Jay Stanley? The Jay Bird! I listen to him all the time. I can’t believe that’s Jay!”
“Yeah, that’s him! Thought I’d check with you to see if it’s okay to invite him for dinner.”
“Yes, sure! He have a wife or girlfriend?”
“No; he says he’s a very happy bachelor.”
“Okay,” Marsha said. “See if he can make it Friday, about six-thirty.”
October 14, 1960
“Come on in!”
Thinking, Wow! “Marsha, you look great!” Receiving and giving a kiss on the cheek, looking at the six month old baby in her arms. “Your baby’s really cute,” Jay said, rubbing Ellie’s fuzzy head. “Mind if I eat her here?”
“If you want,” Marsha replied, “but maybe you’d rather have a porterhouse?”
“Don’t know; guess I’ll have to think about that.” Stretching his hand to the little boy standing slightly behind and to the side of his mother. “And who’s this guy?”
“This is Mikey… Mikey, shake hands with Mister, uh,” looking at him questioningly, “Shapiro? Stanley?”
“Jay’ll do.” Taking his hand, “Hi’ya, Mikey!” Glancing from Marsha to Mitchell, “Good looking couple’a kids you got there.” Obviously not a ‘kid person,’ “Porterhouse?” Looking at Mitchell, “You did say porterhouse, right?”
“Yup. Got the coals cookin’”
“Great!” Coming in, looking about the cosy, early American furnished living room, “I’ll have mine medium rare.”
“That’s the only way I make ’em… Come on.” Going to the kitchen, taking the platter of steaks off the counter… “Watch out for the…”
Following Mitchell outside…”
“Mercy!”
Thinking Mitchell was asking for help, “Huh?”
Although clipped to the pulley, expecting the eight month old Dalmatian to… “Mercy!” Mitchell braced himself, but…
“Huh?” Jay was not and did not and, nearly knocking him over, the overly zealous, near sixty pound Dalmatian with her overly zealous tongue bounded onto Jay’s chest pushing him against the door frame.
“Mercy!” Grabbing her collar, “That’s no way to treat a guest; knocking him on his ass!”
Laughing, “No, it’s okay! I love dogs!”
“Sorry, Jay. She’s a work in progress.”
“It’s okay.” Stooping, rubbing behind her ears, “Mercy?”
“Yeah. She’s a combination of her parents’ names: mother is ‘Silver Cricket of Bell Coach’ and the father’s ‘Tioga Sports Car,’ so we named her ‘Mercedes Benz, Silver Sports Car.’” Slapping the three steaks onto the Weber barbecue’s now sizzling grill, “But the name’s a few letters too long for the A.K.C., so she’s ‘Mercedes Silver Sports Car’: Mercy for short.”
****
Dinner through. Michael on the living room floor watching television. The baby in bed. Mercy laying alongside the table while, dawdling over coffee, the last thirty minutes had been spent with Marsha and Jay getting caught up with each other’s lives, including the details of the death of Eli.
Lifting herself from the floor, laying her head on Jay’s lap, “Mitch,” rubbing behind Mercy’s ears, “you like what you’re doing: selling envelopes?”
Thinking a moment, “It’s okay. Don’t care much for the overnight trips, though.”
“As if you’ve done lots of those.”
“We’ve customers throughout the area and I’m supposed to see them and work on finding new ones… Okay,” looking at Marsha, “I’ve only been to Springfield once and Sterling once, but I hate being away from home overnight.”
“How long you been with…uh?”
“Transco. Oh…” then, “Holy shit!” Mitchell said in wonderment. “Last month was two years. Jesus! Where’s the time go?”
“You happy there?”
Mercy having moved to Mitchell, “I guess…” His hand on her head, “You know, it’s nice getting commission for accounts I’ve never even seen.”
“Think you might be open to something else?”
“Something else?”
“Yeah. They’re looking for a ‘time’ salesman at the station.”
October 18, 1960
So far, rather impressed with the young man sitting on the opposite side of his desk, “How long have you been with…” glancing at the notes he’d been making, “Transco?”
“Two years last month, sir.”
“And before that?”
“The summer before I started with Transco I worked on a construction job. And before that, after I got out of the service, I worked for my parents selling art and photography.”
Lawrence Russell’s eyebrows going up, “Art and photography, eh?”
“Yes, sir. My dad’s a professional photographer and has a studio on North Clark Street, in Chicago.”
An envelope salesman not necessarily having the experience to sell an intangible such as airtime, but commercial art and photography something else, “Why’d you leave your father?”
“Well…” Mitchell had found the truth in most cases the best answer—some of the truth at least. “My wife and my mother don’t exactly get along too well, and whenever my mother would get angry at my wife she’d take it out on me and then I’d kind’a…”
Russell, unfortunately having this same type of experience, interjected, “…go home and argue with your wife.”
Nodding his head, “I didn’t want to, but, yes… Then I began to think that I’d be better off doing something else someplace else, so I worked on a construction job that summer. Then found the job with Transco.”
Consulting his notes again, “You say you’ve two kids?”
“Yes. Mikey’s three and a half and Ellie’s just five months.”
“And you were in the military!”
“Yes. The Coast Guard, for four… actually three and a half years.”
“You plan on staying here? Your wife’s happy here? You planning on making Peoria your home?”
“Yes!” Mitchell answered truthfully. “Marsha and I love it here. The cost of living is much less than Chicago and we’re living in the nicest place we’ve ever lived.”
“How much are you making at Transco?”
“Between salary and commission,” exaggerating slightly, “about $115 a week.”
Looking intently at Mitchell—causing him to blush—tapping the eraser end of a pencil on the mahogany desktop. Liking this young man’s appearance, mannerisms and qualifications. “Okay, we’ll start you off at $125 a week till your commissions are equal to your salary—and I have a hunch that won’t take very long—then you’ll go on straight commission. When can you start?”
****
Hating to have to do this, “Gene, hi! It’s Mitch Lipensky.”
“Yeah, Mitch.”
May as well just say it. “I’m sorry to have to do this, but I’m calling to give you notice, and to give you time to get another man here.”
“You’re leaving us?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Gene, but I’ve been offered something I can’t pass up.”
“Yeah, Mitch,” said rather angrily, “we’re sorry, too.”
November 7, 1960
Rising from behind his desk, “Morning, Larry,” nodding at his Station Manager. “Mitch, welcome aboard.”
“Good morning, sir.” Shaking the station owner’s hand. “Thanks for having me aboard.”
Taking an instant likening to the young man, “Larry showing you around, is he?” Having spoken to Larry about his new employee, knowing Mitchell hadn’t, still, “Ever been through a radio station, Mitch?” Carter McIntyre asked.
“No, sir.”
“I think you’ll find it rather interesting.”
Yes, sir. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
****
“Hi, baby.”
“Mitchie, so?”
“It’s really interesting here and sometimes they use us, the salesmen… There’s three other salesmen besides me, and sometimes they use us—our voices—for making commercials.”
“Really! So your voice’ll be famous.”
“Nah, I don’t think so… So far I’ve met everyone here and guess what? I think I’m really going to like it here!”
“Think someone’ll shoot paperclips at you, do you?”
Remembering, smiling, “Hey, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
“Good for you, Mitchie.”
“Hey, baby.”
“What, Mitchie?”
“I love you!”
“Me, too, honey,” Marsha said sincerely. “I love you, too.”
November 8, 1960
On this day, John F. Kennedy narrowly defeated Richard M. Nixon to become the thirty-fifth president of the United States of America.
December 7, 1960
Always amazed at the speed her fingers seemed to fly over the keyboard, hesitating on the way to the sales office by way of the broadcast studio, “’Morning, Nancy.”
Her concentration broken, looking up from Radio Station WHIP’s brand new Remington electric typewriter, “’Morning, Mitch.” The chubby but pretty darkhaired receptionist/secretary smiled momentarily then returned to her typing.
Radio Station WHIP took up the entire 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 Walgreens drug store. Around the corner, facing Main Street and running to the alley, which was also its driveway, was the Union Bus Depot containing a small, independently owned sandwich shop, which was also a thinly disguised “bookie joint” owned and operated by one of Peoria’s original “characters,” Mister Herbert Berger.
Coming off the elevator into Radio WHIP headquarters, once past an impressive reception area, there were three offices: one moderated sized office was that of Larry Russell, the station manager; the next, a bit larger and more ornate belonged to Carter McIntyre, the station owner; and the last, much larger office, accommodating four desks was the sales office. Going further down the hallway, containing state of heart recording and sound equipment, was the soundproofed Production Studio. A bit beyond “production” was the office of the station’s multitalented production manager, the man of many voices, James “Jim” Husk. A few steps further was the soundproofed, glass fronted broadcast studio with its console of turntables, tape decks, knobs and dials, switches and lights that always reminded Mitchell of the control panel of a commercial airliner.
Recently awarded the coveted “drive time” six to nine a.m. time slot, his mouth inches from the microphone, “Nineteen years ago, on this date, at approximately this time”—looking towards the glass wall, Jay Stanley, the “Jay Bird” nodded at Mitchell, who had taken to waving good morning each day—“in a sneak attack,” Jay went on, “the skies above the island of Oahu in Hawaii were suddenly filled with Japanese warplanes. Minutes later, a fleet of nearly two hundred dive bombers and torpedo planes attacked the United States fleet at Pearl Harbor…”
Noting the time on the large, sweep second hand clock on the wall of the broadcast studio—7:58—turning, retracing his steps, “’Morning.” Nodding collectively at Tom Collingwood, Joyce Black, and Dave Wilkins—the two men and one woman that had comprised the sales staff of Radio Station WHIP. The newest staff member went to his desk to await that day’s inspirational “go get em” briefing by Larry Russell.
