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“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.
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Hook’n’Worm
Scooping dead minnows from a hundred gallon aquarium, the tall, slightly balding, though youngish man turned his head, “Good morning!” as the door to his bait/tackle/hunting shop was opened.
“Good morning.” Approaching the aquarium, “You the owner here?”
Most people entering his shop did not wear a tie and jacket, nor did they carry a briefcase, and the only ones that did, were, “Yes…” salesmen. “…I am definitely the owner here,” the man said guardedly.
“Hi,” offering his hand, “I’m Mitch Lipensky from Radio WHIP.”
Looking to his left, at the radio on the shelf beneath the cash register that was continually tuned to “his” station, WHIP, which was presently playing one of last year’s biggest hits, “Mack The Knife,” “Hi.” Taking the offered hand, shaking it heartily, “I’m Jim… Jim Magoun.”
Assuming, rightfully, that a man that sells worms for a living would not mind being addressed by his first name. “Good to meet you, Jim.” Looking about the double storefront shop, “Nice place you have here.”
Always fascinated by hand guns, walking to the short side of the L-shaped counter, Mitchell peered through the glass showcase.
“Looking for a gun, are you?”
“Nah. My wife would kill me if I ever brought a gun into the house.”
Sighing, “Yeah,” Jim said. “Some women are that way.”
“No, it’s not that.” Not wanting Marsha placed in a “some women are that way” category, though he knew she would feel the same even if it weren’t because, “Her father was shot to death last July.”
“Jesus, that’s tough!”
“Yeah.” Silent a moment… “The reason I’m here, Jim…”
“You know,” cutting him off, “WHIP’s my favorite station,” nodding his head towards the radio. “I listen to it all the time.”
Great! Mitchell thought, knowing that would make his job that much easier. “We love hearing that, you know, and you have no idea how many people tell me the same thing. And that’s kind of the reason I’m here, Jim… How’d you like to hear your shop here advertised on WHIP?”
“Yeah, Mitch, believe me, I’ve thought about it, but there’s no way I can afford it.”
“Jim, we have a contest going between the sales people at the station to see how many small accounts, such as yourself, we can get on the air along with some ‘beginners special’ reduced rates.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Hold on,” opening his briefcase, “it’s not as expensive as you might think.” Reaching inside, into a manila folder, removing a sheet of lime colored paper, Mitchell laid it on the counter. “Here.” Turning it so the man could read it. “Look at this, Jim. It’s our new ‘beginners rate’ chart and it’s made especially for small businesses like yours so that you can get into radio without it costing an arm and a leg.”
His interest piqued, “Yeah, but…” Jim said weakly as Mitchell cut him off.
“Look! Here’s a program that’s just made for small shops like yours. It calls for five, 30second announcements spread throughout the day for thirty days, including one a.m. and one p.m. drive time spot.”
Watching Mitchell’s finger as it moved along the rate list, his eyes moving ahead to the bottom line. “Yeah,” Jim said, “that’s…”
“Okay, yes, it’s $5.75 for each of those 30 seconds. But do you know what you’ll get for that $5.75?” Making a “minor close,” stopping, he waited for Jim to speak.
“Uh, I’m… My store’d be on the radio five times a day?”
Knowing he had him then, “Jim, those two prime time spots will hit, minimally, two to three hundred thousand people each time it’s played! And those are adult people driving to and from work. So that’s five to six hundred thousand, mostly adults, that will be hearing your commercials. Then there are the three other spots throughout the day that will reach another three to four hundred thousand people. So that’s approximately—minimally—three quarters of a million people that will be hearing this, your business advertised each and every day for thirty days. Three quarters of a million people…” Hesitating, he let the figure sink in. “So this advertising has got to, at least, pay for itself, wouldn’t you say?” Quiet now, waiting for a response…
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Daily! That’s three quarters of a million people, daily! Wouldn’t you think, at the very worst you’d have to break even?” Waiting for a response…
“Yeah, it would seem that way.”
“Most other WHIP clients using this very same program,” tapping the rate chart, “have told us that they’ve had a ten to fifteen percent increase in business within the first two weeks of being on the air, and there’s no reason why we couldn’t do that for you, too! And with Christmas coming, now’s a great time to start! And we can have you on the air as early as tomorrow morning. Would you like that, Jim?” Shutting up now, he waited for Jim to say the next word, to make the next move.
Mitchell’s eyes remained on Jim’s face. Jim’s eyes shifted from Mitchell’s face, to the left, to the right, to the ceiling, out the window.
Neither man spoke for ten… fifteen… twenty long seconds…
“How would I pay for this?”
The “assumed close”: Reaching into the briefcase, Mitchell removed a contract. “So the bill doesn’t hit you all at once, we’ll invoice weekly for time purchased.” Beginning to write… “That’s James…? How do you spell your last name?”
Twenty minutes later, Mitchell Lipensky left the bait/tackle/hunting shop with a completed Production Information Form and a signed contract for $862.50 with, unless notified in writing, an automatic renewal for the following month also.
****
“Jesus, Mitch, where in the world did you dig this one up?”
In Production, “Hey Jim, it’s small town radio, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jim Husk said. “But what in the hell do I do with…”
****
Tape recorder in hand, running the produced spot to the bait/tackle/hunting shop later that afternoon, receiving approval from Jim Magoun, the next morning…
December 8, 1960
Driving to work, hearing for the first time, Tadidtatatata! Smiling, Mitchell listened to the sound of bugles, then, because Jim Husk didn’t have shotgun blasts in his sound library, rattling the windows, KABOOM! KABOOM! came two atomic bomb blasts, then: “Located at 4769 Northeast Glen Oak Avenue, just one block north of Highway 74, it’s Hook and Worm for all your hunting…” KABOOM! KABOOM! “and fishing needs. For all you anglers, now at offseason, sale prices, we feature all quality Shakespeare rods and reels! Hunting this season? Hook and Worm carries a full line of Remington guns and ammunition! Located at 4769 Northeast Glen Oak Avenue, just one block north of Highway 74! Ladies, remember,” KABOOM! KABOOM! “Hook and Worm for Christmas for all your hunters and fishermen!”
December 9, 1960
Sitting at his usual place on the end stool, the Naugahyde covered seat swivelled so he could rest his back against the wall. A fringe of curly, white/gray hair showing from beneath, the man wore a Chicago Cubs baseball cap, wrinkled chinos and a beige poplin jacket.
Absently turning a cup in its saucer with his right hand, studying it intently, in the elderly man’s other hand was that 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 sure 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 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 WHIP.”
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 thinly disguised 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 and Jim would like to see you in Mr. Russell’s 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 plus a five, sixty second spot a day three month contract that he’d written late in November. Forgoing his trip to the broadcast studio to nod his good morning to Jay, the door to Larry Russell’s office open…
Seeing Mitchell, waving him inward, “’Morning, Mitch. Come on in.” The station manager motioned for him to sit.
“‘Morning Mr. Russell… Jim.” he said, nodding to the production manager.
“First off, I want to tell you that Mister McIntyre and myself think that in the month you’ve been here you’ve done a really great job and that we’re both happy that you decided to join us.”
Unaware that he’d been holding his breath, Mitchell exhaled. But knowing he was there for some reason, knowing there a “but” coming…
“But!” Jim Husk said, holding what Mitchell recognized as the contract signed 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, “are we supposed to do with…” laughing, “Squat and Gobble?”
December 23, 1960
As she never drank—apparently with the exception of Pappy Yokum’s moonshine—even though Mitchell had three drinks, one more than his wife felt he should drink, completely enjoying themselves, on this night Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky attended Radio Station WHIP’s annual Christmas party.
December 31, 1960
Living in small town such as Peoria, word spread rather quickly. And after being courted by all three—orthodox, conservative and reform—temples, Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky, having decided to join Peoria’s reform temple a few months earlier, attended a New Year’s party given in the home of one of the temple’s younger, wealthier members.
On this night, conceding to having one Harvey Wallbanger, even though Mitchell had three drinks—one more than his wife felt he should drink—they enjoyed themselves completely.
