Chicago, Illinois
March 14, 1945
Geography
Thinning, soot-coated remnants of winter still clung to naked tree limbs even as barely seen buds pushed through layers of winter bark.
Driblets of muddy water swept over curbs into thousands of miles of gutters, then combined and surged to become gushing streams that poured from all directions of the compass into the fast-flowing currents of the Chicago River.
Wanting this endless day to end, squirming restlessly on the hard oak seat of his desk, paying scant attention to the droning, slightly accented voice of his sixth-grade teacher, his eyes half closed, Mitchell Lipensky gazed through the dirt-streaked window.
Whenever he thought of Frank Rizzo, which really wasn’t all that often, he missed him, but did not miss Baylor, especially since his brother, Lawrence Joseph, had been born.
The war, so far, had brought no great calamity to either family.
Myra’s brother, Sheldon, was somewhere in Italy reconstructing airfields that had been destroyed by the retreating German army, while Ira, Walter’s youngest brother, had spent the duration in Colorado as a clerk “rubber-stamping” documents.
Radio, newspapers and movie newsreels claimed decisive victories for the Allies throughout Europe and Asia, and Americans knew that it was only a matter of time till it “was over over there.”
Slumping lower in his seat, stretching his legs forward, the toe of his shoe nudged the heel of the boy sitting in front of him, and the boy, as though awakened, started and fleetingly looked over his shoulder, then he, too, looked out the window.
Checking to be sure that Mrs. Stakowsky was not looking in his direction, touching the tip of his finger to his tongue, Mitchell put it through the opening of the small packet of Sen-Sen that was in the breast pocket of his shirt, then licked off the seven or eight tiny, licorice breath-sweetening confections.
Looking at the multi-colored map that was pulled down like a window shade in front of the blackboard, he tried to comprehend his teacher’s words as she pointed to the map with a wooden yardstick, but his brain seemed to be covered with a layer of gauze, and his wandering mind wandered to his tracings and, as happened so often then, his penis, completely uninvited, began to stretch his underpants.
Recently, using his comic books, enlarging the breasts and filling in the nipples and crotch as best as he could visualize, he had taken to tracing pictures of women onto tracing paper and had an assortment of naked women, as best as he could visualize, ranging from Wonder Woman to Archie’s girlfriends, Veronica and Betty, hidden in the recessed top of the built-in hutch in the dining room.
Second from the end, his seat was in the row closest to the window.
Slouching, his Jockey shorts had hiked into his groin, and by putting his left hand into his pocket and stretching his finger through the hole he’d discovered when his nickel fell out, by ripping the hole further he was able to push two fingers through, to beneath the elastic band of his underpants, then, looking about to be sure that no one was watching him, and with the possible exception of Toby, the girl that sat directly behind him, no one was, Mitchell hunched forward, slumped lower and by angling to the right, unless Toby went out of her way to look, he was able to hide his lower body. Pulling it through, his penis then jutted at a left angle through and from under the elastic band of his shorts and up through the hole in his pocket, and with absolutely no show of motion, he began a squeezing, rolling motion beneath the glans, till, Uh-oh, better stop! But his fingers, as his penis, seemed to have minds of their own and no part of his body obeyed. Straining the material of his pocket—squeezing, rolling—he tightened his knees—rolling, squeezing—pushed his legs forward and sat upward in his seat then, remembering where he was, slouched again… Stop! Why won’t his fingers listen to his brain? And within moments, with a rapid intake of breath, sensing the beginning of his orgasm, constricting his thighs, groin and rectum, Mitchell’s nervous system taking over, he jerked upright and…
“Tach!” Clicking her tongue in annoyance, Toby whispered, “Mitchell! Can’t you sit still, even for a minute?”
He felt the warm spurts of sticky semen in the palm of his hand, and…
His squirming and, although she’s whispered, Tobey’s words had caught someone else’s attention.
“Mister Lipensky,” Mrs. Stakowski said, pointing the yardstick at him, “would you please come forward and go to the map and define the eastern, pre-war boundaries of the Soviet Union.”
Thinking, Oh, my God! he rose slowly, and slower yet made his way to the front of the room.
“And for goodness sake, Mitchell, take your hands out of your pockets!”
****
Shadows In The Mind
Radio: The age of imagination.
How wonderful to lie comfortably on the softly carpeted floor.
To be snug and warm on a cold winter day with your brother or sister beneath mommy and daddy’s sweet smelling blanket.
To smell grandpa’s aftershave and feel his arms about you as you sat on his lap.
To close your eyes and be carried away…
“RETURN WITH US NOW TO THOSE THRILLING DAYS OF
YESTERYEAR WHERE OUT OF THE DISTANCE COMES
THE THUNDEROUS HOOF BEATS OF THE GREAT HORSE
SILVER! THE LONE RANGER RIDES AGAIN!”
With our imaginations wide open we could see them!
They were there!
There! There’s the Lone Ranger and his great horse Silver! There’s Tonto and Scout!
“HI-HO, SILVER, AWAY!”
“Lux Radio Theater presents, ‘The Dawn Patrol’!”
“Mom, I saw that movie! Can I stay up an’ listen? Please?”
“No! There’s school tomorrow and it’s past your bedtime!”
“Aw, gee, Mom. I’ll get washed’n’brush my teeth’n’get into bed soon’s it’s over! Please!”
On Saturday mornings…
“Cream of Wheat is so good to eat,
yes we have it every day.
We sing this song, it’ll make us strong,
and it makes us shout hooray!”
“Cream of Wheat presents, ‘Let’s pretend’! Today the story of ‘The Princess and the Pea’!”
“Grand Central Station! Crossroads of a thousand lives!”
“Corless Archer, America’s Junior Miss!”
Raptly listening.
Imagining.
Being there!
Run home from school. Go to the store for mom. Take a package of Twinkies and a glass of milk and sit on the floor in front of the radio:
“Jaaack Armstrong, the All American Boy!”
“Captainnn Midniiight!”
“The Green Hornet!”
“Look, up in the sky!”
“It’s a bird!”
“It’s a plane”
“It’s Superman!”
Eat supper. Take the garbage to the can. Rush through homework. Back on the floor again because:
“It’s time for Jack Benny!”
“Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy!”
“Fanny Brice as Baby Snooks!”
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
The Shadow knows!”
“Today, April twelfth, nineteen-hundred, forty-five, our president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, died suddenly of a massive cerebral hemorrhage in Warm Springs, Georgia.”
“God save America!”
“Today, May eighth, nineteen hundred, forty-five, Germany surrendered to the Allied Forces.”
“The war in Europe is over!”
“Today, August, fourteenth, nineteen hundred, forty-five, Japan surrendered to the Allied Forces.”
“WORLD WAR TWO IS OVER!”
We, and our radios, were there.
****
Chicago, Illinois
1946
In 1925, when Walter Lipensky was seventeen years old, he’d discovered that he had two loves: one, an outlet for his type of adventure, and the other an outlet for his creativity. Sailing and photography.
Throughout his younger years, even through the great depression and right up to the time he’d met and married Myra, he was able to participate, if not wholly then passively, in both of these activities.
When you’re in love and have a beautiful new wife, even if money is not as scarce as during a depression, old loves are usually abandoned… if not with a backward glance than certainly with a warm remembrance.
Walking the shore in spring or the beach in summer. Driving the Outer Drive in sight of Lake Michigan in the fall. A soft breeze or a gust of wind would bring pangs of quiet longing to Walter and he would desperately crave the feel of a small boat heeling in the wind and the touch of spray on his face.
Colored kites with necktie tails floating above the trees.
Children huddled in a circle shooting marbles.
A lonely, gnarled tree silhouetted before ominous gray clouds.
These sights would register upon the mind of Walter Lipensky and he would hunger for the satisfaction of being able to show these things to others, as he saw them.
But… a wife cost money. A child costs money.
What was needed took precedence: rent, food, medicine and clothing.
What was wanted was put on the back burner beneath a growing list of priorities.
Sailing? Photography? Sailing and photography were way, way down, at the bottom of the list.
At the end of the war, when defense plants began the process of retooling for the produce of peace, the massive work forces were being cut back and, knowing he’d be out of a job shortly, Walter decided that then might be the best time to combine business with pleasure and began to think of looking for work in the field of photography… Sailing he forgot—temporarily.
The Park Studio was on Kedize and Fifteenth Place, about a mile from the Lipensky apartment. In the waning days of the war, its owner, Mister Myron Pincus, was in his late sixties when he’d received the telegram informing him that his son, Elmer, had been seriously wounded and Pincus suffered a heart attack.
Morris Barrish and Mister Pincus attended the same synagogue. One Friday evening after the Shabbes service, Pincus mentioned that he was looking for an assistant and, putting a good word in for his son-in-law, Morris called Walter when he returned home.
On Monday evening Walter brought samples of his photographic work to his job interview and was hired immediately… Well, immediately after an hour of haggling over a livable wage for a family man with two children.
Walter worked at the Park Studio for less than six months when, early in 1946, Pincus suffered another, more debilitating heart attack and was told by his doctor to retire or die.
Having to sell the studio, Pincus made a proposal to Walter. Walter made a counteroffer. Pincus made a counter-counteroffer, and they settled for seven hundred dollars down, five percent of the gross for five years, then a two-thousand-dollar buyout.
Walter and Myra Lipensky became the owners of the Park Studio on March 11, 1946.
The husband and wife worked together with Walter doing the shooting, darkroom work and retouching, while Myra handled the bookkeeping, the reception of customers and, after discovering that she had a steady hand, for those customers willing to pay, Myra hand-colored portraits in oil.
Mitchell was old enough to care for himself after school and on Saturdays so Walter and Myra brought the baby, Lawrence, to the studio with them each day.
