A FBOW excerpt in sequence:

The Part-Timer & Retrospective 12

Chicago, Illinois

October 30, 1956

 The payment book came from Polk Brothers.

With interest, the E-Z 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 — and had received praise and encouragement from the studio staff and his wife — 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 you told me that you’re usually through canvasing by two and then sit in your office on the phone trying to make appointments. So how terrible would it be if on Monday and Thursday you came home an hour earlier. And if you make enough part-time 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 almost all day every day having all those ass-holes 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?”

“Oh, ‘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 ne?”?”

“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’ 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. But yet reluctant to push her anger…

“Mitch, I ‘haven’t’ been feeling well!” True. “And standing on your feet all day is the worst thing a pregnant lady could 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 god-damned 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’ an ‘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, he stared at the ‘Walgreen’s Drug Store’ on the other side of Chicago Avenue…

Sighing, turning back, he pushed through one of the revolving doors, which coincidentally 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 Stree’.”

“ ‘Maxwell Street’, you say!”

Sy Bornstein had worked for his father on the 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’...” —although he hadn’t spoken or seen him for years. “...Joey Solomon and I are 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.”

Retrospective 12

Chicago, Illinois

“Winter 1949

‘Maxwell Street’: reminiscent of New York City’s lower east side and European and mid-eastern bazaars.

On any weekend, weather permitting, throngs of people from throughout the city would flock to Maxwell Street looking for a bargain, a deal, a ‘steal’. Anything of dubious, doubtful quality, new or used, could be bought on Maxwell Street. Hubcaps for any automobile, tires of any size, car radios and home radios; shoes, boots, socks and underwear for men, women and children; watches and jewelry made of 'gold' and real gold; bookends, lamps, carpets, rugs—‘Persian’ and ‘Oriental’, and ‘real’ Persian and Oriental. One might buy a record by anyone from Bing Crosby to Enrico Caruso… And when you got home and heard that that Bing’s voice had a click throughout, what the hell were you going to do? Travel all the way back to Maxwell Street to get your ten cents back? There was luggage, gloves, hats and all type of clothing, new and used… and etcetera’s and etcetera’s of all kinds, and by any description, in any of the multitude of languages spoken up and down Maxwell Street… ‘Junk’! Lots and lots of junk.

Peddlers sold from pushcarts that lined both sides of the narrow, cluttered street. But also, some of the more ambitious and/or affluent had been able to work their way off the curbs, into one or two of the small stores that were found on either side of the street, giving that person a full, seven-day-a-week business, rather than just a weekend business when the street was closed to cars and open to pedestrians and pushcarts only.

****

An old record of Dick Powell singing, “I’m a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech and a hell of an engineer,” wafted over the cold, windblown street.

A bit of flying grit stinging his eye, rubbing it with the knuckle of one hand as, “ ‘Hey! Men’s clothing here’!” clasped in the other hand was a pair of blue gabardine trousers that he waved above his head as though a proudly held flag. “ ‘Hey! Men’s clothing here’!” the boy yelled. “ ‘Top quality’! ‘Get your new and used top quality clothes at Sollies’!”

Trying to be heard above the tumultuous din of the jam-packed, constantly-flowing street, the boy’s voice would meld with those of a thousand other voices and become lost a few paces beyond the pushcart that sat on the curb opposite ‘Joey Solomon’s’ father’s store.

The inscription, hand painted in heavy, black lettering on the plate glass window read: ‘SOLOMON & SONS, FINE MEN’S CLOTHING’, and beneath, in smaller script: ‘New & Used’.

If someone stopped to look at the jumble of second-hand slacks in the pushcart, or hesitated on his or her way past the pushcart, taking hold of his or her elbow, the boy had but one objective: to steer the man or woman through the ‘SOLOMON & SONS’ doorway that was adjacent the five-foot-wide sidewalk.

“Hey, Mister! Need a new suit?” Not waiting for an answer, “Have I got a deal for you! Look…” cupping his mouth with his hand, the boy whispered conspiratorially directly into the man’s hairy ear. “We’re overloaded with new suits. They came in a couple’a days ago from… Well, I can’t say where they’re from, Mister. You know how it is, but I wan’a tell you they came in from... uh, someplace ‘real’ good!” Giving the impression that, ‘maybe’, just maybe, the suits may be ‘hot’. And don’t you know everybody wants to buy good quality hot merchandise at hot merchandise prices. “Look, Mister, I can’t say where we get our stuff.” Again speaking in a conspiratorial tone, “You know how it is, but…” glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one was listening, “...I can tell you that if you bought one’a these suits at ‘Carson’s’ or ‘Field’s’ it’d cost you forty-five, fifty bucks.”

The man attempted to pull away.

“But here…” tightening his hold on the man’s elbow, “...but here at Sollies...” cocking his head over his shoulder, “...they’re only…” whispering the words, “...twentfy-five, thirty bucks!”

Moving back a step, still firmly holding onto his elbow, taking the man with him. “An’ I swear to you Mister, you ain’t never seen such ho… uh, great suits. You don’t think I’d lie to you, do you, Mister?”

The man looked at the sincere sounding, good-looking young man and— obviously a newcomer to Maxwell Street, “No,” he said shaking his head negatively. “I guess not.”

“No! Darnn-tooten I wouldn’t lie to you! Come on!” Backing up another step, “Wait’ll you see ‘em!” pulling the man closer to the door, bumping it open with his shoulder. “Don’t be bashful! Come on! I promise, you’ll love ’em!” With the man in tow, the two stepped over the threshold into the overly warm, musty smelling store.

“ ‘Joey’!” the boy called. “I got a gentleman here that wants to see one’a them new suits!”

“Thanks, Mitchie.”

Coming from behind a pipe rack bowed with the weight of fifty suits, “Mister...” Joey Solomon, the youngest of the ‘& sons’, said, “...have I got a ‘deal’ for you!”

Replacing Mitchell’s hand with his own, appraising the man with his well-practiced eye. “What are you, a thirty-eight regular?” Joey asked, steering him to another weight-bowed pipe rack.

Quickly leaving, going back to his place alongside the pushcart. “ ‘Hey! Sollies here’!” the boy yelled, waving the two-legged flag. “ ‘New and used top quality men’s clothing here’! ‘Get your best deal at Sollies’! Hey, Mister! Yeah, you! Hey, have I got a deal for you!”

October 30, 1956

“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 now it had 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’!” 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 from Evanston 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 from about his neck. Knowing what was coming Marsha’s happy look changing— if not to anger, then to sadness.

“I know what you’re going to say, Mitch, and ‘please’ don’t ask 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 ‘u’s!” 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, sweaters—cashmere, lambs wool and wool, 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 for sales and payment procedure, the sales manager gave him a 5x7, three part carbonised 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 receipt 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 and 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 $50.00 in start-up cash— bills and change. 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’. As s 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: '16-3/4-34'.”

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 walking the street looking for customers and 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

Walgreen’s, 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?”

****

Walgreen’s, and the long buried memory resurfaced.

By twelve-thirty Mitchell was well into his second sales book of the day.

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! This 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 Walgreen’s! You can get coffee, Dad, and they’ve got a soda fountain that makes a ‘greay’ 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!

Sensing 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 actual physical 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 had changed his world..

Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: As Honey Upon His Lips