Three houses beyond had lived one good ball player in Ronnie Casperski. The best natural first baseman Joe’d ever seen, Ron fell as a Marine, slogging his way through the malaria-ridden sands of Guadalcanal.
Across the street, the Wozniak family lost their boy, John, while he struggled ashore under heavy D-Day fire with the Army’s 29th Infantry at Omaha Beach. Joe had always marveled at the kid’s ability to solve math problems in his head and just knew that someday he would’ve become the town’s first scientist.
Further down had lived happy-go-lucky little Harold Misovic. Na-Na, as he was known to his neighbors, had died at sea when his Liberty Ship convoy was attacked by an enemy submarine wolf pack. His freighter, brimming with desperately needed munitions for England, was one of eleven lost that day. A torpedo hit in her port side, ignited a pinwheeling fireball that claimed everyone aboard.
All were kids he’d personally known and even now Joe still felt a tug of loss. But, oddly, to walk its streets these days, an outsider might think that the conflict hadn’t touched Mayhew at all. For the town was one of those rare postwar enclaves, where few empty sleeves or pant legs were to be seen folded back and pinned in place; where, in this day of awkward prosthetic limbs and limited plastic surgery, no ungainly limps, disfiguring scars, or hideous burns defined maimed veterans awaiting a bus or treading its sidewalks.
True to in its unassuming nature, Mayhew was a town which had dutifully anted up its share of boys. It wrapped them in green military bunting and parceled them off to the altar of Mars, where they’d simply been consumed. Few spent husks were returned for burial. Those lost just became part of the vast Pacific Ocean or alien European landscape.
It was in the following conflict, a mere five years later, that Korea would become the first full-service military action, its sanitized deceased generally returning home. And the Graczyk family would share an inaugural front row seat to the bitter-sweetness of that wrenching, new option.
One block over, Joe came upon another early weekend riser, in Greg Torie. A good kid and longtime newspaper boy, he’d recently become a new generation neighborhood teenager - one Joe hoped, wasn’t destined as another future, combat prospect.
Today Greg was busy enhancing his battered, ’40 Ford with a new set of door mirrors. Glancing inside, Joe saw the shopworn interior was decked out with a trendy, imitation cowhide steering wheel cover. A pair of fuzzy dice also dangled in obligatory teenaged fashion, from the rear-view mirror.
Even at this relatively early weekend hour, the young man’s car radio was cranked up and had Bill Haley’s Comets, frantically, rockin’ around the clock. Joe paused for a moment to listen.
“Grzegorz!” He bawled in mock pain. “What in hell is that racket?”
The youth swept a wad of blond ringlets off his forehead and squinted behind a warm smile.
“Oh, hi, Mister G! That’s rock-n-roll. Like it?”
“Like it?” Joe grimaced. “I thought some poor cat had its tail caught.”
Greg returned to his handiwork, while Joe leaned for a closer inspection.
“Wha’cha doing there?”
“Hanging some new mirrors. Got a good deal on ‘em off a wrecked Caddy. Pretty neat, huh?”
Their premium contours dripped with triple chrome and stood out in screaming contrast to the jalopy’s otherwise weary hulk.
“Yeah,” said Joe. “Might be worth more than the whole rest of the car, though.”
Greg winked and began polishing the metal.
“As long as the girls like ‘em, I don’t mind.”
Joe conceded the logic.
“So, where are you in school now?”
“Sophomore.”
“Already? Where at, Gleason High?”
“No, I go to Morton East.”
Joe studied the young man.
“You are planning to finish, right?”
Greg’s polishing work slowed.
“Not sure. I heard that Cicero’s Goss Printing Presses’ll be hiring soon. And the Hotpoint plant is supposed to start offering some tool and die apprenticeships. I’ve got an uncle working there, who could get me in. Pretty good money to be made, either way.”
“Respectable,” admitted Joe. “But, what’s your family think?”
The teenager regarded his buffing cloth.
“Mom would like me to stay, sure. I guess Dad doesn’t much care. He didn’t finish either.”
“Well, you might want to think it over.” Joe advised. “Don’t want to wake up some day and find out you’re just a no-account, hunkie like me.”
The youngster moaned.
“Aw, Mister G!”
Joe motioned his encouragement toward the new mirrors.
“I’ll let you get back to work. Good luck with the ladies. And don’t hurt your ears from that noise.”
Greg offered another full helping of his buoyant smile.
“See ya!”
Two streets down was Eddie’s place. The saloon had been a Mayhew cornerstone since first opening as Macalek’s tavern in the early 1920s. Returned home at the end of World War II, weary from fighting his way to Japan with the Third Marines, Eddie took over ownership from his then aged and ailing folks. He vowed never to leave his hometown again and his word was gospel. For in the ten years since coming back the man hadn’t even bought a car.
With Eddie at the helm, the joint evolved into more than a workingman’s watering hole. It’d become a kind of neighborhood free port, connected with the town’s best diploma mills and hot-goods merchants. Carrying both crime syndicate endorsement and police immunity, the saloon was unencumbered by things such as the state and nation’s so-called Blue Laws, ordering all stores and bars to remain closed on Sunday out of religious respect.
Sure, the gin mill’s front door stayed locked on the Lord’s Day. But a tug at the weathered old one around back guaranteed admission to the best kept public secret in town and inside you’d find it business as usual, with as many on duty cops sharing in an eye-opening Sabbath snort as were law breaking heathen civilians.
The tavern was his kingdom and from it Eddie reigned supreme as a kind of neighborhood godfather. A twenty-foot mahogany bar, half dozen booths, and tiny dance floor were his realm. Lording over everyday patrons out front, he also tended high dollar, late night activities, in back.
With Eddie’s kingly nod, speeding tickets were fixed. Formal documents could be edited or entirely created and assistance given on lucrative civil service and public works, patronage jobs. Short on cash and in a pinch for a direly needed new set of tires or major appliance in this pre-credit card era? Eddie could always cut corners in both price and delivery.
Today the joint’s front door was spread wide to a disinfecting new day sun. Eddie, still in last night’s soiled white apron, diligently swabbed the bar’s dingy green tile floor with a blistering dose of pine scented, soapy water. A fetid mix of stale suds and rancid cigarette smoke was intense even outside when Joe raised a friendly hand.
“Dzien dobry!”
The perspired bar tender craned his neck.
“Hiya Joe!”
Graczyk replied in Marine Corps fashion.
“You ever make it to bed last night, mister?”
Eddie gave his head a half-shake.
“Nope. Had a hot craps game that finally just broke up. Gotta’ air the place out before the half-day work crowd piles in, wanting their beer and sandwiches.”
“See anything of my fireman?”
“Vint? Yeah, he dropped by after the track closed. Didn’t care to roll the ivories with those out-of-towners, though.”
Joe waved again and moved off.
“Take care. Get some shuteye, if you can.”
“Do widzenia!” The barman called fraternally. “Semper Fi!”
CHAPTER 12
Joe arrived at the local fire station. Out front, Corporal Walter Domagola was seated on its broad drive apron, perusing the morning news. The boulevard beyond was strung with colorful bunting and streamers, in advance of Mayhew’s upcoming centennial celebration.
“Mister Domo.” Greeted Graczyk, walking up.
“Hey, engineer Joe.”
“How’s your end of the smoke-eating business these days?”
“Mostly trash fires. And lately, some weed blazes along the your track embankment. You guys used to stay on top of that better.”
Joe shrugged.
“Cost cutting idea of the new yard boss. Speaking of fire traps, have you seen the Rahl property these days?”
The fireman rolled his eyes.
“That place, too.”
Joe dropped a shoulder to scan the morning headlines.
“So, what’s wrong with the world today?”
“Same, as usual. Commies’re stirring shit and calling us names. Democrats want more taxes and the Republicans want to print more money. Stuff never changes.”
Wally offered a section of the newspaper.
“Pull up a chair and take off a load. Coffee’s on, inside, if you want.”
Joe did both. Settling in, he first gazed at the movie ads. Joe wasn’t a motion picture buff. But he did know the classic Hollywood stable.
Strategic Air Command, was playing. Anything featuring Jimmy Stewart had to be good, solid fare. Bad Day at Black Rock, hosted Spencer Tracy in what they were calling a current-day western and King of The Wild Frontier, had started a harmless fad among legions of city kids, pretending to be backwoodsmen by sporting those silly coonskin caps.
Seamy titles though, like Blackboard Jungle, were unsettling to Joe. And that science fiction stuff was just plain, peculiar.
Studying the last title, he moaned.
“‘Invasion of The Atomic Brain Eaters.’ What kind of guff is that?”
Wally shrugged it off.
“Kids. You know.”
“Crap like that’ll turn their own brains into mush.”
Comparing newspaper sections, the men began a running commentary.
“Government says they want to launch an artificial moon in the next three years. Why? The real one ain’t good enough?”
“Rocket stuff. Higher, faster, farther. Everything’s gone to keeping up with the Russkies.”
“Might be all that messin’ with the sky that’s screwing up the weather for the rest of us. You’ve seen how the summers are getting hotter and the winter’s colder, since they started testing all of those damn A-bombs and space rockets.”
The fireman displayed a full-page ad.
“Check this out.”
Its huge type confronted Joe.
GRAND OPENING. CERMAK PLAZA.
“Huh? What’s that?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“No. What’s a plaza?”
“The name for a whole bunch of big stores, all in one place. You need to get out more, man.”
“I spend a dozen hours out every day,” Joe defended. “When I get home, I like to stay put.” He did ponder the address. “Cermak and Harlem - Berwyn?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s all open field.”
“Not anymore.”
Wally thrust his chin toward the adjacent merchant district.
“Word is, it’ll put local shops like all those, right out of business.”
Joe gazed down happily decorated Mayhew Boulevard, across the four-block-long stretch of scalloped and fringed canvas awnings. Family owned and firmly entrenched, its stores had all been there in some form since Joe was a boy.
“Co ty mowisz?” He vowed. “Never happen in a million years.”
Wally begged off.
“Only saying what I heard. Times are changing.”
Leaving the fire station, Joe made a point of walking through the heart of Mayhew’s business district. Mostly turn of the century business facades with some ‘50ish upgrades of aluminum-framed doors or fluorescent lights, each still bore the individual identities of their product lines, as well as long-established surnames chiseled proudly atop their building crowns. And to Joe, something written in stone signified a permanence that couldn’t be just swept aside.
Paul’s Shell station anchored the zone’s north end, with Gasiroski’s Sinclair bracketing it at the south. Between were Pilat’s bakery, Joan’s (Wojcenowicz) Dress shop, Czeslaw’s Jewelry, the Florsheim Shoe store - proprietor John Bresla.
Across the street set Tom’s (Luzak) Hobbies and Lester’s (Zimowian) Hardware. The Midwest Savings & Loan rested beside Vic’s (DiBacco) barbershop. There was Art’s (Walkowiak) Appliances, the Ogden Market, and Swoboda’s drugstore; with assorted music, malt, and pet shops sprinkled in between.
Every single one of those businesses were longtime family friends. Even the addition of any franchise presence had always been limited to affable rivals, like Woolworth’s Five and Dime, Rexall Drugs, and the A&P grocery. In Joe’s eyes, this merchant district was as eternal and downright sacred of a Mayhew component as were its rail yard and certainly, the corner diner, looming ahead.
The town’s greasy-spoon café was run by hardworking and buxom, Agnieszka Wiersbinski. Billed as Georgee, during her stage days, the aging, homegrown version of Sally Rand had been a downtown fan dancer in her early years and was rumored to have gotten very cozy with the roster of classic gangland names.
Then, the flamboyant mobster era ended. The burlesque houses faded away and the stripper’s tight curves softened with age. But having never lost her savvy roots, Georgee saved her money, returning home to bring notoriety to the small eatery she’d created and run for the last fifteen years.
Instead of hustling high profile mobsters, Georgee now shuffled bacon, eggs, burgers, and coffee; by the platter, plate or cup, all the while spouting street corner wisdom to her mostly male crowd. Her trademark, bottle-blond hair was wadded atop her head in a sort of working girl’s knot these days. An ever-present pencil nested there, ready for taking orders.
Georgee waved at and motioned over another old time neighborhood kid in Joe, as he passed just beyond the diner’s sweated windows. The joint’s stout, java-cigarette smoke combination smothered him immediately on opening its door and Georgee’s gravelly voice joined in.
“Hey good lookin’. How’s my strong and silent type doin’ this morning?”
He grinned at the harmless flattery, waving to familiar faces in the capacity crowd.
“Good, Georgee. You?”
“Can’t complain.”
She hitched a long, manicured, thumbnail toward a newly brewed carafe.
“Got time for a cup? Fresh pot and on the house. I can kick one of these cheapskate jokers out and give you his seat.”
He shook his head.
“Thanks. But, just had some at the fire station.”
Her eyes played graphically up and down Joe’s stout form.
“So, what’s a rugged guy like you doing out and about so early on a Saturday, when he should still be under the covers playing footsie with some lucky gal?”
“Aw,” he teased, “you must say that to all the guys.”
“Sure,” she boasted. “But, that’s beside the point.”
“Business looks good.”
Georgee shook back the imaginary coils of a long-gone cabaret hairdo and rolled her shoulders. Airing out some retired theatrics, she cawed in a perfect Mae West imitation.
“It’s not what you charge, honey. It’s what you bring to the table.”
“Then you must do just fine.” Joe declared.
Georgee winked.
“Keeps the old gal in pasties, darlin’.”
He slapped his hands in applause.
“Gotta go.”
&
nbsp; Georgee aimed a stiff finger of admonition as he departed.
“Don’t you be no stranger, Joe Graczyk. Us old neighborhood kids gotta stick together!”
He snapped a brisk salute.
“Yes, ma’am!”
Joe’s next-to-last stop was at Art’s Appliances.
This morning the shop’s alley doors were propped wide to an arrived freight load. With all hands out back, Joe was alone in the showroom for a time and he wove a path between Maytag washers and Westinghouse electric ranges, toward a line of locally made, Zeniths and Motorolas.
Appliance stores had taken up a practice of running muted TV sets facing the street to attract sidewalk traffic and Art’s shop was no different. Here, a huge, 21 inch black and white console job was already dialed in, to one of Chicago’s few, limited broadcast, television stations.
Nestled in among the black and white sets, Joe spied an early, ultra-high end, color model. Since only doctors, lawyers, or upscale lounges might afford such a top dollar extravagance, it was turned on for serious inquiries only. The smaller, 13 inch black and white, workingman’s units actually brought in the most sales.
All the sets’ picture tubes paled in size, to their huge, vacuum tube filled cabinets. Bulky and generating enough heat to warm a room, they were nonetheless, state of the art products and in ever growing demand - though not by the Graczyk household.
Joe was idly running a finger along one highly buffed cabinet when the slim, balding shop owner appeared. In tow was a cargo laden nephew.
“Jak sie masz?” Greeted Art.
“Dziekuje a ty?” Answered Joe.
“Dobrze!”
Ancestral amenities concluded, the pair grinned at their shared heritage and reverted back to 20th Century Americans.
Always hopeful, but knowing better, Art again prodded Joe.
“So, you finally came in, to consider a TV?”
Waist deep in the contraptions, Joe braced his hips.
“Yeah. Can’t make up my mind, though. Better just ring ‘em all up and send ‘em over. And, three of those color ones, for Sarah.”
The man spoke in earnest.
“You know I’d give a you a good deal, Joe. And you can’t stop progress. Things’re changing.”
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