Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

station’s management had trumpeted the fact, that one of their, long-established, primary, newscasters—who had been known, for years, “as something like Frank Sterling”—was scheduled to begin using his correct name. His real name. “Which was something… like Frank Warsnorski”, advised Grandpa. Still, despite all that “counsel”, Jason Rutkowski was not prepared—to be known as “Jimmy Root”.

“Unless you have a real-life name, like Rickie Duvall, or something,” the station president had explained, “no one uses, ever, his… or her… real name. Eddie Ashford? Our early morning man? He is really Solomon Weinstein. So… like it or not… you’re Jimmy Root! It’s a period . . . paragraph . . . sort of thing, Jason. Unless you’re no longer interested, in the job!” The last statement had sent a violent shiver—up and down Our Boy’s spine! It was as though “someone had stepped upon his grave”!

Suddenly, he was—indeed—“Jimmy Root”!

“Also,” advised his new poobah, “we stay away from anything… well virtually anything… controversial. I don’t need to get anyone… at city hall, or in the state legislature… pissed off at me. We’re just a hokey little station… one that simply ‘fills in the background’, for the most part. And that’s the way I like it! No pain… no strain! We sell advertisers’ some space. Sell it… for much less than WWJ or WJR or WXYZ. But… and this may surprise you… we get just as much as WKMH, or even WJBK. As much as… as, well, all the rest of ’em. It’s a nice… a really comfortable . . . little niche, for us! And God help anyone… anyone . . . who screws it up, for us! Remember that… in all, of your patter… when you’re on the air.”

Once the new “personality” was on the air—and his predecessor, the esteemed Bernie, had immediately left the studio, after having introduced the newcomer—the newly-minted “Jimmy Root” did his best, to settle in. To do his show—in a professional manner.

It, most assuredly, wasn’t helping, that Mr. Garback was still an overwhelming, almost-stifling, presence—standing, as he was, to Jason’s immediate left! His boss had, more or less, given assurance that—when Jason was on the air—the studio would be his own, private, haven. Hah! Fat chance!

There was, understandably, not much “patter”—during the first 20 minutes of the celebrated (hopefully) initial Jimmy Root Show! The new radio “personality” had simply, curtly, “spun” five records—interspersed with a recorded commercial, plus one that Jason, himself, had been required to read. He’d hoped (fervently) that his projection—and attempted-articulate delivery—of this promo, featuring a local clothing store, had been satisfactory! Had been more than satisfactory! He was positive, though, that his later, “masterful”, commercial, wave—at the engineer’s booth—would’ve passed muster.

Finally, after “the head gazink” had—at long last (thankfully)—vacated the booth (hopefully satisfied—hopefully permanently satisfied), Our Hero ventured, to make his first pronouncement:

“I’m sure that all of you folks… who were hanging, onto Bernie’s every word… must’ve enjoyed his playing, of Cow-Cow Boogie. By the Freddie Slack band. And the great vocal… delivered by Ella Mae Morse. Well, that was from a brand new record label. And… you watch… an up-and-coming one! One that you may not have heard of! This new addition… is Capitol Records!”

That label—put together by songwriter/singer Johnny Mercer, in 1941—had become a consuming, lifetime, interest (almost an addiction) for Grandpa Piepczyk. He had never failed to regale young Jason—about the entity! In (literally) story and (almost) song—most of the time! Had done that—for years! So, the boy-into-young-man wound up totally familiar, with the, then-fledgling, company!

“This new label,” Our Hero had continued, “was started by the guy who has written… literally… has penned the lyrics to dozens, of really-popular songs. I guess his latest was Blues In The Night. So, he’s not some kind of ‘Smalltime Charlie’. That Freddie Slack number was, probably, the third or fourth record… that was, ever, put out, by the new label. And, believe me, you’ll hear more… much more… from that band. And from Miss Morse.”

Our Favorite Radio Personality then looked around the studio. Then, through the gigantic window. He was petrified that he would find the station’s president—staring daggers at him! But, there was not a soul!

“I think,” he continued, “that you’ll find… eventually… that Mister Mercer’s most significant hire, will prove to be a man named… are you ready? . . . Paul Weston.”

He’d thought that he might’ve gone too far. That, “are you ready?” part was something that he was positive he’d never heard before! Over the many hours he and Valerie had listened to WXXD! But—since he’d heard no canons firing—he decided to “plunge ahead”!

“This man… Paul Weston… has been a brilliant, talented, arranger! Was with Tommy Dorsey’s band! For years! The Cadillac . . . of the big bands! And Mister Weston was a vital part of TD’s orchestra! Coming with him, to Capitol Records . . . also from the Dorsey aggregation… is his soon-to-be wife! A wonderful vocalist! With a glorious voice! A lady… named Jo Stafford! I think you’re going to see… and hear… a lot from the both of them, in the coming years, This, I really believe!”

Jason was sorely tempted to go on! Why not? So far, so good! Tempted to expand—upon the bevy of coming, highly-talented, Capitol recording stars. Artists such as Margaret Whiting, Nat Cole, Gordon MacRae, Stan Kenton, et.al! But, he’d convinced himself to “slow down”! To quit! To have rambled on—would’ve been too much, he felt. Probably way too much! For this—his “opening barrage”—anyway!

He found himself, fervently, hoping, that this particular, much-longer-than-anticipated, “diatribe”—would’ve gone over well. But, not so wonderfully—that he’d be expected to expound, upon all the major record labels. Grandpa had never shown anything close—to a similar devotion to Decca, Columbia, or RCA Victor Records. Or even the later arrivals—such as MGM Records, or Mercury.

As soon as he’d put on his next record-to-play, Brooks Garback suddenly materialized—the dreaded appearance—on the other side, of the huge window! The president’s face was, sadly, exasperatingly, expressionless!

Oh, Lord! Now what have I done?

Thoughts of a steady job? Most assuredly—out the window! Jason probably should’ve known better, he’d lamented! Known better—than to