Irving Plotnick
Title
Irving Plotnick
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"It seems I knew Irv forever. "
Date
2010-12-18
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Language
en
Coverage
1932/1951
Identifier
IRVING_PLOTNICK
Text
IRVING PLOTNICK
It seems I knew Irv forever. When I was going to elementary school (we didn’t call it that—it was public school, or 62) I walked past Irv’s house every day. He lived at 736 Fox Street, and I lived at 783 Fox Street. However, at the time, my circle of friends was defined by a very tight geography: those who lived in my building, like Marvin Bernstein and Edmond and Harold Handwerger, and those who lived next door, in 775 Fox Street —Larry Wilson and Miltie Greenspan. They were my closest friends, physically and emotionally, and I didn’t feel the need to broaden my circle. Irv and I went to PS 62 together, but I didn’t pal around with him. We became friends in junior high school, and then we went on to Stuyvesant High School and City College..
Irv was of medium height, medium weight, perhaps a little heavy; dark hair and brown eyes. He wasn’t handsome, but he wasn’t bad looking. When we started going out with girls, he had no trouble getting dates. He was smart, but we were all pretty smart. Irv was especially good at mathematics and typing.
Irv was everyone’s friend, in part because he didn’t take a position that would antagonize anyone. He wasn’t opinionated. He didn’t have strong views about politics or religion. He followed sports, as we all did, but he wasn’t a rabid Yankee, Giant or Dodger fan. He wasn’t a great athlete, but held his own when we played ball or went bowling.
From time to time in junior high school and high school, I joined the guys who used to hang around Irv’s building. They included Sid Reiter, Jerry Stern and Irv Klein. At the same time, I continued my friendship with the guys on my block. To complicate matters, I became friends with Bob Epstein. Sol Rauch, Phil Bernstein and Mel Schulman. All of us were in the same junior high school class, and we all went on to Stuyvesant, except Sol. And we, together with Alex Roth, Sid Stern and Arthur Hurwith, eventually constituted Reading Out Loud. Having three separate groups of friends was complicated, but it met different needs.
Getting back to Irv, he was, in addition to being everyone’s friend, a natural leader. People were attracted to him, and everyone would congregate in front of his house. If the weather was bad, we would gather in the hall of his apartment house, and occasionally, a few of us would hang out in the hallway of his apartment. The Plotnicks lived on the first floor of 736 Fox Street. Irv’s father was a furrier, and his apartment was his shop. He had a sign in the window facing the street: FURRIER. Mr. Plotnick converted the dining room into his work room. On the dining room table was an enormous board, perhaps 8 feet by 12 feet, or larger. He would stretch the furs on this board. There was hardly room to walk from the hallway to the bedrooms, squeezing past the board.
It was 1943 or ’44. We were in high school. Business was improving for Mr. Plotnick. Very few of us had telephones. We had graduated from hanging around the candy store to call people to the phone, to being the ones to be called to the phone. Because of the war, and the end of the depression, people were now able to afford phones, but the telephone company was not taking new customers. Apply all you want; no new phones were being distributed. Irv figured that if his father applied and explained that he needed it for business, he might be an exception and get one. And that is what he did. Mr. Plotnick was put on a priority list to get a phone. Unfortunately, residential phones were not being made.
Some months after Mr. Plotnick had applied, he was told that the only phone that could be installed was a coin operated phone, exactly like the ones in the candy store. And that is what he got. The phone company installed it in the hallway of Mr. Plotnick’s apartment. Within days, everyone in 736 Fox Street learned that the Plotnicks had a coin operated phone in their apartment. They found out the number and gave it out to their friends and family. Nor did Irv’s neighbors have any compunction about walking into the Plotnick apartment any time of the day or night, armed with nickels, to use the phone. A fringe benefit from this arrangement was that Irv’s younger sister made a few cents in tips. calling neighbors to the phone.
We graduated from high school in June 1945, and Irv chose not to go on to college as most of the rest of us did, but went into the service. After basic training at Fort Dix, Irv was assigned to an army base in Virginia. The war was over, and he stayed in Virginia for his entire tour, as a clerk-typist. Sid Reiter and I visited him in the spring of 1946, and we had a fun weekend sightseeing in Washington DC, our first visit to the nation’s capital.
Irv joined us at CCNY in the fall of 1946, and life continued as before. There was very little difference between our life in high school and college. We went to class, to our part-time job, then home, supper, homework, bed, and it started all over again the next day.
One incident that I remember involving Irv, is really about me. During our four years at CCNY, all my homework assignments, reports and term papers were handwritten. Very few students owned typewriters. However, in one speech class, the instructor demanded that we submit our final presentation typewritten. He was to receive the original and we would make our presentation from the carbon copy. No exceptions. If you don’t have a typewriter, borrow or rent one. I didn’t have a typewriter, and the only person I knew who did, was Irv. He had a big, old standard Underwood which his father paid for. Irv used it to prepare his father’s bills, and of course, for school. I asked Irv if I could borrow it and he said of course. I bought typing paper and carbon paper and went over to Irv’s house to pick up the typewriter. It weighed a ton. Carrying it down the street was awkward. I managed to get it home and began typing. The last time I used a typewriter was in junior high school. Typing took much longer than I thought, and I was falling asleep. When I typed the last page, I put the carbon paper in backwards, so the impression was on the back of the original, and the copy was blank. I was too tired to type it over again. I scribbled down a summary of the last page, and got away with it.
We lived for the weekends. During the day, we hung out in front of Irv’s house, but Saturday evenings, if we were lucky, were for parties or dates--movies, Broadway shows. Irv was dating Clara soon after he came back from the army. She was very attractive, dark haired, and lived in Queens. Irv’s closest friend, Sid Reiter, was going out with Elaine who lived in Brooklyn. Why they couldn’t find girls who lived in the Bronx, I don’t know. Sid introduced me to a friend of Elaine’s, and I shlepped out to Brooklyn for a few months, until the relationship ended. Irv and Sid’s way of dealing with the commute was to get married. Irv and Clara were married on August 27, 1949, the first of my friends to get married, and I had the honor of being an usher (which required me to rent a tuxedo, but that is another story.)
By 1951, Irv and Clara moved to Westchester. No one was hanging around Fox Street any more. My circle of friends became Reading Out Loud, plus the ILGWU Training Institute. When I met someone from the neighborhood, I would try to catch up, but we all had gone separate ways. We sent each other birth announcements—Irv and Clara had a daughter, Lisa Ann, and then a son, Donald—and then I didn’t hear anything further. Sid Reiter became a CPA, moved to New Jersey, and would send holiday cards to all his friends. I would respond, and for years we would add notes, bringing each other up-to-date on family and friends. About 20 years ago, Sid wrote that Irv died. No details. The first of my friends to get married; the first of my friends to die. He was a nice guy.
12-18-10
It seems I knew Irv forever. When I was going to elementary school (we didn’t call it that—it was public school, or 62) I walked past Irv’s house every day. He lived at 736 Fox Street, and I lived at 783 Fox Street. However, at the time, my circle of friends was defined by a very tight geography: those who lived in my building, like Marvin Bernstein and Edmond and Harold Handwerger, and those who lived next door, in 775 Fox Street —Larry Wilson and Miltie Greenspan. They were my closest friends, physically and emotionally, and I didn’t feel the need to broaden my circle. Irv and I went to PS 62 together, but I didn’t pal around with him. We became friends in junior high school, and then we went on to Stuyvesant High School and City College..
Irv was of medium height, medium weight, perhaps a little heavy; dark hair and brown eyes. He wasn’t handsome, but he wasn’t bad looking. When we started going out with girls, he had no trouble getting dates. He was smart, but we were all pretty smart. Irv was especially good at mathematics and typing.
Irv was everyone’s friend, in part because he didn’t take a position that would antagonize anyone. He wasn’t opinionated. He didn’t have strong views about politics or religion. He followed sports, as we all did, but he wasn’t a rabid Yankee, Giant or Dodger fan. He wasn’t a great athlete, but held his own when we played ball or went bowling.
From time to time in junior high school and high school, I joined the guys who used to hang around Irv’s building. They included Sid Reiter, Jerry Stern and Irv Klein. At the same time, I continued my friendship with the guys on my block. To complicate matters, I became friends with Bob Epstein. Sol Rauch, Phil Bernstein and Mel Schulman. All of us were in the same junior high school class, and we all went on to Stuyvesant, except Sol. And we, together with Alex Roth, Sid Stern and Arthur Hurwith, eventually constituted Reading Out Loud. Having three separate groups of friends was complicated, but it met different needs.
Getting back to Irv, he was, in addition to being everyone’s friend, a natural leader. People were attracted to him, and everyone would congregate in front of his house. If the weather was bad, we would gather in the hall of his apartment house, and occasionally, a few of us would hang out in the hallway of his apartment. The Plotnicks lived on the first floor of 736 Fox Street. Irv’s father was a furrier, and his apartment was his shop. He had a sign in the window facing the street: FURRIER. Mr. Plotnick converted the dining room into his work room. On the dining room table was an enormous board, perhaps 8 feet by 12 feet, or larger. He would stretch the furs on this board. There was hardly room to walk from the hallway to the bedrooms, squeezing past the board.
It was 1943 or ’44. We were in high school. Business was improving for Mr. Plotnick. Very few of us had telephones. We had graduated from hanging around the candy store to call people to the phone, to being the ones to be called to the phone. Because of the war, and the end of the depression, people were now able to afford phones, but the telephone company was not taking new customers. Apply all you want; no new phones were being distributed. Irv figured that if his father applied and explained that he needed it for business, he might be an exception and get one. And that is what he did. Mr. Plotnick was put on a priority list to get a phone. Unfortunately, residential phones were not being made.
Some months after Mr. Plotnick had applied, he was told that the only phone that could be installed was a coin operated phone, exactly like the ones in the candy store. And that is what he got. The phone company installed it in the hallway of Mr. Plotnick’s apartment. Within days, everyone in 736 Fox Street learned that the Plotnicks had a coin operated phone in their apartment. They found out the number and gave it out to their friends and family. Nor did Irv’s neighbors have any compunction about walking into the Plotnick apartment any time of the day or night, armed with nickels, to use the phone. A fringe benefit from this arrangement was that Irv’s younger sister made a few cents in tips. calling neighbors to the phone.
We graduated from high school in June 1945, and Irv chose not to go on to college as most of the rest of us did, but went into the service. After basic training at Fort Dix, Irv was assigned to an army base in Virginia. The war was over, and he stayed in Virginia for his entire tour, as a clerk-typist. Sid Reiter and I visited him in the spring of 1946, and we had a fun weekend sightseeing in Washington DC, our first visit to the nation’s capital.
Irv joined us at CCNY in the fall of 1946, and life continued as before. There was very little difference between our life in high school and college. We went to class, to our part-time job, then home, supper, homework, bed, and it started all over again the next day.
One incident that I remember involving Irv, is really about me. During our four years at CCNY, all my homework assignments, reports and term papers were handwritten. Very few students owned typewriters. However, in one speech class, the instructor demanded that we submit our final presentation typewritten. He was to receive the original and we would make our presentation from the carbon copy. No exceptions. If you don’t have a typewriter, borrow or rent one. I didn’t have a typewriter, and the only person I knew who did, was Irv. He had a big, old standard Underwood which his father paid for. Irv used it to prepare his father’s bills, and of course, for school. I asked Irv if I could borrow it and he said of course. I bought typing paper and carbon paper and went over to Irv’s house to pick up the typewriter. It weighed a ton. Carrying it down the street was awkward. I managed to get it home and began typing. The last time I used a typewriter was in junior high school. Typing took much longer than I thought, and I was falling asleep. When I typed the last page, I put the carbon paper in backwards, so the impression was on the back of the original, and the copy was blank. I was too tired to type it over again. I scribbled down a summary of the last page, and got away with it.
We lived for the weekends. During the day, we hung out in front of Irv’s house, but Saturday evenings, if we were lucky, were for parties or dates--movies, Broadway shows. Irv was dating Clara soon after he came back from the army. She was very attractive, dark haired, and lived in Queens. Irv’s closest friend, Sid Reiter, was going out with Elaine who lived in Brooklyn. Why they couldn’t find girls who lived in the Bronx, I don’t know. Sid introduced me to a friend of Elaine’s, and I shlepped out to Brooklyn for a few months, until the relationship ended. Irv and Sid’s way of dealing with the commute was to get married. Irv and Clara were married on August 27, 1949, the first of my friends to get married, and I had the honor of being an usher (which required me to rent a tuxedo, but that is another story.)
By 1951, Irv and Clara moved to Westchester. No one was hanging around Fox Street any more. My circle of friends became Reading Out Loud, plus the ILGWU Training Institute. When I met someone from the neighborhood, I would try to catch up, but we all had gone separate ways. We sent each other birth announcements—Irv and Clara had a daughter, Lisa Ann, and then a son, Donald—and then I didn’t hear anything further. Sid Reiter became a CPA, moved to New Jersey, and would send holiday cards to all his friends. I would respond, and for years we would add notes, bringing each other up-to-date on family and friends. About 20 years ago, Sid wrote that Irv died. No details. The first of my friends to get married; the first of my friends to die. He was a nice guy.
12-18-10
Original Format
application/msword
Collection
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Irving Plotnick,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 26, 2024, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/115.