August 26, 1952

 “Normie!”

“Uh, huh.”

“Look, Normie, I’m sorry about the other day, when you called for my birthday, but I was kind of… Shit! I didn’t want to talk to anyone! So, please, don’t you be mad at me, too!”

“Yeah, Mitch, I know. Don’t worry,” Norman said begrudgingly. “I’m not mad at you. But you’ve got to pull yourself together… What time you picking me up Tuesday?”

“Seven, seven-thirty. Okay?”

“Yeah, fine… You doing anything with your family on Labor Day?”

“Yeah, the whole mishpocheh—the whole family—is going to the beach in Kenosha, so I thought I might as well tag along… You working with your dad?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d give the old man a treat and do the air show with him this year.”

“Okay, pal, make lots’a money… See you on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, thanks… So long, Mitchie.”

September 2 to October 2, 1952

Wright Junior College

The gray DeSoto crisscrossed large and smaller side streets for almost a half-hour before finding a place to park.

“Jesus, it’s a good thing you picked me up early.”

“Yeah,” backing into the tight space, “there must be a million kids going here.”

                                                      ***

“Take a look at that, will you!” Motioning to a group of girls on the other side of the street. “There’s more broads here than you can shake a stick at.” Knowing him, Norman knew the way to Mitchell’s heart, and was doing everything possible to pull him out of his doldrums. Following closely behind three other girls, all three sets of tightly clad, each very well defined set of buttocks wearing slacks, Levi’s or a skirt. “And kate a kool [take a look] at the saaes [asses] on these three!”

Hearing him, one of the girls understanding Franklin Park, turning her head, “Drop dead, jerk!” the girl in the slacks said, giving Norman the Italian salute.

Nudging him in the side with his elbow, “Shit, Mitch,” Norman laughed, “with all the good looking broads here, you ought’a be in nookie heaven.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly, “some of them look pretty good.”

Becoming angry, “You’ve got to stop, Mitch. It’s over! Forget her, will you! Look around,” sweeping his arm in an arch, “there’s a million shiksas here just waiting for you’n’me!”

Watching the swaying buttocks, “Yeah!” Feeling, for the first time since the breakup, a stirring in his crotch, “Those asses look real nice!” he said louder than necessary, not caring if the girls did hear, which still was very much out of character for Mitchell Lipensky.

Turning, the middle girl was about to say something, but looking at Mitchell, smiling, “Hi!” she said, and started to slow down, but, taking her by the elbows, the other two girls hurried her along.

Encouraged by the girl’s reaction, “Normie, from now on we’re going to have all the ass we want.”

“Yeah! You remember what Jack Armstrong always said?”

Thinking a moment, “No, what did Jack Armstrong always say?”

“Winners never quit…”

“Oh, yeah.” Remembering. “And quitters never win!”

“Yeah!”

September 4, 1952

Cutting his second period class, in the student lounge, an over-flowing ashtray balanced on its arm, sitting on a cracked, Naugahyde-covered sofa, between puffing on a cigarette and studying the girls in the lounge, he disinterestedly leafed through one of his textbooks.

So far, the only things that had impressed him about Wright Junior College were the abundance of good-looking girls, and that the students were allowed to smoke in designated areas within the building.

His bravado of three days ago—“Normie, from now on we’re going to have all the ass we want”—having left him because whenever he saw a girl that he’d thought he would like to know, upon approaching he would change his mind because the girl dyed her hair, because she was too tall, because she was too short, because she was too thin, because she was too heavy, because… Because she wasn’t Susan.

“Hi! You’re Mitch Lipensky, aren’t you?”

Taking the cigarette from his mouth, looking up, “Yup, guess I’m guilty’a that one.”

“I’m a pal of Norm’s. We went to Roosevelt together.” Shaking hands. “Name’s Ron Lurey.”

“Any friend of Norm’s a friend of mine… Come on, sit down.”

Moderately good looking, at 5'10", Ron Lurey had light brown hair, closely set light brown eyes, a prominent nose, strong chin and broad shoulders.

“I wanted to meet you anyway, Mitch, but you know that contest they’re having here?”

“Contest? Oh, yeah. You mean the Mister and Miss Freshmen Contest?”

“Yeah. Know how it’s done?”

“Nah.” Contests being the last thing on his mind—actually, other than Susan, there was nothing on his mind, “Never thought about it.”

“The way it’s done, during registration the counselors keep tabs on the best-mannered, best-looking freshmen, and guess what?”

“What?” he asked cautiously.

“You’re one of freshies, and I can get you to win!”

“I’m glad to meet you, Ron, but no thanks. I’m not interested.”

“Listen to me first!” Ron said excitedly. “You’re a Wej!”

“Okay, so I’m a Jew. So what?”

“Mitch, they’re mostly Polacks and Dagos that go here.”

“Yeah, I know that. So what?”

“It would be great to have a Wej win for once.”

“If they’re all Italian and Polish here, how could I win?”

“First off, you are the best looking guy here.”

“Oh, come on!” Mitchell said modestly. But he was flattered, and besides, he didn’t doubt it.

“Listen, most of the kids here won’t vote, and most of the girls that do vote will vote for you because you are so damned good looking, and I’ll personally get every Wej in the place to vote for you. So you’re a lead-pipe cinch to win. And there’s a…”

Mitchell needed something to re-build his shattered ego.

“…fifty-buck prize that you split with Miss Freshman and…”

“Twenty-five bucks each?”

“Yeah! And… And you get to go on a date with the best looking freshie here, and Wright pays for the date.”

The best looking freshie here! Thinking, looking about the lounge, Mitchell’s eyes returned to the beautiful girl sitting on the chair by the window, with long, auburn hair, and great up-pointed breasts. “Ron,” he asked, “are you saying that you want to be my, uh, campaign manager?”

“If you want. Sure, why not?”

“See that girl there?” nodding his head.

“The one with the tits? Sure.”

“Think she’s a freshie?”

“I never met her.” Ron told the truth. “But we were in the same graduating class at Roosevelt,” he lied.

Still looking at the girl, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

                                                         ***

For the past three months, ever since the breakup with Susan, Mitchell had eaten little more than enough food to survive on. His belt notched on the fifth, rather than the third, hole and he weighed twenty pounds less than he had in June. His face had taken a leaner look and, if anything, Mitchell looked better than any other time in his young adult life.

The girls still considered his shy and—due to his incessant love of Susan—indifferent attitude as conceit. But at this age the girls had all been with conceited boys and it didn’t matter too much to most of them. As a matter of fact, any unattached freshmen girl, and even some that were attached, and even some that were not freshmen, would have been more than happy to be asked out by the aloof Mitchell Lipensky.

Norman, Ron Lurey and Mitchell had quickly become good friends and, except for classes, were rarely seen apart.

As for classes: Mitchell found it impossible to concentrate and soon began to think that there was something wrong with his mind because whenever he tried his hardest to determine what a professor was talking about, it was as though a impenetrable fog covered his mind causing what the professor was attempting to teach to became wholly incomprehensible.

Within days he had fallen behind, and at the end of the third week, if he had any idea of what he would do if not going to college, he would quit altogether.

                                                         ***

Ron Lurey was right! Mitchell easily won the contest and became the first Jewish Mister Freshman of Wright Junior College.

But it was a hollow victory that he did not enjoy because, after all, no one really knew him and, to him, it was nothing more than a beauty contest and he, oddly, actually felt degraded by it.

Miss Freshman was an eighteen-year-old, big-busted, blonde-haired beauty by the name of Maria Slywka, who happened to have a well-muscled boyfriend by the name of Vince Malczewski, who kissed Miss Freshman… and glared death at Mister Freshman

The $50 prize was split between Mister and Miss Freshman. The pre-paid date was secretly given to Maria and Vince, and Mitchell didn’t really care too much because no, not even Miss Freshman of the class of 1952/53 was Susan.

The day after being crowned Mister Freshman, Mitchell did not go to Wright. Instead he drove to Talman Avenue, stopped in front of Susan’s building, looked at her bedroom window, drove to the corner, made a U-turn, passed the building without a glance, went east on Peterson, north on Ridge, east on Howard until he found the building, then stopped, parked, put three pennies into the parking meter and walked through the door of a one-room, storefront office.

                                                      ***

“…A test? I’ve got to take a test?”

Tapping the eraser end of a pencil onto the desk-set blotter, “That’s right.”

Mitchell looked about the sparkling clean office.

Centered on the wall behind the desk were two flags: one, the Stars and Stripes; the other, deep blue with a gold, nautical emblem. Between the flags was a picture of President Eisenhower. Hanging on the wall were a number of black and white photographs of ocean-going vessels. On an easel to the left of the high-sheen varnished desk was a large poster of a sharp-prowed ship slicing through mountainous seas.

“So, you in?”

“Yeah,” straightening his back. “Yes, Sir, I’m in.”

“Good. You won’t be sorry.” Opening the top drawer of the desk, Chief Petty Officer Brian Walters removed a sheath of papers. “We do the paperwork here, then tomorrow you go to Civil Service downtown for the physical exam and written test, and if you pass ’em both—” Walters looked at the young man over his glasses, “and I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t—you’re in the United States Coast Guard… You do know the term of enlistment is for four years?”

Four years away from his home.

Four years away from his family.

Four years!

But Mitchell could not stay here! He could not stay in this close proximity to Susan and not be allowed to see Susan, to love Susan.

He could not!

“Four years… Yes, Sir.”

“Name: last first, first name, middle initial.

“Lipensky, Mitchell, M.”

(A “Becoming” Excerpt)