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Mark M Lichterman

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NYC Again 5: Elvis?
By Mark M Lichterman
Posted: Thursday, January 14, 2010
Last edited: Thursday, January 14, 2010
This short story is rated "G" by the Author.
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Careful, a bit of coarse language here and my apologies for the use of a certain word.

(A "Becoming" Excerpt)

Fall Patrol

August 30, 1955, to October 11, 1955

 In the fourteen months since his first patrol to Ocean Station Charlie, his entire life had turned about, and this patrol—his second to Ocean Station Charlie—unlike the first, was spent in pushing the days, because now he had someone waiting for him, someone he could not wait to see again. If the days were filled with the cold, hard work of the ship, the nights were filled with warm, hard dreams of Marsha. 

September 30, 1955

“Hit me.” Seaman First Class Stuart Baker brushed his hole card lightly over the Formica table top.

The dealer, Radio Man Third Class Ollie Kittler, turning a card, slammed it alongside Baker’s six and trey cards. “Queen, for nineteen! You’re busted, asshole!”

“The fuck I am!” Turning his hole card, Baker revealed a duece.

“Fuck you!” Kittler slid a nickel across the table.

“Me, too; a little one.”

“Yeah, an’ here’s a little niner for you, Lippy.”

“Too much.” Turning his cards, he slid his nickel to Kittler.

“…died today in a high speed automobile accident on a highway in Southern California.”

“Hey, j’ya hear who the radio just said died today?” Seaman Apprentice Owen Shroyer, holding his card to his chest, looked at the loudspeaker on the upper bulkhead. “Lippy, who’d he say died?”

“Beats me.” Mitchell looked at Baker.

“I wasn’t listening. You hear it, Ollie?”

“Nah. Hey!” Kittler yelled across the compartment. “Any’a you guys hear who the radio said got killed?”

“Ain’t you heard,” one of the swabbies answered, “James Dean. He got croaked in a car accident.”

“Jesus,” Baker said, “I can’t believe it. James Dean, dead.”

Sitting quietly for a moment, “Okay, asshole!” Boatswains Mate Third Class Myron Linton hit the table with his fist, causing the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters to jump. “Let’s see a fuckin’ card!”

“You fucker! Ain’t you got no fuckin’ respect?”

“Sure, Ollie, but not when I’m holdin’ what I’m holdin’. Hit me!”

Coming from Newfoundland, the music and news was picked up by the Half moon and piped into the mess and recreation areas.

“Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ!” Linton, going bust on a three-cent bet, slamming his card angrily onto the table, “God-damn nigger music! Is that all they ever play at that fuckin’ station?”

“Hey, prick!” Kittler said. “That ain’t no nigger music.”

“Oh, it ain’t huh! Then just what the fuck is it, then?”

“You dumb asshole! Ain’t you never heard’a Elvis?”

“Elvis?” Linton looked around the table. “What the fuck’s an Elvis?”

 October 11, 1955

Pulling the pillow over her head, covering her ears, she still heard the ringing. Opening her eyes, Marsha looked at the clock: 5:53. “My, God!” Remembering, realizing what day it was, and who would be calling this early, running from bed to the kitchen, grabbing the phone, “Yes, operator, I’ll accept the charges… Mitchie! Hi, baby!”

Having the warm, fuzzy quality of a woman who’d just awoken, silent a moment, relishing the sweet sound of her husky, early morning voice, “Marsha, God, you sound so nice! I’d give anything to be with you now, only still in bed.”

“Oh, God, Mitchie, me, too. When’d you pull in? I can’t wait to see you!”

“About 0510, and I came ashore to call soon as we secured from duty stations.” Remembering the hour’s time difference. “Hope it’s okay, my calling this early.”

“Sure it’s okay! I’m glad you called now.”

“God, Marcie, I can’t wait till Friday. You realize I’ll be seeing you in three days! Can you believe it?”

“Can I believe it, huh? ‘Flight 702 departing La Gurdia Airfield, 10/14/55, five-thirty a.m., E.S.T, arriving Midway Airfield 8:45 a.m., C.S.T.’ Mitchie, that’s all I’ve thought about!”

“Marcie,” said in true awe, “we’re going to be married in six days! That’s all I’ve thought about since I saw you in Askanaz in June: holding you, touching you, seeing you, making love to you… Oh, God, real love!”

The line silent a moment, a solemn look crossed Marsha’s face. As the day of this first marriage came closer, Marsha’s thoughts of how she was going to tell him had been on her mind almost constantly. And yet, still not having the words, “Believe me,” she said in absolute truth, “I can’t wait either!”

“Really, Marcie? Really? You can’t?”

‘Yes, really! I’ve told you before; most girls aren’t that much different from guys. We all want the same thing, only girls show it differently.”

Momentarily quiet, recalling that long ago conversation with Frank Rizzo, “Baby, I’ve been thinking; I don’t want to spend our first night together—our only night together—at our parents. Let’s go to a hotel.”

Hesitating, “We’ll talk about it when you get in, okay?”

“Yeah, honey. But it wouldn’t bother me, not one bit, if you were to make a reservation someplace in the name of…” Now he hesitated. “God! I still can’t believe it… Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky.”

The Marriage

October 14, 1955, to October 18, 1955

 Nervous about seeing Mitchell; first, because she was going to see him, and secondly, because of what she should have, but still hadn’t, told him.

As the plane taxied to the terminal, becoming ill, Marsha ran to the washroom.

“Hi!” Looking for her, Mitchell kissed his mother. Not too sure if he was supposed to kiss Rhea, he kissed her anyway.

“Where’s Marsha?”

This being the first time she’d been this close to him, Rhea looked closely at her very-soon-to-be son-in-law and, still wondering how it all came about, “She’ll be right back, Mitchell. She wasn’t feeling too well.”


Turning to the sound of his name, she was there, running to him.”

Coming together, “Oh, God, I missed you!” Embracing, “I love you!” they kissed.

After a few seconds, “Come on, kids.” Myra urged them apart. “It’s rush hour and we’ve a long drive downtown.”

“You okay, Marcie? Your mother said you weren’t feeling well.”

“No, honey. Now that you’re here, I’m just fine.”


“That wasn’t so bad,” Marsha asked, “was it?”

The blood test over, heading north on Lake Shore Drive.

“No, it never is. I guess it’s more the thought of the needle that gets to me.”

Throughout the long drive from Midway Airport to downtown Chicago, he’d been waiting for Marsha to say something, but she hadn’t, so, “So where’d you make the reservation?”

Turning from her place on the front seat, “Reservation?” Rhea looked at her daughter.

Thinking, Oh, God! Marsha turned her eyes from those of her mother.

“Monday,” Mitchell said, smiling, “after we’re married,” glancing at Marsha, looking back at Rhea, “Marsha and me are going to take off and spend the day—and night—together, alone.”

“Marsha, you didn’t tell him?”


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Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 1/15/2010
What hasn't Marsha told Lippy?? Maybe she's pregnant?? Hmm.. many possiblities here, Mark; well done as always!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D
Reviewed by Georg Mateos 1/15/2010
Like they said in Japan, "gaigins haven't got a chance!" and they are the last to know...anything!


Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader) 1/14/2010
Nice chapter.

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