No longer thinking of sea duty as a bad alternative to duty at Rockaway Lifeboat Station, knowing that he must request a transfer, to anyplace, with the help of Yeoman Second Class Richard McDonald, Mitchell Lipensky submitted a formal request.
Because, truly sadistic in his love/hatred, Ewing did enjoy torturing him, “Transfer denied!”
On the third of May, submitted again…
Afraid now—not knowing what Mitchell may have told his father, or whom his father may have spoken to—not wanting his motive for denying the repeated request of a lowly seamen for a transfer to sea duty…
Mitchell Lipensky did receive orders to transfer.
New York City/Far Rockaway, New York
May 20, 1954
Carrying his sea bag on his shoulder and a suitcase in his hand, he left U.S.C.G.
Rockaway Lifeboat Station at 0800 hours.
He took the two buses to the Flatbush Avenue subway, then the subway to Times Square. Going into the men’s room at the Times Square station, changing into civvies, locking the sea bag and suitcase in a locker, going up the stairs onto the street, asking a policeman for directions, Mitchell walked until he came to a tall building…
June 8, 1954
Tuesday: The port section’s duty night, the phone rang at 2017 at… “Coast Guard, Rockaway.”
“Hi,” muffling his voice, “is Minnossa around?”
“Yeah, I’ll call him for you.”
Taking about four minutes, “Yeah, Minnossa here.”
Recognizing the voice immediately, “Lippy! How the fuck you doin’?”
“Fine. I’m doing just fine. HQ may think Rockaway’s great duty, but let me tell you, anyplace away from that asshole is like heaven.”
“Figured you’d feel that way… So how do you like sea duty?”
“Ain’t had a chance to find out yet, but we’re heading out on Monday… Minnie, where are you now? Where you talking to me from?”
“Check it out, will you.”
Wondering about the secrecy, Minnossa poked his head through the door. “No…” Leaning against the half-wall partition, balancing the chair on two legs, the man on watch in the communication room was reading a paperback. “No one’s around.”
“Look, Minnie, I wasn’t going to call to find out because I don’t want that motherfuckin’”—little did he know—“cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch coming after me, but I’ve got to know if…”
“It was you! God-damn, Lippy!” He began to laugh. “I thought it was you, but Joe and everyone else said you wouldn’t have the guts to do it. Shit! It had’a cost a ton’a dough!”
“Yeah, it did, but fuck the money! How’d it work?”
“Jesus, Mitch, it had the fucker hoppin’ for the last three weeks, and he couldn’t stop ’em ’cause they’d been paid for in advance. How much longer it’s got to run?”
“This Sunday’s the last time.”
“Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted.”
“Yeah, Minnie… Look, say hello to the guys for me. And, if you want, it’s okay to tell Joe, but please don’t go spreading it around because that cocksucker could really make trouble for me.”
Mitch, you think any guy here would squeal on you?”
“I’d guess not, but you never know.”
“Well, yeah, okay, if you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t. But I tell you, no one would ever tell that asshole nothin’.”
“Yeah, Minnie, I’d rather you didn’t.” The line silent a moment. “Anyway, maybe we can get together for liberty sometime.”
“Sure, Lippy. Just give me a call and let me know when.”
“Yeah, I will… Well, so long Minnie.”
“Yeah, so long, Lippy.”
…Mitchell didn’t, and they never do.
Minnossa did, however, and true to his word, no one at U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station ever told the “motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch,” and next Sunday an advertisement that had run for the three prior Sundays appeared for the last time in the real estate section of the New York Times:
Choice Sheepshead Bay Marina Property suitable for commercial development on 1/3 acre. Triple boat docking facility w/boathouse, huge hotel-like living quarters, triple-size garage w/machine shop. Must Sell! Absolute Sacrifice Call “Dick” Ewing after 10:00 p.m. NU 3-5597
The telephone number was Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing’s private number.