The Catalyst
July 21, 1942
On Ogden Avenue, adjacent the short side of the Lipensky’s L-shaped building, there was another three-story structure. Mitchell’s friend Norman lived on the west side of this building, third floor, rear.
Though the white glazed brick facade of this building butts directly to the structures on either side, in all actuality there is a four-foot-wide air space on either side of the building that can be entered by the rear only, and then only by crawling under or climbing over an old, badly rusted chain‑link fence. Through the years these air spaces had become the dumping grounds for junk of all kinds.
The block’s only “bad boys,” Salvatore and Dominick Diamond, lived on the first floor, rear. “Bad boys” meaning they wore grease‑stained, acid-burned jeans, coated their hair with Vaseline Petroleum Jelly and combed it straight back into a “D.A.”—duck’s ass. Also, ration stamps permitting, they rode noxious motorbikes.
Salvatore had recently married sixteen-year-old Louise Ann Richtor. Talk between the adults of the block was that Louise Ann had become pregnant and had to marry Salvatore.
The newlyweds lived in the Diamonds’ two-bedroom apartment, in the bedroom that the two boys had previously shared, forcing Dominick onto a cot in the living room.
Before the marriage, the boys got along well enough, except twice in the two years that they’d lived in the neighborhood they had gotten into violent fights, one of which had to be broken up by the police. Since the wedding, the brothers argued constantly and Dominick would often go out of his way to annoy and antagonize his older brother.
The children of the block did their best to stay out of the way of the Diamond brothers, who had their own circle of friends, all of whom combed their hair into D.A.’s and, ration stamps permitting, rode noxious motorbikes.
“’Ay, kid, com’er!”
“Huh?” He’d been on his way to Norman’s. Hoping he’s talking to someone else, Mitchell looked over his shoulder. Seeing no one behind him, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb, “Me?”
“Yeah, Lipensky, you!”
Thinking, Why’s Dom Diamond want me? Mitchell approached the older boy slowly.
“How old’d’a’ya, kid?”
“Eight, uh, almost. I’ll be eight next month.”
Dominick moved his hand upward in a swift motion.
Mitchell jerked his head to the side.
“Ha! Got’ch’ya! Two for flinchin’!” Punching the younger boy twice on the shoulder, “Ya wanna see somethin’?”
Rubbing his shoulder, “Uh, yeah, I guess. What?” he asked warily.
“Ya know Lou Ann, don’t’j’ya?”
Having had a child’s crush on Louise Ann, “Yeah, she, uh, babysat me,” he said, “when I was, uh, littler.”
“Yeah, sure, when you was ‘littler.’ Ya know she married my brother.”
Mitchell had overheard his mother and Rachel talking about Louise Ann and Salvatore, and when Myra noticed him listening, she’d said, “Little pitchers have big ears.” and sent him outside.
“So, ya wanna see somethin’, or not?”
Although afraid of Dominick, Mitchell did not want to appear a baby or sissy in the eyes of this fifteen-year-old boy. “Yeah, sure. What do you wanna show me?”
“Come on, follow me, only keep ya trap shut.” Holding a finger over his lips, “Shhh!” Motioning for him to follow, going around the side of his porch, Dominick sprinted over the chain link fence.
Mitchell decided to crawl under it.
Creeping to an open window, Dominick silently moved a rusted tricycle that had been thrown from an upstairs window years ago.
The shade was raised about a foot from the bottom.
On tiptoe, the two boys looked into the room.
Mitchell saw a naked, muscled man. His back was to the window and he was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed. Facing the window, someone else was on the bed, not at the head, but rather below the middle… His eyes opening wide in wonder. It’s a lady!
On her back, lying flat‑footed with her legs bent and her thighs spread, the lady’s moderately large breasts flattened across her chest and lay to either side of her rib cage.
His head between her thighs, his arm stretched upward, holding a dark-brown nipple, the man was kneading it between his fingers.
Hidden by her knee, the lady’s face was turned to the side…
Now, in the throws of orgasm, holding the man’s head between her hands, arching her hips upward, “Oh, Sally,” she moaned.
For a moment he was not sure, then, Lou Ann!, he thought, and a sharp intake of breath caused Mitchell to cough.
“Shhh!” Dominick poked his elbow hard into Mitchell’s ribs, causing him to lose his balance and to fall onto the tricycle, which fell against an empty one‑gallon paint can, which rolled over and clattered on the rock‑strewn ground.
Startled by the noise, “Huh?” surprise showing on his face, looking over his shoulder, Salvatore swiped his hand across his mouth, removing the shiny wetness. “Who the fuck's there?”
Dominick knew he was caught, but didn’t care. “Muff diver! My brother Sal’s a fuckin' muff diver,” he yelled. “How’s it taste, Sally?”
Rising off his haunches, Salvatore rushed to the window.
Mitchell knew that when he was sleeping and had to urinate, or in the morning when he awoke, sometimes his penis was engorged, but there was absolutely no way that he could equate himself to what he saw then. Although beginning to wither, that was not noticeable to the little boy staring at it. Surrounded by a forest of black, curly hair, Salvatore Diamond’s penis jutted rigidly forward, and was uncircumcised—a point he noted, but had no idea what to make of, because, up until the last minute Mitchell had never seen another naked person, man, woman or child, and he stared at the seven-inch penis of Salvatore Diamond in open‑mouthed awe.
Slamming the window fully open, Salvatore reached through in an attempt to grab hold of his brother, but by then Dominick was at the far end of the air‑well, scuttling over the fence. Poking his head and shoulders through the window he screamed, “You wait!” at his brother’s retreating back. “You just wait, you fuckin' bastard! I’ll get’j’ya, and I’ll rip ya a new asshole! I’ll tear your fuckin' balls off!” Shaking his fist, “ya fuckin' son’of’a’bitchin’ fuckin' asshole!”
Terrified at Salvatore’s rage, pressing his back against the wall, holding his breath, Mitchell stood perfectly still, as though by not moving he wouldn’t be noticed… but was.
Reaching through the window, “Ya little sheeny, kike, bastard!” Grabbing him, bunching the front of his shirt in his fist, pulling him upward, forcing him to stand on the tips of his toes, “What the fuck ya doin’ here?” Almost dragging him through the window, into the bedroom, “Answer me, god-damn-it!” Clenching his right hand into a fist, Salvatore brought it back…
Mitchell smelled Salvatore’s breath and felt the spray of his spittle. Sensing a weakening of his bowels, the boy watched in terror as the balled fist was brought back and, waiting for the blow, stiffening his body, he held his hands rigidly to his sides with his fingers splayed along the outer seams of his jeans.
“Sal, let him go!” Coming off the bed, standing behind Salvatore, trying to pull him back, Louise Ann’s short-cut nails caused white indentations in the flesh of his shoulders. “I know this kid! He didn’t do nothin’! Don’t hit him!” Pleading, she held her husband’s fist in both of her hands. “Mitchell wouldn’t know to do this! It’s your damn brother’s fault! Don’t hit him, Sal!”
Mitchell looked from the poised fist to Salvatore to Louise Ann.
Louise Ann was fully nude, but standing behind Salvatore, all Mitchell was able to see were her breasts and, though, it did not register at that time, the trauma and terror of this situation did register subconsciously, and along with it, the exotic beauty of this sixteen-year-old girl’s breasts.
“Sal, he’s just a kid! I want you to let him go! Now!”
The hand opened suddenly and Mitchell fell to his knees.
“Get the hell out of here!” Salvatore bellowed. “Now!”
The boy scrambled onto his feet, tripped over the tricycle, and fell again. Standing, he began to run and, not thinking about it, for if he had he certainly would not have been able to do it, rather than taking the time to crawl under it, surprising… shocking himself, Mitchell sprinted the fence, ran through that yard, through his yard, up the three flights of stairs, across the neighbor’s porch, through the gate, across his porch and through the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him, across the kitchen, where his mother was at the sink peeling potatoes…
“Damn it, Mitchell!”
…through the hall and into the bathroom.
“Stop running!”
Slamming the door…
“Won’t you ever learn?”
…lowering his pants to make… Uh‑oh! Mitchell discovered he already had.
