Peoria, Illinois

Spring, 1958

... Sitting on a slivery wooden bench alongside of a newspaper covered, viscera covered picnic-table, watching Bobby-Joe and Hugh do it, knowing they won’t do it, but, oh, yeah, sure wishing they would do it, Mitchell watched as – wielding a large knife – placing the fish onto its belly, Hugh put the edge of the blade between its head and dorsal fin and with a hard, downward pressure – a quick hissing or gurgling sound coming from it – the head of the fish was cut off, then its tail. Turned to its side, the dorsal fin was cut away. A slice from the anus forward exposed the pink-grey intestines that, pushed up from beneath, Hugh pushed out with his thumb.... his bare thumb! Taking a pair of rusted, snout-nosed pliers from his tackle box, Hugh peeled the black skin back and off. Spreading the sides open, the spine, along with the bones were easily pulled from the white-pink flesh.

“Okay ‘Pinsky,” stabbing the slime covered knife into the table in front of Mitchell, “it’s your turn!”

“Me?” Looking at Marsha, whom, sitting on the bench on the other side of the table with the other two wives, was, he was sure, the only person there that was even nearly as nauseated at the thought of gutting a fish as himself. “You expect me to do that?”

Reaching to the Styrofoam chest behind the bench, “Only if you wanna eat, I do.” Taking three, one by one Hugh tossed a fish to the far end of the table where it fell into the pile of innards, skin and bones in front of Bobby-Joe, he then slapped the second fish onto the still comparatively clean newspaper in front of Mitchell and, turning it onto its stomach, , closing his fist around the handle of the knife, with a fast, hard whack – that caused Marsha and Mitchell to wince – Hugh beheaded his third fish.

Her complexion fairly green “Don’t look at me!” Marsha said, “I’m eating steak.”

“Oh, well... “ Waiting till Hugh was through with it, taking hold of the, “Yaght!” slime covered handle, placing the edge of the blade at the back of its head, closing his eyes, he pressed downward and, “Holy smoke!” Muttering under his breath, Mitchell Lipensky discovered it wasn’t all that easy to cut something’s head off.

                                                *

This certainly the first time he had ever eaten anything he’d participated in catching and, not too much of a fish eater himself – especially since marrying Marsha – this certainly the first time he’d ever eaten catfish, “Jeeze,” he said, “ this is good!”

“Yeah,” Bobby-Joe said, “ya think so?” Turning from Mitchell, looking at his corpulent wife, “Gi’me the bottle, will ya, hon.”

With, at the very least, two and a half buttocks overhanging the wooden bench, “Sure, hon.” Myrna Klee said as, reaching into the ‘A&P’ shopping bag at her feet, she removed a quart size Mason jar containing a clear liquid. Unscrewing the top, taking a sip, Myrna handed the wide-mouthed jar across the table.

“Thanks, hon.” Swiping the palm of his hand across his mouth, bringing the bottle to his lips, taking a full mouthed swig, closing his eyes, “Ahhhh!” Bobby-Joe handed the bottle to his right.

“Uh, what’s it?”

“Don’t’ja’ya’all worry, Mitchie-boy, you’ll like it.” Looking past Mitchell, winking, “Won’t he, Hugh?”

“Yeah, go on ‘Pinsky. You’ll like it!” 

“Well...” Glancing at his wife, who shrugged her shoulders. Taking the bottle, bringing it to the level of his eyes, swishing it, he looked at the clear contents a moment. Moving the jar to beneath his nose, smelling, discovering it had no odor Mitchell took, first, a sip, then, further finding it had, almost, no taste, a gulp...

Smooth! Unlike anything Mitchell Lipensky had ever drank, the mouthful of liquor went down so smoothly...

And a moment later...  

When it reached bottom...

“Holy shit!” Going to his brain immediately, warming every organ in his body, and everything between, taking another swig before handing it to Hugh. “What the hell is it?”

“Somethin’ my pappy ‘brewed up’.” Bobby-Joe said.

Immediately thinking of Li’l Abner, “Somethin’ ‘your pappy brewed up’? Your pappy makes kickapoo joy juice?”

“Yeah!” Myrna said, giggling, “That’s it, kickapoo joy juice.”

The picture of Li’l Abner’s ‘pappy’, Pappy Yokum, and another character from the comic strip, ‘Earthquake McGoon’, came to the now completely befuddled mind of Mitchell Lipensky: The two of them, Pappy Yokum and Earthquake McGoon were sitting on either side of a pigsty – not too unlike this splintery, old redwood picnic table – and the two of them, Pappy and Earthquake were passing a one gallon, two-tone jug with a little thumb-hold handle on its top with three XXXs on its side back and forth... “Kickapoo joy juice?” Having a hard time focusing, thinking his eyes were crossing, “I’m drinkin’ Kickapoo joy juice.” he said joyfully.

“Yeah!” Taking a drink, Hugh handed the bottle to Valerie, who, taking a sip, handed the bottle to her right... to Marsha.

Being about as much a drinker of liquor – and most certainly liquor made by someone’s ‘pappy’ – as she was an eater of fish, “Oh, no!” Marsha said, “I don’t drink, ever!”

“You a boozer?” Bobby-Joe asked.

“Huh?”

“You on the wagon?”

Pointing across the table, giggling, “Her?” Mitchell asked incredulously, “Marsha, ‘on the wagon’?”

“Me?” Poking herself in the chest, “A boozer? No!”

Not liking her too much, thinking she “looks down her nose at them”, “Well, then,” Myrna said, nudging Marsha in the side with her elbow, “go on, take a sip! One teensy sip won’t kill ya!”

“Uh...” fishing for a reason, any reason not to take a drink of the stuff, especially since Hugh, Bobby-Joe, Valerie and fat-assed, sloppy Myrna – all of whom, in fact, Marsha did look down her nose at – drank directly from the bottle. “...how’s about Michael?”

“Nah,” Myrna said, “he’s too young to drink.”

“No!” Unable to help herself, Marsha smiled. “What I mean is, if I take a drink and get drunk who’ll watch Mikey?”

Having been fed earlier, Rebecca, Michael and the two Klee children, Kevin and Karl were playing in Rebecca’s sandbox.

Enjoying Marsha’s consternation, “Not that one ­teensy sip’ll get you drunk, but, Marsha, really, there’s enough adults here to watch after one more little kid!” Now addressing her husband, “Ain’t there Hugh?”

“Yeah!” Hugh replied, “You wanna hurt our feelin’s?  Ain’t’j’ya’all never heard’a southern hospitality? One l’il ol’ sip ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all none. “Will it, Mitchie-boy.”

“Gi’me!” Wiggling his fingers in the direction of the Mason jar... The bottle handed to him, taking another drink, waiting until the heat hit, closing then opening his eyes, looking – cross-eyed? –  at his wife, “Nah,” Mitchell said, “one teensy l’il ol’ drink ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all that much.”

Never seeing his wife drunk, vaguely wondering... Well, more than just vaguely wondering what Marsha would do in bed if she were just, maybe, a little drunk, and especially if she’d do to him what she did to him on the night of the Transco Christmas party – even though it had lasted no more than ten, maybe fifteen seconds – So maybe, because he didn’t ‘come’ in her mouth then, she knew he wouldn’t now either

because, first, he just wouldn’t, and secondly, knowing how little it takes to make Marsha puke, and having his penis puked on wasn’t quite the sensation he had in mind, but Mitchell did think that if she got drunk enough maybe she would do it again. So, feeling the moonshine, Oh, yeah, feeling it indeed...

“Nah,” Mitchell said, “one teensy l’il ol’ drink ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all that much. You won’t even feel it. Ol’ Myrna here’s right! One it’sy, bit’sy...” holding his thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart, “...l’il ol’ sip ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all!”

Wondering why her Chicago bred husband was suddenly speaking as though raised in the Appalachian mountains, “Okay,” she said dubiously, her gaze shifting from Mitchell to Hugh, “ I’ll take one,” holding a finger forward, “little drink.” Taking the jar from Mitchell – fighting an impulse to run her napkin around the rim of the Mason Jar – bringing it to her mouth, closing her eyes, Marsha took a minute sip. Swirling the fluid over her palate, finding the stuff had almost no taste, she swallowed and not wanting to be taunted into taking another drink, taking more into her mouth – because of the width of the mouth of the jar – taking more than she wanted... “Oh, God!”

When the mouthful of moonshine hit bottom. When the heat spread upward. Opening her mouth to give escape to the heat, “Oh, God!” Marsha handed the jar to Myrna.

Taking a drink, offering the bottle, “Want another, Mitch?”

“Yeah!” Reaching across the table, “Don’t mind if I do.” Taking a mouthful, waiting for the heat... having the sensation that he was within a periphery of fuzziness, Mitchell blearily looked at the man to his left then to his right and from one to the other of the three women that sat across from him. Bringing his attention back to the meal of cornbread and sour-cream baked potatoes – that had been supplied by Valerie and Myrna – and the tossed salad that Marsha had made along barbecued catfish that he – as unbelievable as it still seemed – had in part been responsible for catching.

Looking at Myrna again, Mitchell did something that – due to her weight and the fact that Myrna hadn’t, not until that very moment, even remotely appealed to him – Mitchell did something that, though he did not think of it as such, had become a hobby of sorts so now, mentally undressing her, Mitchell Lipensky, in his drunken stupor, envisioned Myrna Klee – at least as much of Myrna Klee as he wanted to envision – naked...

Speaking in sickeningly sweet tones, calling each other, so it seemed, their only pet name: “Hon.” Myrna and Bobby-Joe Klee were – so Mitchell had thought from the moment he met them – a very strange

looking couple. At 6’1”, weighing about one hundred-fifty pounds, Bobby-Joe, at the very least, could be considered as spindly; whereas his wife, standing at about 5’1” and weighing, if not close to, than at least two hundred-twenty pounds, Myrna could most definitely be considered as fat.

Mitchell had seen Myrna Klee from the front and rear. He’d seen her in house-dresses and, wondering where in the world she found them to, somewhat fit, blue-jeans, and now and then she wore a very tightly stretched one piece bathing-suit.

Mitchell had seen Myrna Klee’s dimpled, rippled and stippled flesh and though she did have what,  he supposed, could be considered a fairly attractive face – if one liked cupie-dolls – the overall picture had always been so unappealing that he had hardly noticed.

But now, sitting across from Myrna, seeing her only from the chest up; on this balmy, late May evening, wearing a scoop-necked house-dress with the top three buttons open, the flesh... The excessive flesh of Myrna’s heavy breasts overflowing the cups of her size 42DD bra, half crocked... more than half crocked from three very healthy swigs of Pappy Yokum’s brew, he did... Oh, yeah! Mitchell Lipensky did notice and did suddenly realize that Myrna Klee...  Jesus, he thought, she’s got to have the biggest tits of anyone I’ve ever known!

Being a ‘tit man’, along with a leg, thigh, ass and everything between man, but primarily a tit man, to Mitchell Lipensky, especially now, flushed from the hunt, and – well, after all he did catch five fish and did clean three of them, so now – partially soused... well, maybe more than partially soused, going on the true tit man’s theory that all tits are beautiful: mentally undressing Myrna, from the top only though, imagining her saucer size areolae and gargantuan breasts – that had to hang at least to her waist – sensing the muscles in his arms bulge, mentally weighing their massive weight within the palms of his hands, feeling their silken warmth on either side of his face, and over his shoulders, hidden beneath the table, the crotch of Mitchell Lipensky’s jeans tightened.

Beyond her breasts, though, the thought of actually screwing Myrna Klee unimaginable – even if he was drunk – Mitchell’s attention, along with his bleary – crossed? – eyes turned to the other pair of breasts that were sitting on the opposite side of the table that he had seen, and, at least for the moment, what Mitchell looked at were not the breasts of his wife.