Seagate, New York

July 1, 1956:

The  Bathroom Bear & Parakeet

It had become one of their comic rituals:

“Mitchie, I’m starting dinner. You want to light the oven?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sighing, standing, pulling himself away from the Sunday afternoon showing of ‘The Million Dollar Movie’: ‘King Kong’,  that Mitchell had seen – because he was an avid non-sports fan – almost as many times as the dollars taken to make it. “So,” he asked, “what are we having?”

Going along with the game, “Lamb chops.” Marsha answered.

“Oh.” Said in the same flat tone of voice as, going to the sink, he tore a sheet of paper-towel off the roller hanging above the dish-rack and, twisting it into a tight wick, looking at Marsha, “You ready?”

“Let me get the kids.” Grabbing Sammy and Abbie, opening the door to the hallway, stepping out of the apartment, “Yeah, we’re ready!”

Smiling, enjoying the game, Mitchell opened the oven door, lit the paper-towel wick from one of the gas jets on the stove, laid it on the gas hole in the oven, and turned the knob.

                              *

When Mitchell had been away on patrol, almost lonelier than she’d ever been, Marsha had felt the need to have some kind of a living creature with her: something to say goodbye to when she left for work in the morning; something to say hello to when she came home in the evening, and something to say good-night to when she went to bed at night, so after work one evening she’d stopped of at a pet shop in Bensonhurst and purchased Sammy to keep her company.

On a Saturday afternoon excursion to Long Island, spotting Abbie in the window of a bathroom accessory shop, “Marcie,” Mitchell had said, “I’ve always wanted ‘screw’ on a bearskin rug!”

So they purchased Abbie and brought him home.

Sammy was a parakeet and Abbie, a caricature of a bearskin rug made of pink chenille, that Marsha and Mitchell placed on the floor in front of the television.

Shortly after moving into the apartment, Marsha had asked Mitchell to light the oven.

The burners of the stove had a common pilot-light, but the oven had to be lit by an outside flame.

Kneeling before the open oven, turning the gas on, he struck a wooden match... But the match-stick broke, so, reopening the box of Blue Diamond Matches, taking another match, he slid the box of Blue Diamond Matches shut, struck the match and...  WOOMPFF!

There went all the hair on Mitchell’s hand, most of the hair on his arm, and part of an eyebrow.

Once Marsha discovered there was no serious damage, not knowing why, there was something about this that struck a familiar, humorous cord, and she had all she could do to keep from laughing as she rubbed butter over his hand, arm, and what was left of his eyebrow.

Marsha then refused to light the oven and whenever she needed it lit, “Mitchie,” she would say, “I’m starting dinner. You want to light the oven?”

With minimal enthusiasm, “Yeah,” Mitchell would reply, “I guess so.”

Then, going to the oven, having learned, using a torch made of a piece of twisted paper towel, “You ready?” he would call to Marsha.

“Let me get the kids!” she would answer. Gabbing the birdcage off the dresser and Sammy off the floor, rushing out of the apartment, into the hallway, out of ‘explosion range’... “Yeah, we’re ready!”

            Since they’d been married, Mitchell had, playfully, tried to teach his wife two things: Early on, Marsha had refused to swear and the most, and the very worst he could possibly ever get out of her was...

               “Kockie, doodie, pee-pee.”

Also, she would never expel gas anywhere near him and, “Marcie,” he’d told her, “think of it this way; if God didn’t want us to fart, he wouldn’t have given us assholes.”

                               *

Foomp!

“Kockie, doodie, pee-pee... fuck!”

Standing in the hallway with the birdcage containing Sammy the parakeet in one hand, and Abbie in the other, Marsha would wait until she heard the soft ‘foomp’ of  the oven igniting and Mitchell saying...

 “Kockie, doodie, pee-pee... fuck!”

 Then, laughing, coming back into the apartment, “Okay, schmeckel,” she’d say, “get out of the damn kitchen while I make your fuckin’ dinner!”

Marsha still refused to “fart” in his company, but they’d only been married for six months and...

He’d taught her lots’a real neat stuff.