May 19, 1957
Chicago, Illinois
Get Out!
Mitchell ordered ‘The Truckers Special’ of three eggs – fried in lard, not doubt – with four chubby sausage links – undoubtedly stuffed with, besides other doubtful stuff, lard – hash brown potatoes – dripping with, what else but lard – along with two slices of toasted rye bread oozing, what? – most probably lard – as well as all the coffee he could drink.
Sitting in a booth next to a sweating, steam opaqued window that he rubbed a circular clearing on with a napkin that he looked out of every few minutes, Mitchell killed almost two hours over breakfast thinking of Marsha and; “I want you out of here!” And wondered if she really meant it? And if she did, why? Thinking: Because I didn’t do anything all that bad! Searching his mind. Really, I didn’t do anything that bad! Bad enough for her to want a...NO! It’s not possible that she’d want a divorce! Why? Because I didn’t get up to help her with Mikey? Because once in a while I ask her to, once in a while be courteous to my folks? Why?
*
Actually, Mitchell ‘harped’ on this or allied subjects more often than he realized; if not coming straight out and saying it, then continually dropping what he considered to be subtle, all but – so he thought – subliminal hints, that, really, to Marsha, had the subtlety of dynamite that, in Marsha’s thoughts: Annoy the shit out of me!
*
Thinking, Why? Because we got bills and I’m not making lots’a money? I try, God-damn-it, I try! And if she can’t see that then screw her!
So now...
*
Subliminal or not! His nagging aside, neither Marsha nor Mitchell considered that they might be...That they are being manipulated by their mothers! Nor, of course, that Marsha may have the, as of yet, undiagnosed symptoms of premenstrual and/or postpartum depression syndromes.
*
So now, his thoughts vacillating between feeling sorry for himself and indignation at Marsha... But yet, through self-pity and anger, Mitchell felt a extremely sad, heavy weight in the pit of his
stomach... and that weight had nothing to do with three eggs, four chubby sausage links, hash-brown potatoes and two slices of rye toast, even if they had been fried in, stuffed with, or oozing lard.
When the five mugs of coffee began to back-wash into his throat, when the manager of the place began giving him: ‘Will you get the hell out here’ looks, going into the toilet, Mitchell rid himself of, at least, two mugs of coffee... But, of course, not the effects of the caffeine contained in five mugs of ‘trucker’ strong coffee that – oh, yeah – kicked his kidneys into gear that would keep him looking – desperately at times – for a toilet throughout that entire miserable day.
Paying his bill, waiting just inside the doorway till there was a break in the rain – which there wasn’t – he made for the car.
*
The rain pounding with a solid tattoo that on the canvas roof sounded as pulsing thunder. The windows fogged over quickly and, even with the defroster running on ‘HI’, as he slowly cruised Sawyer Avenue looking for the address of his first appointment, in order to see, he swiped the windshield with a small towel every few seconds.
*
Stepping out of the car at 8:53, he tiredly dragged the two heavy sample cases from the trunk.
This also was a congested neighborhood. As it was Saturday morning and people had not, as of yet, begun to vacate their overnight parking spaces, forced to park about a half-block away, by the time he climbed the two flights of stairs and knocked on the door, not only was Mitchell once again drenched, but a bit breathless from climbing the stairs lugging the two heavy cases.
Forty minutes later, after asking if he might use the toilet twice, once to urinate and once to defecate – which helped to add to the most embarrassing sales call in his life, at least until then – he was back in the car – without making a sale – and on his way to the second call of the day.
Because he’d had less than three hours sleep the night before.
Because his troubled thoughts were constantly on: ‘I want you out of here!’
Because he felt his life falling apart, and...
Because he thought of Mikey, possibly, growing older without him, and him, maybe, growing older without Mikey.
Because he had this empty, horribly lonely feeling in his stomach.
Because the five mugs of ‘trucker’ strong coffee was stimulating his mind and kidneys and, adding to his discomfort, his bowels, too, and because he was wet and cold and most of all, because he did love Marsha, Mitchell Lipensky was all but catatonic and on this day had no patience... no patience for the selling – excuse me – he had no patience for the attempted selling of pots and pans.
*
We had a terrible fight last night...” The combination of the earlier pill and the two she’d taken at 2:43 having left Marsha in a bit of a daze, “and I, uh...” Embarrassed because it was she that had slapped, than attempted to punch Mitchell. “...hit...”
Reclining – hearing what she wanted to hear – jerking up on the sofa, spilling coffee on herself. “The bastard hit you!”
Realizing she’d probably deserved it and more than asked for it, “Well, yeah, he sl...”
“The bastard hit you! Morrie’ll know someone who’ll take care of that son-of-a-bitch!”
“No! You don’t understand! It was... I don’t want him hurt!”
“Okay, Marsha.” Rhea said reluctantly. “After all he is the father of your son, but I’ll pay for the lawyer and, God willing, you’ll be rid of that no good bastard!”
*
Mitchell only thought he could do no worse than he did on his first call.
‘Peaches’, the girl, or woman, because she was forty if she was a day, had her, maybe, twenty year old boyfriend with her. And as if having to prove his worth to his ‘mother figure’ girlfriend, “Brucie”, as Peaches called him, harassed Mitchell with superfluous, stupid questions that, even under the best of conditions – which sure as hell wasn’t on that day – would fluster all but the absolute ‘coolest’ of salesmen – which sure as hell wasn’t Mitchell Lipensky, especially on that day. – And as if that wasn’t enough, Peaches wore a ratty bathrobe cinched at the waist that – by accident or purpose – continually gapped open revealing all but the nipples of her rather large – God, but they look good! – milky white breasts. And if there’s ‘tits’ to look at, Mitchell Lipensky, no matter what the circumstance, was going to look, which only added to his confusion and consternation and, between ‘Brucie’s’ harassment, Peaches ‘tits’ and his own foul, rotten mood, mid-way through the pitch, Mitchell discovered he had but one of two choices. One: Kill ‘Brucie’ forthwith with the ‘wonderful, free’ carving knife, or, two: get the hell out of there, immediately! So, stopping in mid-heckle, packing both sample cases, with one – oh, yeah – longing look at Peaches’ nippless ‘tits’, Mitchell Lipensky walked out of the apartment.. .
Alas, before asking if he could use the toilet.
