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Seagate, New York
July 17, 1956
“You don’t even get your own doctor? You don’t even know who’s going to deliver your baby? Marcie, that’s terrible! There’s no place else you can go?”
“Sure, to a civilian doctor! But remember, we don’t have insurance. But Mitchell’s spoken to his commanding officer, and he told him that because it’s become so bad at Public Health, and because so many of the men’s dependents are complaining about what I just said, that there’s something new that’s supposed to be passed that’ll allow dependents to see whatever doctor they want and the government will pay for it. I only hope it passes soon… real soon!”
“Yeah, Marcie, for your sake I do, too! I can’t even imagine doing that: not knowing who your doctor is, or even who in the hell is going to deliver your baby! Having to wait with bums! That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard of!”
The line silent a moment…
“So,” Maxine asked, “how’s Mitchell like his new job?”
Marsha knew that Rhea had told everyone in Chicago about Mitchell’s transfer to a desk job, but she also knew that her mother would never say that she was responsible because that would open her to too many questions.
Standing, going to the refrigerator, taking the package she had bought at the delicatessen in Bensonhurst, putting it on the table, “He likes it just fine…” Opening the brown paper, removing one, Marsha noisily bit into a large, crunchy kosher dill pickle. “Only thing is, Mitchell says no one there likes him.”
“No one there likes him? How come?”
Chewing noisily, “Mitchie,” Marsha asked, “Maxine wants to know how come nooobody likes you?”
“No, not nooobody don’t like me! Somebody do like me… I think.” Watching her chew. “They there don’t like me.”
“Oh!” Marsha told Maxine, “It’s not everybody that don’t like him.” Taking another bite of pickle, “It’s just them there that don’t like him.”
“Maybe he’s wrong. How’s he know it’s just them there that don’t like him?”
“Yeah, Mitchie. Ummm,” smacking her lips, munching loudly, “Max wants to know, how do you know it’s just them there that don’t like you?”
“I’ll tell you how I know them there don’t like me!” Pushing his lower lip forward in an exaggerated, childlike pout, “’Cause no one there never shoots rubber bands’n’paper clips at me! That’s how! Everyone there shoots rubber bands’n’paper clips at everyone else there. But no one there never ever shoots ’em at me!” Still pouting, “Not never!”
“Max, it’s ’cause no one there ever shoots him with rubber bands and paperclips.”
“You tell your husband that he shouldn’t worry. It’s just ’cause they there don’t know him like we here know him, and that when they there get to know him like we here know him, they there’ll be only too happy to shoot him with everything!”
“You’re not to worry. Max says they’ll shoot you, too, someday.”
“Yeah, sure they will! But tell your cousin thanks for the good wishes anyway.”
Now, sitting at the table, watching his wife eat the pickle, listening to her crunch the pickle, “That looks good,” he said, reaching to it. “Gi’me a bite!”
“No!” Moving back, out of reach. “It’s mine! All mine!”
“Marcie, what’s all yours?”
“My pickle! I’m eating my pickle and he wants my pickle and it’s mine! All mine!”
“Jesus Christ! Will you two kids play on your own time! It’s my nickel! Give him a bite already!”
“Ow!”
“What was that?”
“You told me to bite him, so I did! I bit him!”
“Marcie, say goodbye.”
“Bye, Maxie!”
“See ya, cuz.”
Third Coast Guard District Headquarters
New York , New York
Third Coast Guard District Headquarters was located in Manhattan, taking up the entire third floor of an old, gray slump-stone building.
The staff consisted of a captain, a full commander, two lieutenant commanders, one female lieutenant, one chief petty officer, two yeomen second class, one yeoman third class, three seamen, two civilian stenographer typists, and… Mitchell Lipensky.
With the exception of the two civilians, the captain, one of the lieutenant commanders, and the female lieutenant, all the other officers and enlisted personnel at Third District Headquarters had been placed in this highly exalted duty because of “P.I.”: because they knew “someone” or knew “someone” that knew “someone.”
Or—although probably fairly unique at Third District Headquarters—because they were related to someone who knew someone who masturbated someone.
Transferees, though, would usually have some sort of knowledge of office procedure, meaning they could at least type. And if those coming in did fall below the minimal skill required, if they had at least a year of active duty left in their enlistments, or committed to reenlisting, they would be enrolled in a typing class at N.Y.C. to sharpen and hone their ability to, at least, minimally, do their jobs.
Even with “Typing 101” and his practice aboard the Halfmoon, he wasn’t near good enough, and having no intention of reenlisting, with less than ten months remaining in his enlistment there wasn’t time enough to hone anything, and after a few days of a thousand starts, of overflowing baskets of crumpled forms and balled typing paper, Mitchell Lipensky was given the “all important” job of filing.
The huge, cavernous space of the third floor was divided into two sections. The office section was warm, bright, alive, flowing with good humor and vitality, with people shooting rubber bands and paper clips at each other… well, at some people.
Then there was the other section, the “dead space,” the space that appeared to be…? cold, foreign. And even though the same light fixtures dotted the ceiling of the entire third floor and were all activated by pushing the same buttons, the dead space seemed to loom in shadow.
The two spaces, alive and dead, were separated by a long row of steel, four drawer, gray filing cabinets that Mitchell Lipensky was put to work on with the constant filing and refilling of the never ending stream of manila duty jackets for the men of the “active” Coast Guard, the “inactive” Coast Guard, and the Coast Guard Reserve—active and inactive.
Fortunately, two things happened to break the absolute monotony of the literally AtoZ routine.
First: Upon learning that Mitchell lived in Seagate and practically had to pass the Interagency Car Pool in Brooklyn when going to work, Chief Petty Officer Janowski—who had been driving a considerable distance out of his way in order to pick up and return the Navy gray Chevy that was allotted for use by Third District Headquarters—gave the job to Mitchell, who really didn’t mind because he had decided it would be easier and cheaper to take the subway to Manhattan rather then drive and worry about parking. This way, rather than the pushing jam of the subway, he could drive to Brooklyn in the comfort of his car, leave it for free at the I.A.P. garage, and drive to Manhattan with “Uncle” paying for gas. Also, to allow for traffic while picking up and returning the Chevy, he was allowed to arrive at work one half hour later and leave one half hour earlier.
Second: At about the same time Seaman First Class Isadore Pidemkin was transferred off a buoy tender out of Boston to Third District Headquarters, and Seaman First Class Salazar Hernandez—whose work station was somewhere within the void of the dead space, and who nobody but one of the highest ranking officers in the live space had ever seen, or even heard of—was released from active duty.
Lieutenant Commander Christopher Frohlick, in charge of office personnel at Third district Headquarters, had waited to see Seaman First Class “Izzy” Pidemkin’s typing skills before assigning either Lipensky or Pidemkin as a replacement for Hernandez.
As Pidemkin had taken not only “Typing 101” in high school, but “Typing 102” as well, and as Pidemkin could type about thirty words a minute—about ten more than Lipensky—although, to be honest, with no more accuracy than Lipensky—“Izzy” Pidemkin was chosen to remain in the live space and Mitchell Lipensky was banished to the void beyond.
And so, on…
July 30, 1956
“Lipensky, you go there…” jabbing his finger in the air, pointing in the general direction of north by northwest. “…and you’ll find a room by the back stairs marked ‘Addressograph,’” Lieutenant Commander Frohlick said, “and you’ll find a man there by the name of… emmm…” opening his desk drawer, removing a clipboard, “ah, yes, Meyers!” Replacing the roster, he looked at the young man standing before his desk. “He’ll break you in and show you what to do… Any questions, uh…” removing the clipboard, “Lipensky?”
Working the filing cabinets was boring, tiresome, near mindless work, but at least he was here, among the living. Also, he had begun to get the impression that a couple of the guys were beginning to warm up to him and that one of these days he’d feel the sting of a paper clip ricocheting off his skull. But there? Until this very minute he didn’t know that “Addressograph” even existed! And, Who’s this guy Meyers? Mitchell had been there for three weeks and he’d never seen or even heard of Meyers.
His hands clenched tightly behind his back, standing stiffly at ease, thinking, Do I have any questions? “Uh, yes, Sir.”
“Lipensky, if you have a question, spit it out! And Jesus Christ, man, stand at ease!”
Loosening slightly, “Uh, will that be it for me then, Sir? I mean is that…” jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of north by northeast, “…going to be where I’ll be working from now on, Sir?”
“Yes, I’d say so. There’s lots of work to be done in the Addressograph department. And as we’ve just lost… emmm…” looking at the roster once again, running his finger down the sheet, “ah, yes, Hernandez! And… emmm…” running his finger further down the sheet, “ah, yes, Meyers! Meyers will be needing help, and guess what? You’re it!”
Sighing, “Yes, Sir.” Mitchell said dejectedly. Then, remembering, “What about the car, Sir?” he asked. “I’m the one that gets the car every morning.”
“Oh, yes! Well, I see no reason to change that routine.”
Thank God for small miracles! “Thank you, Sir. Will that be it then, Sir?”
“Yes, Lipensky, and you might as well gather your gear and head over to Addressograph now.”
“Yes, Sir.” Turning away, leaving Lieutenant Commander Frohlich’s office, Mitchell went to his desk at the far corner of the room.
Not there long enough to accumulate much in the way of personal gear, able to carry everything in both hands—hell, in one hand—taking his cap, wallet and keys from the top drawer, looking over the rim of his mug, drinking the last of the coffee, unable to understand why he felt as sad as he felt because it wasn’t as though he had friends there. As a matter of fact, they’re all pricks here! He had tried to make friends from the first day he’d been there, but for some reason they had all rebuffed his efforts. Still, he felt he wanted to say, “So long” to someone, but at the moment all heads were bent over desks and typewriters so, fuck it!
With cap, wallet, car keys and coffee mug in hand, Mitchell Lipensky walked to the far end of the “great wall” of filing cabinets, turned left out of the live space and, seeming to echo, his footsteps there sounding hollow, walked diagonally across the dead space.
Midway through the dead space there came a strange, intermittent, metallic clacking along with the sound of broken music.
Unnoticed from the expanse of the dead space, there was a hallway leading to the right. Turning into the hall there were three doors: the one directly forward was open to the fire escape; the door to the left was closed, but the one on the right was open and it was from there that the now loud clacking and music emanated.
Completely lining three walls, starting to the immediate left of the doorway leading into this 20x20 room were batteries of chest high, small drawered steel cabinets… To the right of the doorway were two side by side battered wooden desks: one clean, the other cluttered. Looking much, so Mitchell thought, like “Rube Goldberg” inventions, in the center of the room were two metal stamping machines. His back to the door, a man was sitting at one of the machines. Wearing a short sleeved, red and blue checkered shirt, dark blue Bermuda shorts and—pushed so far forward it had to be resting on the bridge of his nose—a white sailor cap.
Surprising Mitchell, not so much for the beyond regulation length as its color, the man had tightly curled, platinum colored hair, and was loudly…
