______________________________________________________________________

When the five mugs of coffee began to backwash into his throat, when the manager of the place began giving him “will­ you­ get ­the ­fuck ­out­ of here looks,” going into the toilet, Mitchell rid himself of at least two mugs of coffee. But, of course, not the residual effects of the caffeine contained in five mugs of trucker strong coffee that kicked his kidneys into a gear that would keep him looking—desperately at times—for a toilet throughout this entire miserable day.

Chicago, Illinois

The rain pounding with a solid tattoo that on the canvas roof sounded as pulsing thunder.

As he slowly cruised Sawyer Avenue looking for the address of his first appointment, even with the defroster running on Hi, in order to see, he continually swiped the windshield with a small towel.

Stepping out of the car at 8:53, Mitchell 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 lugging the two heavy cases up the stairs.

                                          ****

Forty minutes later, without making a sale, 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 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 were 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…” also embarrassed because it was she that had first scratched, slapped, then 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!”

“Well, yeah, but I…”

“The bastard hit you! Morrie’ll know someone who’ll take care of that son ­of­ a­bitch!”

“No! I, uh, 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 on purpose—continually gapped open revealing all but the nipples of her rather large—God, but they look good!—milky white breasts. And if there were 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, midway 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 last longing look at Peaches’ nippleless tits, Mitchell Lipensky walked out of the apartment… Alas, before asking if he could use the toilet.

Outside, the rain was abating. But the combination of all things on this terrible day then turned Mitchell’s sad feelings regarding Marsha to a new feeling: Anger!

But yet, through it all, including anger, Mitchell still felt love for his wife… for a while.

He did find a gas station with a toilet that he used before his kidneys burst.

He did find a place to park directly in front of the moderate sized, red brick house.

The rain did stop for the first time since he’d left the apartment that morning and the sun did begin to shine through fissures in the dark clouds.

And the day did appear to be improving… for a while

Walking up the three concrete steps, he knocked on the door. Within minutes the door was opened by a beautiful, dark­haired, dark eyed girl of eighteen or nineteen. “Hi, I’m Mitch Lipensky from Sierra Marketing. I have an appointment with Karen Rosenberg.”

“Hi,” offering her hand—the touch sending a sense of warmth throughout his psyche—“I’m Karen.” Looking over her shoulder, opening the door wider, “Come in,” she hesitantly stepped aside.

Mitchell followed the soft spoken girl through the spotlessly clean, well furnished house into the dining room.

Nervously looking towards the arched doorway to the hall that led to the kitchen and the rear of the house. Motioning to a table pad covered dining room table, “You can put your stuff here.”

“Thanks, Karen.” Hoping she didn’t have a boyfriend that would come from the rear of the house to become another “Brucie.”

“You do know,” he said, beginning the pitch as he laid the merchandise on the table, “that with normal usage this set of quality cookware will last a lifetime. It’s fully guaranteed by the manufacturer and you can even pass the warranty on to your grandchildren! You do plan on having children, don’t you, Karen?”

“Uh,” Karen said uncertainly, “yes, I guess so.”

“Well, in any case, the warranty is backed by the manufacturer. I know you’re familiar with their name! You have heard of…”

Wearing carpet­bag house slippers, baggy trousers held up by suspenders and a wrinkled white dress shirt, “Vos is doos?” (what is this) a man, perhaps in his early­ to mid ­sixties came from the rear of the house.

“Papa,” Karen said in a strangely modulated voice, “this is, uh,” looking to Mitchell for help.

The tone of her voice and look of near panic telling him that the appearance of this man had upset her. Because he called his own grandparents “Ma and Pa,” wondering if the man was Karen’s father or grandfather, “Mitchell Lipensky,” he said, as he came from the other side of the table holding his hand forward, “from Sierra Marketing.”

The man took his hand, perfunctorily pumped it once then released it.

“Lipensky, eh? Hin Chermany vonce, I knew a Lipensky,” he said in a thick German accent. “Hou Jewish? Hou Cherman, maybe?” Though asking these questions, because his eyes never left the girl’s face, it was obvious he did not really care.

Returning to the far side of the table, “Yes, sir, I am Jewish, Mister Rosenberg, but my people are all from Russia.”

Glancing at Mitchell, he dismissed him completely.

“So, Karen,” glaring at the girl, Rosenberg said, “vut’s vit dis?” Motioning to the display on the table. “Your mama un me, ve need for us new pots, maybe? Hou buying for us a present, maybe,” he said sarcastically.

Looking at her grandfather… father? Her eyes dropped to the floor and the only sound that could be heard in the now tension filled room was the sound of the grandfather clock that stood in the far corner that ticked loudly—louder it seemed than normal in the thick silence.

“Nu, Karen?”

His head stationary, Mitchell’s eyes looked from the face of Rosenberg to that of Karen, and back again.

“Finally, “Uh, no, Papa, this is for…” Her voice trailed off.

“Dis for ven hou get married, maybe?”

Silence.

“You don’t tink your papa be home today, sick today?” For emphasis, Rosenberg took a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. “Und I be at vork today! Und so you have dis man,” pointing at Mitchell, “come to show you dis chozzarai (junk),” pointing in the directions of the display on the table, “for ven you marry dat…” his voice rising, “goyisheh kop (gentile brain)!”

“No, Papa! Someone gave them my name,” Karen said defensively, desperately, “and when they called to see if I was interested they wouldn’t take no for an answer, and so to get rid of them, I…”

“So, Lipensky,” cutting his daughter…or granddaughter off, Rosenberg pulled the chair out and sat at the far end of the table, to the left of Mitchell, “go on, already! Let’s see vut you sellin’.” Though speaking softly, there was a definite undertone of menace in his voice. “Und you,” pointing a stiffened finger at Karen, then to the chair at the other end of the table, “you sit dere!”

In the middle, between these two, looking to the left, he saw Rosenberg staring angrily across the table at the young woman.

Looking to his right, absently rubbing the tip of her finger over a dark, crescent shaped burn mark on the table pad, Karen’s eyes were downcast.

“Uh, listen, Mister Rosenberg, if this isn’t a good time…”

“No!” Responding so loudly he startled the girl. “Ve all got to make for hus a lifing! Go on, Lipensky! Ve von’t bodder you! Go! Go sell dis shayner maidel… You know from vhat means, ‘shayner maidel,’ Lipensky?”

“Yes, sir: pretty girl.”

“Yes, dat’s right. So go! Go sell dis shayner maidel, dis pretty girl some pots und some pans so she can go und lif vit da…” roaring, “goyim (gentile)!”

Once again, the force of the word startling her, Karen jerked upward, stared at Rosenberg a moment, then, settling back in the chair, once again lowered her eyes.

“I, uh, really don’t think this is a good time for me to be here, Mister Rosenberg.”

An idea coming to him, “Lipensky, you’re a nice looking, nice Cewish boy. You’re not married?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, I am.” Glancing at Karen, “And I’ve got a baby, too.”

“Oy, vey.” Obvious disappointment showing on his face, “Your vife, she’s a Cewish girl, Lipensky?”

“Yes, sir. Sure!”

“‘Sure’!” Rosenberg repeated. “Vel, den, ve vouldn’t  vant for you to vork for nottin’, und if my shayner maidel don’t buy dis,” pointing to a pot, “den maybe her papa buy hit as a vedding gift for her, und…Karen, vhat’s his name, your shaygets (gentile boy)?”

Silence.

He waited.

The room became charged with silence, but still, her eyes downcast, the young woman did not answer.

“Karen! The goy, vhat’s his name?”

Not looking up, “Kenneth, Papa,” she said meekly.

“Kenneth,” Rosenberg repeated softly. “So, nu, Lipensky,” shifting his gaze, he looked at Mitchell, “tell us habout da pots und da pans.”

“I, uh, really don’t…”

Lipensky, vit a vife und a baby you shouldn’t vork for nothing’! Do it, Lipensky!”

“Uh,” lifting one of the larger pots, turning it over, he tapped on the bottom. “Special alloys are bonded into the inner core of the utensil to, uh, equalize and conduct the heat throughout the entire surface of the utensil because, uh, if the heat is uniform the food will cook evenly.” Haltingly beginning his pitch, because the two were seated on opposite ends of the table, he had to constantly shift his head from the far left to the far right. “The covers are made with this patented lip…” holding the cover up, showing it to his right, then his left, he ran the tip of his forefinger around the circumference of the inner edge to show that it had a grooved lip. “…so as to form what we call a ‘water seal.’” Reaching into a case, he removed a spray bottle, sprayed the inside of the lid, put it onto the pot and spun it. “See?” he said as the lid spun on the pot. “Kind of looks like it’s on ball bearings, doesn’t it?” Under normal circumstances, he’d have expected a yes, but, looking to the right then the left neither said a word. Holding the lid by its knob, lifting the pot by the lid, he spun the pot. Held by the water seal the pot spun freely within the lid. “You’ll never see another cooking utensil do this! Pretty wonderful, isn’t it?”

It was at about this time in the pitch that the customer was to begin giving positive responses that, hypothetically, would lead to the major close, so again Mitchell looked from Rosenberg to Karen. But, sitting in stony silence, there was not the slightest reaction from either. “The water seal helps to retain not only the good taste of your food, but just as importantly, the nutritional value of the food, too.” Absorbed in his pitch—that for once was coming off without a hitch—“And that’s really important to you, isn’t it, Karen?” Looking at the girl…

“Karen!” Rosenberg said harshly, “Lipensky, he’s talkin’ to you!”

Startled again, “Oh,” she looked at Mitchell. “What did you say?”

Uncomfortable doing this, repeating, “The retention of the nutritive value of the food, that is important to you, isn’t it?”

“Uh­huh,” although, truly distracted, Karen had no idea what he was talking about.

And Mitchell knew it.

At any other time on any other day he would pack his samples and leave. But on this day the conflict between the grandfather, or father, and the daughter, or granddaughter, reminded him that other people, besides himself, had family problems also, and the pulsing tension that flowed from one end of the table to the other with him in the middle, on this day, fascinated him. Though, knowing he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of selling a set of pots and pans here, going on with his pitch anyway, “We also give you,” he said, opening the oblong cardboard box, “absolutely free,” laying the knives on the table, directly to his front, “this practical assortment of fine cutlery. Aren’t these nice, Karen?” Glancing at the girl, not expecting an answer, going on, “And as if this free gift of fine cutlery isn’t enough,” bending, reaching into a case, “we also give you, absolutely free, this two volume set of The Bride’s Cookbook.”

Sitting quietly the last few minutes, the word ‘“bride’s” triggering him, his barely contained anger igniting, standing suddenly, pointing across the table, “You­ Got­damned­ meshuggeneh (crazy person)!”

The loud exclamation startling both Karen and Mitchell, Rosenberg bounded upward, and the girl upward and backward, knocking her chair over.

“I ain’t gonna let you do it!” The stubble of his beard standing out as pure white against the mottled red of his anger flushed face. “You ain’t gonna kill your mama und you ain’t gonna kill me by marrying no Got­ damned shaygets!”

“It won’t kill you, Papa! You can’t stop me! I love…”

“She lufes him!” Rosenberg said sarcastically. “Ve, your mama und your papa!” Leaning forward, pointing his finger, accentuating each angrily spoken word, “Ve didn’t save you from da camps…”

The loose, unbuttoned sleeve having worked its way to his elbow, looking at the motioning arm, beneath the white hair there, he saw the faded blue numbers of a German concentration camp. And though he didn’t care for Rosenberg, Mitchell gained a respect for the man that he did not have moments ago.

“…to have da kinder of our kind…”

“Kinder of our kind”: The children of our child, Mitchell thought. She is his daughter!

“…raised as no god­ damned­ goyim!”

“Papa, it won’t be like that, Papa! Ken’s not religious, but he says he’ll convert and when we have children he promises they’ll be raised as Jews!”

Looking upward, “Oy, Got,” he said softly. “Und she beliefes him!” Looking at his daughter, “Und you beliefe the shaygets, eh, Karen?” Suddenly roaring, “No, I ain’t gonna let you do it!”

“Papa, this is America! You can’t stop me! I love him!”

“Oy gevalt! (an all purpose word usually used as an expletive) She ‘lufes’ him!” Looking at Mitchell, “You ever hear such a ting, Lipensky?” Lowering his voice, “She luuufes him! Und maybe I lufe bacon!” His voice rising again, “But I don’t eat no Got­ damned bacon! Und you…” his trembling hand once again pointing to his daughter, “ain’t gonna marry no Got­ damned goy!”

“Papa, I’m almost twenty years old! I love Kenneth!” Her voice rising, her face becoming red, “And damn ­it!” Karen screamed across the table. “I am going to marry him!”

“No!” Rosenberg’s eyes shifted from the face of his daughter to the knives on the table. “No!”

Grabbing the carving knife, shaking it in the direction of the young woman, “I ain’t gonna let you do it!”

Looking from her father’s face to the knife, seemingly unfazed, “Yes, Papa,” Karen said emphatically, “I am going to do it!”

“Uh, Mister Rosenberg,” terrified for both Karen and himself, “that’s my sample!” Mitchell pleaded. “Can I have it back? Please!” But, as though he wasn’t there…

“No,” ignoring him, “hou ain’t marrying no got­ damned shaygets!” Holding the knife upward, Rosenberg advanced around the table, towards Karen.

“But, I am, Papa!” Turning, Karen ran from the room with her father, brandishing the knife, a few paces behind.

He heard the slamming of a door, the pounding on a door, and Rosenberg screaming, “Hopen dis door!” Amazed, his mouth dropped open. Confused, having no idea what to do, Michele Lipensky did the only thing that came to mind: tossing his samples, including the rest of the knives, into both cases, not bothering to, nor being able to close the lid of either case, hoisting one atop the other, lifting both from beneath, he rushed through the house to the door, where, pressed against the wall, he precariously balanced the cases upon his crooked knee as he pulled the door open, ran out of the house and down the three concrete steps to his car where he lowered the heavy load to the sidewalk and…

After the rain, the sky was brilliantly blue, the sun radiantly warm and the air balmy and sweet, and…

Oblivious to the stares of passerbys, breathing heavily, looking up to the door, he tried to rationalize his cowardness. What could I have done? Mitchell thought. Kick the old man in the balls and taken that god­damned knife away from him? What in the hell should I have done? Thinking of Karen, not knowing if she was alive or dead and, not knowing what else to do, opening the trunk, spilling their contents, throwing both cases inside, forcing the trunk shut, getting into the car he drove a half mile before finding a public telephone.

The lead cards contained the lead source, the name, address and phone number of the potential customer.

“Hello!” a youthful, feminine voice answered.

“Uh, this Karen?”

“Yes, it is.”

Having been so absorbed in the Rosenberg’s problem for the past thirty minutes he’d forgotten his own problems. Now, knowing Karen was safe, he breathed a sigh of relief… And with that very same breath remembered and the weight of his own problems once again perched upon his shoulder, and upon his mind and stomach.

“Karen, this is Mitch Lipensky. I, uh, wanted to call to see if you’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Look, Mitch, I’m really sorry you had to see what happened here today, but my father, well, he gets kind’a crazy every once in a while.”

“Yeah, I can see that. If you don’t mind my asking, what happened after I left?”

“He was pounding on my door when he started coughing and wheezing. I knew he wouldn’t do anything to me anyway, you know, with the knife, so I came out and made him lay down and gave him some tea and now him’n’me are talking about it.”

“Your boyfriend, Ken?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice suddenly sad. “Look, if you want to come back, I’ll give you your knife.”

“Nah, it’s okay, Karen, you keep it.”

“Okay, if you’re sure, but I’ll tell you what; one of these days I am going to need pots’n’pans anyway, so maybe you can come back some other time and go through it with me again.”

“No!” He laughed dryly. “I don’t ever want to go through that again! And anyway, this isn’t the kind of work for a nice Jewish boy and I really don’t think I’ll be doing it anymore.”

“Well, okay, Mitch, if you’re sure… Look, I got to go now.”

“Yeah, me, too. So long, Karen. Oh,” he added, “good luck.”

That’s it, Mitchell thought as he drove home, no more of this pot and pan shit! I’m going to make up with Marsha, no matter what, then I’ll look for another job! And, God, please let us make up!

 May 19, 1957