______________________________________________________________________________________

Never knowing when to quit, “They want to make up, Marcie! They really miss you!”

Slamming her fork onto the table, “Leave me alone, Mitchell!”

In his highchair, startled, Michael began to cry.

“Marsha, why?” he said angrily. “You’ve won! Why go on with this? What in the hell do you want from them?”

“What do I want from them?” Standing, going to the cabinet beneath the sink, Marsha dumped her unfinished meal into the garbage can. “I want you and your god-damned family to leave me alone!”

For once, thinking it best to just drop it, Mitchell, very wisely, dropped it.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

April 22, 23, 24, 1958

It wasn’t very often that Mitchell had the opportunity to be home alone, but on this night he was because his wife, her cousin Maxine and Rosalie had decided it was time for a girls’ night out, without their husbands.

In the two and a half years of their marriage they had lived in three apartments, and each time they’d moved they’d eliminated a few of the things that were no longer necessary to their lives. On the move from Pratt to Winchester this included his uniforms, which, with Marsha’s improved cooking, the pants had, somehow, magically shrunk about an inch and a half, so, with the exception of the white tunics that Marsha enjoyed wearing, the uniforms were given to the Salvation Army.

                                                        ****

One of two remnants of his days in the U.S. Coast Guard: a box of one hundred, redi-wet, foil-pac prophylactics that he had purchased at the Floyd Bennett Field Post Exchange shortly before his discharge, that sat—about eighty percent full—on the shelf in the closet; and a duty-free pinch bottle of Haig & Haig Scotch that he had purchased aboard ship in Newfoundland on his last weather patrol.

In a reclining position in bed he had given up on the glass with ice cubes and soda about twenty minutes earlier because each time he’s taken a sip, some of the frigid contents would slop out of the glass onto his neck—so now, held on his stomach by the neck of the odd-shaped bottle that, grimacing less and less with each swig, small pulls had been taken directly from the bottle.

It’s not that Mitchell and Marsha had an argument… on this day. No, they had not argued on this day. To the contrary and, really, what had provoked him enough to rationalize his purposeful setting out to become soused this evening was the continuation of a three-day silence broken only by the clinking of silverware, the clatter of dishes and the movement of their jaws and teeth as they masticated their food right up till the moment Marsha made the curt announcement, “I’m going to the movies with Max and Rose, then out for a pizza.”

The last time Mitchell Lipensky had been drunk, really drunk, was when Ruby kept him company on the evening of his twenty-second birthday. But then there was someone to say, “Hey, pal, how’s about some coffee?” On this night, however, with the exception of his son, who was asleep in his crib, Mitchell Lipensky was alone.

Considering himself a reasonable person, Yeah, I’m’a kind’a guy who responds to logic, Mitchell thought as he took another, “Yaghht!” pull on the bottle. Yeah, I’m’a kind’a guy who can see another guy’s point’a view… And another swig. I’m’a kind’a guy that’ll go out’a my way to make another guy feel better. Jesus, ’specially if I love him… uh, her, if I can.

Mitchell had three points of drunkenness: happy, sad and sick.

Because of the running battle over—and with—his parents, and the three days of Marsha’s prolonged silence, the weight of his depression was too great to consider happy, so skipping happy, going directly to sad…

Yeah, how’s come I’m the only one that’s sad ’bout the way things are ’round here? How’s come she’s never sad ’bout the way things are ’round here? Another pull.

The arguments then the silence had made him lonely and terribly sad and he knew his unhappiness was, to say the least, very apparent.

Marsha, however, had this mental mechanism that allowed her to hide any outward show of emotion, leaving only a show of anger and disdain for her husband on continual, open display.

I’m’a good guy! Another pull. I don’t wanna fight with her! I don’t wanna do stuff to make her mad at me. I ain’t never hurt nothin’ or nobody in my life, so’s why’s she’s always gotta make me feel like I’m always such’a kind’a stupid, som’in’a’bitchen piece’a shit?

Through his drunken ruminations on this night, strangely, the thought that his parents played a major—or possibly the only—roll in the unfolding drama of his life with his wife on this night did not enter his besotted mind.

                                                             ****

The Saturday evening after Michael’s birthday party in Skokie, completely ignoring the reason for the alienation between his wife and parents, Mitchell—very brilliantly—came up with, “I am not going to see your family until you start seeing my family!”

By now knowing his wife, he should have known Marsha’s response to this rather hollow threat would be something like, well, was actually…

“I don’t really give a damn what you do, Mitchell. To tell the truth, no one in my family cares whether they see you or not. So you just do whatever you want, Mitchell!”

He liked Marsha’s father a great deal. What was not to like about Eli?

Matter of fact, knowing his father-in-law was a cuckold caused Mitchell to feel sorry for him and to like him all the more.

As for Rhea? Never being a person to hold a grudge, completely separating what she was from how she looked, maybe because she was a mature, beautiful, sexual woman, Mitchell was merely fascinated with Rhea and when he looked at her, visualized what his wife might look like in the future, except for the big tits, he’d thought on more than one occasion. Yes, he did like the picture of a faithful Rhea-like Marsha.

Actually he did like Rhea and Eli and, with the exception of her brother, most of Marsha’s extended family and was, Oh, yeah, very sorry he’d made that stupid ultimatum.

Yeah, he thought, an’ how’s come suddenly her mom’n’dad don’t wannt’a see me no more? Talking a pull from the bottle. How’s come suddenly no one there don’t like me no more? Becoming weepy. I use’ta think some people there liked me! That someone, somewhere liked me.

His flowing tears mixing with flowing snot, taking the handkerchief from his pocket, blowing his nose loudly, then took another drink. My wife say’s no one likes me, she says no one likes me all the time. She hates me! Yeah! My own wife hates me an’ everyone hates me an’ no one loves me!

Blearily watching the credits for the eleven o’clock news, getting off the bed, bringing the bottle with him, going to the dining room, standing over the crib he looked at his sleeping baby. “Yeah, seems like no one likes your daddy ’septin’ you, my baby,” he said aloud, but softly enough so as not to wake Michael. “You love your daddy, didn’t’j’ya my little Mikey.” Swiping his arm across his eyes and nose, “but maybe that’s only ’cause you’re too little an’ don’t know no better an’ when you grow up you’ll probably hate me, too,” adding, “jus’ like everyone hates me.” Leaning over the crib, his alcohol-induced tears of self pity fell onto the blanket that covered his son.

It was at that time that Mitchell shifted into his third phase of drunkenness, and… The room began to whirl. His head began to twirl and his stomach began to gyrate, forcing his dinner and slightly more than one-third of the duty-free, pinch bottle of Haig & Haig Scotch up into his esophagus and up, into his throat, and, ullppp! running to the bathroom, Mitchell dropped his head into the toilet, as…

Opening the front door, Marsha came into the apartment just in time to hear…

“Gachhhttt!”

“Mitchell?” Rushing to the bathroom, seeing her husband on his knees with his head within the rim of the toilet, “What’s wrong,” she asked, feeling concern and sympathy for her obviously ill husband… For only a moment, though, just till she spotted the partially empty bottle of Scotch that sat on the floor alongside the toilet. “You’re drunk,” she said scornfully.

Having minimal patience with Mitchell at that time anyway, considering this as one more reason—one more excuse—to do what she’d been considering.

Scooping the bottle off the floor, pouring the remaining contents into the sink, “I go out with my friends one time, and leave you here, once, to watch your son and you get god-damned, stinking drunk!”

“Marcie,” lifting his head from the toilet, wiping his mouth on the towel he’d grabbed off the shower-door bar, looking beseechingly at his wife, his words slurring, “I’m, sorry, Marcie, but I feel so bad about how things are with us now that I…”

Cutting him off—though knowing once he was asleep, her son usually slept through the night—“Mitchell,” she asked angrily, “what would you have done if Michael woke up and needed something?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said apologetically. “But I was only going to have one drink,”—he’d purposely set out to get drunk—“then things, I d’know, things began to, kind’a, pile up on my mind and I…”

“Got stinking, rotten drunk!”

“Yeah, I… guess… Ullppp!” Turning from her, he again hung his head into the toilet.

Seeing him vomit, smelling the disgusting odor, turning away, Marsha, too, became ill.

“I do not want you in the same bed as me, Mitchell! Do you want to spend the night in the chair, or do you want me to sleep on the chair?”

Turning from the toilet, looking at her, “Marsha,” becoming angry, “I told you, I’m sorry! It’s not like you see me do this all the time, you know!

Outside of New Year’s Eve you’ve never even seen me a bit drunk! Not once! And if you don’t care why I did it, and if it bothers you so much…”

Never expecting Mitchell to say it…

“…you sleep on the chair!”

                         April 23, 1958

Nauseous, still tasting the sour taste of regurgitated Scotch. His throat sore from vomiting, also, feeling guilty because he did let Marsha spend the night on the chair, in absolute silence Mitchell shaved, got dressed and, as Marsha fed Michael, not wanting the taste or odor of food anywhere near his mouth or nostrils, he kissed the top of his son’s head, then, quietly pulling the door closed behind him, Mitchell left for work.

The all too familiar symptoms had begun the evening before.

As the front door closed, holding her abdomen, going to the medicine cabinet, taking a pill to numb the pain caused by her menstrual cramps, Marsha returned to the kitchen.

Finished feeding Michael, hesitating, in deep thought Marsha once again considered the consequences of what she was about to do.

“Okay, if you’re sure this is what you really want, I’ll find out. But I don’t know how long it’ll take and they probably won’t be there for hours, so why don’t you call a cab and bring Mikey here.”

“Thanks, Mother, but there’s things I’ve got to do here. Why don’t you make the call and find out how long it’ll be?”

                                                       ****

Arriving sooner than she’d expected, looking the complete opposite of what a man in his profession typically might look like, the man was thin and short: about 5' 6". He wore khaki slacks and a black T-shirt that accentuated the bulging muscles of his chest and arms. The second man, more typically big and burly, wore Lee coveralls over a sleeveless, black- and red-plaid flannel shirt.

“You Mrs., uh,” consulting the clipboard, “Lipensky?”

“Yes.” Marsha moved aside, allowing the men entry.

Stepping past Marsha, making notations on the clipboard, the small man immediately began to appraise the sparsely furnished apartment.

On the back of his belt was a small holster that held a Smith & Wesson, snub-nosed .38.

Not quite as inconspicuous, the big man wore a U.S. Army-issue web belt with holster, and a Colt .45 pistol.

.Alarmed, “Guns!” she asked. “Why guns?”

“Lady, in our kind of work,” the small man said, “we don’t take chances with your ol’ man. This is just in case,” patting the holster, “he comes back and objects to what we’re doin’.” Seeing the look on her face, “Just to scare him Ma’am, just to scare him!”

                                                         ****

When he left his home at 8:35, walking downstairs Mitchell stood at the door a minute or so wondering if he should go back upstairs and apologize to his wife for…? Getting drunk? Allowing her to sleep on the chair? Refusing to see her family until she saw his? For trying to mend relations between her and his mother? For even wanting to mend relations between her and his mother? “Christ!” Seeing, knowing, the angry, set look on Marsha’s face when he’d leaned over the highchair to kiss Michael goodbye. Knowing anything he would say would only add fuel to her fire and be about as effectual as pissing into the wind… “Fuck it!” He pushed the door open, got into the car and drove away.

Still feeling headachy and nauseous he drove southeast, towards downtown.

Getting as far as Lake Shore Drive, deciding he did not want to see or speak to his parents, or, for that matter, anyone he knew, turning north, Mitchell headed towards Evanston. But unable to organize his thoughts he drove aimlessly until, realizing he was going in circles, turning southwest, he drove to a light industrial area in Skokie—where he had had a part-time job while in high school—where the streets ran straight for four blocks in each direction.

Parking the car on Monticello Street—forcing himself to—taking his presentation case, he began to make cold calls.

Because his mind was preoccupied with the thought of his once-again failing marriage and because his head and stomach were still upset, he actually hoped that the person that purchased the photography would either be out or would not want to speak to him.

Working one side of the street, then the other, an unprecedented—Sure, he thought, today everyone wants to see me—four of the people that purchased the photography were in and three did see him but, bumbling through all three presentations he felt less, much less than effectual. But placating his conscience, he forced himself to work for better than two hours.

Rightfully concluding that his efforts for that day were absolutely futile as his head and stomach had returned somewhat, to normal, deciding he was hungry and so long as he was in Skokie and didn’t know where else to go and had lots of time to kill, he went to the newly constructed, recently opened…

                                                             ****

Waiting to order his hamburger, fries and a chocolate shake, standing in line outside of McDonald’s in Skokie Village, he recalled the conversation on that Sunday morning when he’d driven to Chicago to retrieve Marsha and the offer his parents’ friend Sam Katz had made, and Walter’s response of, “Four thousand dollars for a fast food place called Old McDonald’s? Nah, it doesn’t sound like such a good idea to me.”