________________________________________________________________________

“I worked construction with Bill’s son, Earl,” Mitchell interjected. “Earl is the one that suggested I apply for a job here and Bill’ll be retiring in a year or two.”

Annoyed at the interruption, going on, Elizabeth said, “Bill’s one of the older guys and he’s starting to have a hard time covering it all, so I’ll be working with him, and when he retires they’ll split his territory, maybe even into thirds, and I’ll get part of it.”

Yeah, Marsha thought, along with hundreds of accounts. “Like I said, that’s pretty damn lucky!”

Marsha had something she was jealous of: Mitchell. And now knowing she had something Marsha was jealous of, “Yeah,” Elizabeth said nonchalantly, eating a piece of steamed carrot, “guess it is.”

And, Marsha thought, pretty god­damned unfair!

Seeing the look on Marsha’s face, Tough shit! Elizabeth thought.

________________________________________________________________________

 Transco Christmas Dinner

Chicago, Illinois

December 20, 1958

Noting that throughout dinner Elizabeth had done little more than pick at her food, the meal finished, the small band had once again began to play.  

Marsha was surprised none of the men in the crowded ballroom had come to the trainees’ table to ask for a dance. Not that they did not want to because there was hardly a man there that wouldn’t give a month’s pay to go to bed with the beautiful, aloof, Elizabeth Herzon, but rather than face the inquisition of their wives or girlfriends once they returned to their tables, outside of the Chicago people coming to their table to give “Season’s Greetings” and to meet Marsha, along with the out of town salesmen coming to personally meet both trainees and apologize for the harsh wording of some of their queries, no one had asked Elizabeth to dance.  

“Mitchie, why don’t you ask if Elizabeth would like to dance?”

“We don’t have to be so formal, Marsha,” she said. “Call me Lizzie if you’d like.”

“Okay, I will, ‘Lizzie’, and, if you’d like, you can call me Marcie.”

Having a perverse desire to see her husband’s reaction while holding this young woman, and being held by her. “Go on, Mitchell, dance with 'Lizzie'!”

Uncomfortably catching the catty back and forth undertone of the two women, looking at Marsha, having some idea why she was suggesting he dance with Elizabeth, and knowing what would most likely happen if he did dance with her, “No,” he said, “I don’t think so.”

“Mitchie, go on! She’s dying to dance!”

Turning to Elizabeth, “You don’t,” he asked almost pleadingly, “want to dance, do you?”

“Yes.” Surprising him—more so, shocking him—looking directly at Marsha, “If it’s okay with your wife, I’d love to have a dance.”

“It’s my idea, 'Lizzie'. Sure it’s okay!”

“I’m a lousy dancer! I promise, I’ll step on your feet.”

“Come on! I watched you two before and you’re not all that bad.”

Uneasy for more than one reason, “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“Don’t worry about it.” She started to stand but, standing first, moving around the table, pulling the chair out for her, Mitchell led her onto the dance floor.

Seeing only her front side as Elizabeth approached the table, of course noticing her figure, however concentrating more on her face, hair and eyes than the rest of her body, now seeing her back side, her thirty­ eight ­inch hips—which to most men in the room, her husband included, was hardly a deterrent—seeing Elizabeth through the eyes of a perpetually thin, more than slightly jealous woman, She’s got a big ass! Marsha thought smugly.

Knowing, well knowing, what would happen if he stood too close, trying not to, his hand on her soft, well rounded hip—so unlike Marsha, who had but the slightest definition—he felt the movement of Elizabeth’s body beneath the material of her dress, and even though he did attempt to arch backward, Oh, God, he did feel, could hardly help but feel the brush of Elizabeth’s breasts against his chest and, Uh-­oh!

“She’s very pretty, and so”—being an ex ­fat girl, throughout the evening Elizabeth had looked at Marsha through the eyes of a fat girl and, truly envious—“thin!” Elizabeth said, adding, “Your wife… Marsha, does she have to work very hard at staying thin?”

Thinking, How the hell am I going to go back to the table with a boner? Looking over Elizabeth’s shoulder, looking anyplace but at her face. Concentrating, Go away! Go away! Trying to will his erection away—which had never worked in the past—he wanted to close his eyes so he’d be able to concentrate all the harder, but thought if he closed his eyes it would appear that he was enjoying this dance more than he wanted it to appear that he was enjoying this dance, which actually, Mitchell wasn’t, not at all!

“Mitch!”

Never being this close, outside of their kiss behind the cartons, and then his eyes were closed, “Oh. Yeah.” looking at her, looking closely into Elizabeth’s eyes, which did not help his situation… not one bit. “What?”

Finding it hard to say the words, “your ‘wife’ ” again, hesitating, “ ‘Marsha’… Does she have to work at staying that thin?”

Prone to easy weight gain—having gained back a good part of what he’d lost working as a shlepper—Mitchell had often thought of the unfairness of it. “No, she eats whatever she wants whenever she wants and always stays that way.” Adding, “Except when she was pregnant.”

Imperceptibly tightening her hold on Mitchell, meaning it, in Marsha’s case, for more than one reason really meaning it. “Don’t you just hate people like that?”

Looking into those beautiful eyes. Smelling the floral scent of Elizabeth’s dark blonde, honey­ colored streaked hair. Feeling the heat of her sweet breath on his face. Sensing the silky sway of her hips beneath his hand and, Oh, God, the soft brush of Elizabeth’s wondrous breasts onto his chest and the feel, Oh, God, of the—purposeful?—brushing of her pelvis onto his now raging boner, Mitchell did not answer because, Uh-­oh, the music stopped and it sure as hell hadn’t gone away, but, poking from beneath the elastic band of his Jockey Shorts, he felt it… Actually felt his penis pulsing between his thigh and the material of his slacks.

Going back to the table, attempting to hide it, walking slightly behind and to the side of Elizabeth—the side away from Marsha—hunching forward, he tried to pull the front of his jacket lower… To no avail, though, because seeing Marsha look at him—at all of him—he knew she knew and, smiling a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders, holding both hands forward as though to say, “This was your idea! It ain’t my fault,” and—screw being a gentleman—letting Elizabeth seat herself, rounding the table, Mitchell quickly dropped onto his chair.

                                                                   ****

In bed that night, sensing more than his average passion, not unexpectedly finding Mitchell and herself in the right numerical position… Possibly because Marsha knew there was a beautiful, sexy—though big ­assed—young woman that liked her husband, that liked her husband a whole lot. Nonetheless, sensing far less than her average lack of passion, deciding… then carefully wiping away the droplet of semen, finding it not quite as repulsive as she’d imagined, surprisingly sensing her own passion intensifying, Marsha did something for the very first time in the three years of their marriage…

Imagining: His head between the soft thighs of Elizabeth.

Tasting: Loving the fluid of Elizabeth’s vagina, it took a few precious seconds for him to realize that…Oh, God!

Although the sweet, unbelievably erotic sensation of his penis in the mouth of his wife lasted no more than fifteen or twenty seconds, and—of course, though he would never allow it to happen—those fifteen or twenty seconds, even for Mitchell Lipensky, was far too short a time for ejaculation.

Back with Marsha now! Only with Marsha!

But for those fifteen or twenty seconds… Oh, God!

Meanwhile, in the Rolodex of Marsha Lipensky’s mind there would remain the inkling of a thought that there was a beautiful woman that possibly loved her husband and, since meeting Elizabeth Herzon, Marsha was glad that they would be relocating to Peoria.

 Peoria, Illinois

January 5 through Spring, 1959

 “Hang down your head Tom Do­oley, hang down your head and cry.

Hang down your head, Tom Do­oley, poor boy you’re bound to die.”

“For those of you driving into the Loop this morning, you’ll find the streets dry. The sky is clear and the temperature stands,” reported Howard Miller, the morning announcer for WGN Radio, “at a steady zero minus five with a wind chill factor of fifteen below.”

                                                                     ****

Leaving the apartment at 8:30 a.m., catching US 55 in LaGrange on the far west side of Chicago, the Ford convertible followed it through the south central part of the state for approximately 122 miles. Picking up Interstate 116 in Pontiac, Mitchell headed west for about 45 miles.

Crossing the Illinois River on the McClugage bridge, entering the city of Peoria, following the directions given him by Gene Tarnowski, driving slowly, Mitchell Lipensky got his first sight of the business area of the Caterpillar Tractor dominated city that would be his family’s home for…? Possibly forever.

                                                                       ****

Calling from the phone in the lobby, “Hi, baby, I’m here.”

“Mitchie! Really? You’re there, already?”

“Yeah! It’s a snap once you get out of Chicago… It’s a pretty boring drive, but it’s a snap.”

“So, you’re at the ‘Y’?”

“Yeah. I called soon as I got my stuff up to the room, and soon as we’re off the phone, I’m going to drive around to see if I can figure out where the hell I’m at.”

“You get a paper yet?”

Knowing what she meant, “They have ’em in the lobby here,” he said. “I miss you’n’Mikey already, so believe me, I’m going to do that, too!”

                                                                         ****

“Honey!”

“Hi, Mitchie! So, you have dinner yet?”

“Yeah. Found a place not too far from here, on Main Street.”

“Main Street? There’s actually a street named ‘Main Street’?”

“Yeah. If this is the second largest city in the state, I can hardly wait to see the third.”

Used to the downtown business areas of New York City and Chicago, where a trip by car from one side of downtown to the other, in moderate traffic, could easily take about a half hour, Mitchell found that the downtown business area in Peoria—consisting of four square blocks of older, one­ and two story store­front structures intermixed with newer, ten­ to fifteen story office buildings—could be traversed from one end to the other in less than three minutes.

“This place is so small!” Mitchell said. “But guess what?” Not waiting for a response, “I had my lead and customer files with me and while I driving around the name of one of the streets looked familiar, so I looked through my files and found five customers on that street, so I stopped into all five to introduce myself and guess what?”

“What, Mitchie?”

“One of the guys was out, but the other four were around and guess what? I got orders from three of ’em!”

“Really?”

Remembering how long he’d gone before receiving his first order while working at the studio, “Yeah,” he said excitedly. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

“That’s great, Mitchie!” Anxious to pull their lives together, “But did you have a chance to look for a place?”

“I didn’t see ’em, but found a few ads that look interesting and have an appointment with a real estate lady to look at them tomorrow.”

 January 6, 1959

“Morning, baby!”

“Good morning to you, too… So?”

“I looked at three houses, and…”

“Really, already?”

“Yeah. Like we thought, things are much cheaper here than…”

“And you were looking at houses?”

“Well, yeah, but two of ’em were really dumpy and the third was in a shitty neighborhood, but I did see a… She, the real estate lady called it a ‘townhouse’, and…”

“A townhouse?”

“Yeah. A townhouse has, uh, she called ’em common walls. In other words, once you’re inside it seems just like a house, except that it’s attached to another townhouse.”

“Seems like a fancy word for an apartment.”

“Really, once you’re inside it does seem like a house. Matter of fact, it’s got a second floor with…”

“Really?” Becoming excited, “Two floors! How many bedrooms?”

“Two. There’s two nice sized bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and—get this—another toilet downstairs, and a kitchen big enough for us to eat in, and a living room with a dining area. The one I looked at is on the end, so we’re only attached on one side so we’ve got a yard for Mikey…”

“A yard! Is it fenced?”

“No, but there’s plenty of room for a swing set and there’s swing sets and sandboxes all over the place, so there’s got to be lots of kids around, and it’s…”

“How much is it?”

“You’ll never believe it!”

“Yeah,” Marsha asked excitedly, “so how much is it?”

“Seventy-five a month.”