________________________________________________________________________
Turning, Hugh Ivy looked at Marsha. Accustomed to fuller bodied, lighter complexioned women, harboring minimal prejudice—not knowing many, hell, not knowing any—thinking they might be Jews, not quite sure he liked this woman’s particular type of beauty, “I work over at Cat…”
“Caterpillar Tractor?”
“Yeah, I’m a foreman in one’a the machine shops.”
Impressed, “Really!” Mitchell said. “You’re kind’a young to be a foreman, ain’t’ch’ya?”
“Nah. I been workin’ ’round ’quipment all my life… What’a you do, Mitch?”
“I’m a salesman. I sell envelopes.”
Not impressed, Hugh simply said, “Oh.”
________________________________________________________________________
Peoria, Illinois
May 23, 1959
“God, that’s awful!”
“Jesus, ’Pinsky, ain’t’j’ya never hooked a crawler afore?”
“No, Hugh! Where I come from we step on ’em.”
“Aw, look’a this fat ol’ thing.” Holding the thick, four inch long, brownish gray, frantically wiggling worm a few inches from Mitchell’s face—who flinched backward—a moment, then, oozing a muddy, greenish gray red tinged fluid, impaling it three times on the barbed hook, leaving an inch of its writhing tail (or head) dangling,
Turning from the other two men, Bobby Joe—yes, really—stepped to the river bank and with a flick of his wrist, the pole snapping over his head, the hissing sound of the glistening, barely seen thread of eight pound test monofilament fishing line, weighed with hook, worm and sinker, whipped out of the Shakespeare reel, snaked through the air and fell with a distant sounding, barely seen splash into the slightly rippling water of the Illinois River.
“Go on, ’Pinsky, you can do it!”
“Yaght!” Distastefully holding it between his thumb and index finger, poising the point of the hook beneath its underside (or topside) he touched it to the worm that, feeling the point, squirmed all the harder. Now, tightening his fingers on the slimy, squirming thing, he closed his eyes, but wisely thinking he’d hook himself rather than the worm, opening his eyes, “Oy!” Mitchell forced the hook through.
“Yeah, ’Pinsky, you’re a fuckin’ hero! Do it again.”
Glancing at Hugh, he poked the hook through again but, off center this time, it tore through the worm’s side. Trying again, breathing a sigh of relief, finally hooking his worm, Mitchell stepped to the river bank and, his thumb on the reel’s trigger—as he’d practiced on the driveway—his wrist flicked, the pole snapped…
“Uh, oh!” But when he had practiced on the driveway there were no overhanging trees.
****
Opening the cooler, “’Pinsky, here!” tossing him another can of beer, then the “church-key.”
Catching one then the other, “Thanks, Hugh.” Punching into the top with the sharp pointed can opener, spraying himself, but at the moment not much caring what he smelled of, or like. Also, for the first time enjoying the company of these two men, to say nothing of the feel of the warmth of this late afternoon spring day and the quiet, buzzing solitude of this plush lined niche of sandy soil on the edge of the river.
Reclining on the bare ground, his back supported by his elbows, the pole propped at an upward angle by a large rock, having absolutely nothing better to do than drink his beer—his third beer—and watch for the sharp bobbing of the tip of his pole that would signify that a fish had bitten, and truly not caring if he didn’t catch a fish because, first off, Mitchell truly did not care and, secondly, he knew what he would have to do if he was unlucky enough to catch a fish, or, God forbid, fishes, even though he had…
****
In his best American Indian brave’s voice, Mitchell Lipensky had proclaimed, “Me go catch’em dinner!”
However, never a fish eater, Marsha Lipensky, in her best Jewish American wife’s voice proclaimed, “I ain’t eating nothing you catch, unless it’s a cow!”
****
But, alas…
“’Pinsky!”
“Huh?” Sitting up, he looked a Bobby Joe.
“Ya got’ch’ya a bite!”
“Oh, God!” Standing quickly, knocking the can of beer into the dirt and the pole off the rock, fumbling, Mitchell grabbed the pole.
“’Pinsky!” Motioning with a sharp, upward jerking of his wrist, “Set the hook!” Hugh called.
“Yeah!” Doing as told, almost: snapping his entire arm backward, feeling and seeing a slackening in the line, Mitchell thought he’d lost it… But suddenly, the pole arching, the clutch in the reel allowing, yards of line played out as the fish ran with the bait.
A few feet to his right, “Ya got it!” Bobby Joe yelled.
Thinking he was asking, “I don’t know!” Mitchell said, then, “I got it?”
“Yeah! Ya got it! Start reelin’ ’er in!”
“Holy shit! I caught a fish!” Cranking the handle, expecting more resistance… One moment the thrashing catfish was seen in the murky green water and the next was flopping on the sandy soil at water’s edge. “What do I do now?”
“Take it off the fuckin’ hook!”
“How?”
“With your teeth, asshole! Use your hands!”
“My hands?”
“Yeah, your hands!”
He reached to it, drew back, then, holding the fish somewhat immobile by stepping on its tail, hesitantly reaching to it again, “Jesus! It bit me!” Mitchell’s palm punctured by a sharp fin, “The fucker bit me!”
Amused by this city boy’s ineptness, giggling, “It didn’t bite’j’ya,” Bobby Joe said informatively. “It prick’d’j’ya.”
“Oh, okay.” Feeling the pain in the palm of his hand, watching his blood drip onto the soil, wondering, Should I ask ’em if I ought to get a tetanus shot? But knowing the ridicule he’d receive if he even mentioned it, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief, “So how in the hell am I supposed to do it?”
“God, ya’all Yankees are dumber’n shit!” Walking over, stepping on it, holding the fish behind its needle sharp fins with one hand as, grasping the shank of the hook with his other, twisting it, pulling it from the underside of the mouth of the 11/4–pound fish, then pushing his finger through, holding it through its gill, Bobby Joe threaded the steel tipped end of the stringer through the catfish’s mouth and gill. “Okay, ’Pinsky!” Weighing the end of the stringer with a large rock, he dropped the fish back into the water where it thrashed weakly. Motioning to the white carryout cardboard box containing squirming night crawlers, “Bait your hook!”
Looking at his catch, “That is one ugly fish.”
“Nah,” Hugh said. “It’s a be-U-tiful fish! But’j’ya need a couple’a more for dinner. Bait your hook!”
Pappy Yoakum’s Kickapoo Joy Juice
Sitting on a slivery wooden bench alongside of a newspaper covered, viscera covered picnic table, watching Bobby Joe and Hugh do it, knowing they won’t do it, but, Oh, yeah, sure wishing they would do it, Mitchell watched as—wielding a large knife—placing the fish onto its belly, Hugh put the edge of the blade between its head and dorsal fin and with a hard, downward pressure—a quick hissing or gurgling sound coming from it—the head of the fish was cut off, then its tail. Turned to its side, the dorsal fin was cut away. A slice from the anus forward exposed the pink grey intestines that, pushed up from beneath, Hugh pushed out with his thumb… his bare thumb! Taking a pair of rusted, snout nosed pliers from his tackle box, Hugh peeled the black skin back and off. Spreading the sides open, the spine, along with the bones, was easily pulled from the white pink flesh.
“Okay ’Pinsky,” stabbing the slime covered knife into the table in front of Mitchell, “it’s your turn!”
“Me?” Looking at Marsha, who, sitting on the bench on the other side of the table with the other two wives, was, he was sure, the only person there that was even nearly as nauseated at the thought of gutting a fish as himself. “You expect me to do that?”
Reaching to the Styrofoam chest behind the bench, “Only if you wanna eat, I do.” Taking three, one by one Hugh tossed a fish to the far end of the table where it fell into the pile of innards, skin and bones in front of Bobby Joe. He then slapped the second fish onto the still comparatively clean newspaper in front of Mitchell and, turning his fish onto its stomach, closing his fist around the handle of the knife, and with a fast, hard whack—that caused Marsha and Mitchell to wince—Hugh beheaded his third fish.
Her complexion fairly green, “Don’t look at me!” Marsha said. “I’m eating steak.”
“Oh, well…” Waiting till Hugh was through with it, taking hold of the, “Yaght!” slime covered handle, placing the edge of the blade at the back of its head, closing his eyes, he pressed downward and, “Holy smoke!” Muttering under his breath, Mitchell Lipensky discovered it wasn’t all that easy to cut something’s head off.
****
This certainly the first time he had ever eaten anything he’d participated in catching and, not too much of a fish eater himself—especially since marrying Marsha—this certainly the first time he’d ever eaten catfish. “Jeeze,” he said, “this is good!”
“Yeah?” Bobby Joe said. “Ya think so?” Turning from Mitchell, looking at his corpulent wife, “Gi’me the jar, will ya, hon.”
With at the very least two and a half buttocks overhanging the wooden bench, “Sure, hon.” Myrna Klee said as, reaching into the A&P shopping bag at her feet, she removed a quart size Mason jar containing a clear liquid. Unscrewing the top, taking a sip, Myrna handed the wide mouthed jar across the table.
“Thanks, hon.” Swiping the palm of his hand across his mouth, bringing the bottle to his lips, taking a full mouthed swig, closing his eyes, “Ahhhh!” Bobby Joe handed the bottle to his right.
“Uh, what’s it?”
“Don’t’ja’ya’all worry, Mitchie boy, you’ll like it.” Looking past Mitchell, he winked. “Won’t he, Hugh?”
“Yeah, go on ’Pinsky. You’ll like it!”
“Well…” Glancing at his wife, who shrugged her shoulders. Taking the bottle, bringing it to the level of his eyes, swishing it, he looked at the clear contents a moment. Moving the jar to beneath his nose, smelling, discovering it had no odor, Mitchell took first a sip, then, further finding it had almost no taste, a gulp.
Smooth! Unlike anything Mitchell Lipensky had ever drunk, the mouthful of liquor went down so smoothly…
Until a moment later…
When it reached bottom…
“Holy shit!” Going to his brain immediately, warming every organ in his body, and everything between, taking another swig before handing it to Hugh. “What the hell is it?”
“Somethin’ my pappy brewed up,” Bobby Joe said.
Immediately thinking of L’il Abner, “Somethin’ your pappy brewed up? Your pappy makes kickapoo joy juice?”
“Yeah!” Myrna said, giggling. “That’s it: kickapoo joy juice.”
The picture of L’il Abner’s pappy—Pappy Yoakum—and another character from the comic strip “Earthquake McGoon” came to the now completely befuddled mind of Mitchell Lipensky: The two of them, Pappy Yoakum and Earthquake McGoon, were sitting on either side of a pigsty—not too unlike this splintery, old redwood picnic table—and they were passing a one gallon, two tone jug with a little thumb hold handle on its top with three XXXs on its side back and forth.
“Kickapoo joy juice?” Having a hard time focusing, thinking his eyes were crossing, “I’m drinkin’ Kickapoo joy juice,” he said joyfully.
“Yeah!” Taking a drink, Hugh handed the bottle to Valerie, who, taking a sip, handed the bottle to her right… to Marsha.
Being about as much a drinker of liquor—and most certainly liquor made by someone’s “pappy”—as she was an eater of fish. “Oh, no!” Marsha said, “I don’t drink. Ever!”
“You a boozer?” Bobby Joe asked.
“Huh?”
“You on the wagon?”
Pointing across the table, giggling, “Her?” Mitchell asked incredulously, “Marsha, on the wagon?”
“Me?” Poking herself in the chest, “A boozer? No!”
Not liking her too much, thinking she looked down her nose at them. “Well, then,” Myrna said, nudging Marsha in the side with her elbow, “go on, take a sip! One teensy sip won’t kill ya!”
“Uh…” fishing for a reason, any reason not to take a drink of the stuff, especially since Hugh, Bobby Joe, Valerie and fat-assed, sloppy Myrna—all of whom, in fact, Marsha did look down her nose at—drank directly from the bottle, “…how’s about Michael?”
“Nah,” Myrna said, “he’s too young to drink.”
“No!” Unable to help herself, Marsha smiled. “What I mean is, if I take a drink and get drunk who’ll watch Mikey?”
Having been fed earlier, Rebecca, Michael and the two Klee children, Kevin and Karl, were playing in Rebecca’s sandbox.
Enjoying Marsha’s consternation, “Not that one teensy sip’ll get you drunk, but, Marsha, really, there’s enough adults here to watch after one more little kid!” Now addressing her husband, “Ain’t there Hugh?”
“Yeah!” Hugh replied. “You wanna hurt our feelin’s? Ain’t’j’ya’all never heard’a southern hospitality? One l’il ol’ sip ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all none, will it, Mitchie boy?”
“Gi’me!” Wiggling his fingers in the direction of the Mason jar… The bottle handed to him, taking another drink, waiting until the heat hit, closing then opening his eyes, looking—cross eyed?—at his wife, “Nah,” Mitchell said. “One teensy l’il ol’ drink ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all that much.”
Never having seen his wife drunk, vaguely wondering—well, more than just vaguely wondering—what Marsha would do in bed if she were just, maybe, a little drunk, and especially wondering if she’d do to him what she did to him on the night of the Transco Christmas party—even though it had lasted no more than fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. So maybe, because he didn’t ejaculate in her mouth then, she knew he wouldn’t now either because, first, he just wouldn’t, and secondly, knowing how little it took to make Marsha puke, and having his penis puked on wasn’t quite the sensation he had in mind, but Mitchell did think that if she got drunk enough maybe she would do it again. So, feeling the moonshine, Oh, yeah, feeling it indeed…
“Nah,” Mitchell said, “one teensy l’il ol’ drink ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all that much. You won’t even feel it. Ol’ Myrna here’s right! One it’sy, bit’sy…” holding his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart, “…l’il ol’ sip ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all!”
Wondering why her Chicago bred husband was suddenly speaking as though raised in the Appalachian mountains, “Okay,” she said dubiously, her gaze shifting from Mitchell to Hugh., “I’ll take one,” holding a finger forward, “little drink.” Taking the jar from Mitchell—fighting an impulse to run her napkin around the rim of the Mason Jar—bringing it to her mouth, closing her eyes, Marsha took a minute sip. Swirling the fluid over her palate, finding the stuff had almost no taste, she swallowed. And not wanting to be taunted into taking another drink, taking more into her mouth—because of the width of the mouth of the jar—getting more than she wanted… “Oh, God!”
When the mouthful of moonshine hit bottom, when the heat spread upward, opening her mouth to give escape to the heat, “Oh, God!” Marsha handed the jar to Myrna.
Taking a drink, offering the bottle, “Want another, Mitch?”
“Yeah!” Reaching across the table, “Don’t mind if I do.” Taking a mouthful, waiting for the heat… having the sensation that he was within a periphery of fuzziness, Mitchell blearily looked at the man to his left then to his right and from one to the other of the three women that sat across from him. Bringing his attention back to the meal of cornbread and sour cream baked potatoes—that had been supplied by Valerie and Myrna—and the tossed salad that Marsha had made, along with the barbecued catfish that he—as unbelievable as it still seemed—had in part been responsible for catching.
Looking at Myrna again, Mitchell did something that—due to her weight and the fact that Myrna hadn’t, not until that very moment, even remotely appealed to him—Mitchell did something that, though he did not think of it as such, had become a hobby of sorts. So now, mentally undressing her, Mitchell Lipensky, in his drunken stupor, envisioned Myrna Klee—at least as much of Myrna Klee as he wanted to envision—naked.
Speaking in sickeningly sweet tones, calling each other, so it seemed, their only pet name: “Hon,” Myrna and Bobby Joe Klee were, so Mitchell had thought from the moment he met them, a very strange looking couple. At 6' 1", weighing about one hundred fifty pounds, Bobby Joe, at the very least, could be considered as spindly; whereas his wife, standing at about 5' 1", and weighing at least two hundred ten pounds, Myrna could most definitely be considered as fat.
Mitchell had seen Myrna Klee from the front and rear. He’d seen her in house dresses and, wondering where in the world she found them, he’d seen her in blue jeans. And now and then she wore a very tightly stretched one piece bathing suit.
Mitchell had seen Myrna Klee’s dimpled, rippled and stippled flesh and, though she did have what he supposed could be considered a fairly attractive face—if one liked Kewpie dolls—the overall picture had always been so unappealing that he had hardly noticed.
But now, sitting across from Myrna, seeing her only from the chest up; on this balmy, late May evening, wearing a scoop necked house dress with the top three buttons open, the flesh… the abundant flesh of Myrna’s heavy breasts overflowing the cups of her size 42DD bra, half crocked… more than half crocked from three very healthy swigs of Pappy Yoakum’s brew, he did… Mitchell Lipensky did notice and did suddenly realize that Myrna Klee… Jesus, he thought, she’s got to have the biggest tits of anyone I’ve ever known!
Being a tit man, also a leg, thigh and ass man, but primarily a tit man, to Mitchell Lipensky, especially now, flushed from the hunt, and—well, after all he did catch four fish and did clean three of them. So now—partially soused—well, maybe more than partially soused—going on the true tit man’s theory that all tits are beautiful: mentally undressing Myrna, from the top only though, imagining saucer size areolae and her gargantuan breasts—which had to hang at least to her waist—sensing the muscles in his arms bulge, mentally feeling their massive weight within the palms of his hands, feeling their silken warmth on either side of his face, and over his shoulders, hidden beneath the table, the crotch of Mitchell Lipensky’s jeans tightened.
Beyond her breasts, though, the thought of intercourse with Myrna Klee unimaginable—even if he was drunk—Mitchell’s attention, along with his bleary—crossed?—eyes turned to the other pair of tits that were sitting on the opposite side of the table that he had seen, and, at least for the moment, what Mitchell looked at were not the tits of his wife
