_______________________________________________________________________
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.
___________________________________________________________________
Peoria, Illinois
May 23, 1959
In Mitchell’s opinion, Hugh and Valerie Ivy appeared to be a fairly well matched couple. In height, weight and the looks department they were, in Mitchell’s opinion, average.
Being a sweet, but not overly intelligent young woman, he and Marsha truly did like Valerie.
However there were a number things about her husband that neither liked.
First off, Hugh was the absolute ruler of their home.
Often appearing with bruises, one day Valerie also appeared with a blackened eye, coming up with the weak excuse of “accidentally walking into a door.” Marsha and Mitchell both thought of Hugh Ivy as a wife beater.
Secondly, Hugh Ivy had an undertone of…
While on the fringe of a conversation between Hugh and Bobby Joe, Mitchell overheard the word “kikes” used in reference—so he assumed—to Marsha and himself. Also, even though he felt a flush of anger whenever he heard the word, still considering himself an outsider, knowing that, though considering them beneath her, Marsha and Michael enjoyed the company of these women and children, excluding cowardice, truly not knowing what to do about it—thinking of his lost friend, Ruby—Mitchell hated when the words “nigger,” “spade,” and “coon” were used. This, above all else caused him to drastically minimize the time spent with Hugh.
But having no reason to dislike Valerie, by accident one day…
Well, because when given the opportunity he would always look, it wasn’t altogether by accident that Mitchell had seen Valerie’s breasts.
It had happened on the second of May.
After a late night rainstorm, on his way to that morning’s first calls, stepping outside, taking a deep breath, “Oh, God!”
It was one of those exceptionally beautiful spring mornings that, more than merely sensing, you could actually feel in your mind, your heart and the pit of your stomach: the air warm, the breeze balmy and the powdery, light blue sky dusted with wispy, brilliantly white clouds that could only have come from the palette of, and been painted by the hand of God.
The morning of May second was the start of one of those rarefied spring days that gave Mitchell Lipensky cause to pause and, if he needed one, another reason to be thankful to be alive.
“Hi!” Coming out of her door with Rebecca’s hand in hers, waving to Mitchell, Valerie stooped to tie her daughter’s shoelaces.
Approaching, “Hi, Val,” he’d stood behind Rebecca and above the kneeling figure of her mother.
Freshly out of the shower, wearing a bathrobe with, so he was about to discover, nothing beneath, in her stooped position Valerie’s robe had gaped open and…
Sure! You bet!
Making whatever small talk he could think of, he stood above her for the thirty or so seconds it had taken Valerie to double tie her daughter’s shoelaces.
Whether or not she was aware that her robe was open or whether or not she was aware that he was looking, or, for that matter, whether or not she was aware that her breasts were fully exposed, Mitchell Lipensky did see Valerie Ivy’s moderate sized breasts that looked so good, with their small, chocolate colored nipples that looked so good…
So, because of the combination of the sight of these “strange tits” that looked so good, along with the beauty of this heaven sent spring day, Screw work, he’d thought, so…
Keeping the chatter going, of course waiting until Valerie stood and her breasts were once again hidden beneath the robe, Mitchell then retraced his steps and, finding Marsha upstairs making the bed, he’d suggested a way in which they might go about messing it again and, as Michael was safely ensconced in front of the television, Marsha had, much to his surprise, actually agreed and they did, indeed, mess the bed…
May 23, 1959
So unlike this night because—impervious to the masticated, backwashed bits of barbecued catfish, cornbread, sour cream baked potatoes and tossed salad that swirled around the clear fluid within the Mason jar—after having another two or three slugs of Bobby Joe’s pappy’s moonshine, as always, when Mitchell had that one or two slugs too many, his head began to spin and his stomach began to churn and, rather than ending this day in bed with his wife’s head where he’d hoped, this day ended with her husband’s head in the toilet.
Also, having two more sips of the Mason jar, Marsha Lipensky wasn’t feeling too well herself.
Working
Remembering, for a while queries coming from Peoria looked like this:
DATE: 4/19/59
FROM: M. Lipensky
CUSTOMER NAME: Oeltman Engineering.
PRODUCTION ORDER: 1811772
REQUEST: #10’s running a little late. Customer
getting low.
And shortly progressed to this:
DATE: 5/29/59
FROM: M. Lipensky
CUSTOMER NAME: Peoria Motors
PRODUCTION ORDER: 1812007
REQUEST: Customer is becoming angry, wants to
know where the hell his 63/4’s are!
And soon to this:
DATE: 6/26/59
FROM: M. Lipensky
CUSTOMER NAME: Central Illinois Lumber Co.
PRODUCTION ORDER: 1812909
REQUEST: Damn it! I need these eps!!!
Immediate shipment demanded!!!
And the trainee, thinking, What an asshole! putting the latest query from “M. Lipensky” on the bottom of the stack, paying scant attention to the young man that sat at the adjoining desk, sauntering across the room, the trainee headed to the corridor of files.
July 14, 1959
Chicago, Illinois
He’d had the second of his occasional twice weekly day labor jobs yesterday. Afterwards, reciprocating to a friend that had popped for drinks on one of his nonworking days, the derelict had spent the remainder of that day’s wage, as usual, by staggering from one gin mill to another, that, in this skid row area of Chicago’s West Madison Street were in more than ample abundance.
At 5:12 a.m.…
“’Ay, man!”
****
As had become his habit… “All food establishments remaining open twenty-four hours a day,” so said the Chicago regulations, “must close at least one hour per day for clean up.” So…
After relieving his brother, on warm mornings, leaving the double doors open, the man would pull the steel barred, diamond shaped accordion gate to a closed position and lock the lock.
However, extremely distracted on this day, he had merely slipped the hasp of the Master Lock through the staple of the adjoining hasp, then, as always, the man began to…
****
“’Ay, man!”
Having swept the floor, now mopping the floor, “Huh?” His back to the door, turning, he saw the unkempt, vaguely familiar black man.
“Needs me a cup’a’jo!”
Being a good humored, generous man he had done it on hundreds of occasions and normally would have poured coffee into a takeout cup, handed it through the gate and given it to the bum.
Far from his usual mood on this day however, wondering if it wasn’t past time he took his head out of the sand and see his wife for what he knew—for what he had known—she was and what she did, but could not admit to; in an uncharacteristically bad mood, “Sorry,” the man—wearing a long white apron over his neatly pressed slacks and sport shirt, said—“we’re closed. Come back later.”
Having taken advantage of this man in the past, “’Ay,” wrapping his hands around a bar, rattling the gate, “all’s I want’s a cup’a’jo!”
“Look, I told you, we’re closed now!”
“Yeah, I know’s ya tol’ me!” Noticing the lock was not locked, “but…” slipping the hasp from the staple, pulling the gate open, coming into the restaurant, “I need’s me a cup’a’jo, now!”
“God-damn-it!” Dropping it, the mop handle fell between two stools where it clattered against the Formica counter. “I told you: not now!” Taking two steps forward, “Get the hell out of here!” Putting both hands onto his chest, shoving, the man pushed the derelict against the partially open gate.
“’Ay!” Pushing back, coming closer, shaking a fist in the man’s face. “All’s I want’s a cup’a your goddamned, fuckin’ jo!”
Thinking it would scare him away, speaking from between clenched teeth, “If you don’t get the hell out of here right now…” Moving the apron aside, the man exposed the wood grain handle of a snub nosed .38 caliber pistol that was tucked beneath his belt. But the threat remained unfinished because…
Shoving again, the derelict pushed the man backwards, where, tripping on the mop handle, off balance, the man stumbled between the stools and…
As he stumbled, jerking the pistol from the man’s belt…
