­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­                                            Becoming

                                             Prologue (Retrospective)

Chicago, Illinois

Spring, 1939

The lady and boy stood at the curb.

Watching the stoplight across the wide, busy street, the lady looked forward, waiting for the light to turn to green.

The five-year-old boy at her side looked to his left, watching the light across the smaller street, waiting for it to turn to red.

The lights changed colors: from red to green, from green to red.

Automobiles stopped on either side of the wide street.

From the little boy’s perspective, looking much like a red monster, its steel wheels squealing in steel tracks, a streetcar halted its rattling forward motion and seemed to be straining to begin moving again.

Tightening her grip on the boy’s hand, the woman and child started across the wide street.

On the other side of the street a man carefully stepped off the curb to begin his journey in the opposite direction.

Scraggly gray hair hung over his age‑splotched forehead and he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane that he held tightly in his gnarled hand.

Crossing paths, the fog‑cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the little boy and held for the seconds it took to pass.

Passing, the little boy turned his head, watching the old man. Tripping on the curb, he hung by his mother’s hand until she pulled him up onto the sidewalk and his own two feet.

“Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?”

“What man?” Turning, the woman looked at the slowly receding figure. “Oh. Nothing, baby, he’s just an old man.”

Watching another moment, “Will daddy be an old man someday?”.

“Why yes, baby. I hope so.”

“And will you be old someday, too, Mommy?”

“Yes, Mitchie. God willing. Unless something bad happens, I’ll be an old lady someday.”

“And me too, Mommy, I’ll be old, too?”

“Yes, baby, someday.”

His throat tightening, his eyes stinging, the boy began to cry.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Reaching into her purse, removing a handkerchief, she wiped away his tears.

“I don’t want to be old, Mommy!”

Stooping, “Shhh,” hugging her son to her chest, “don’t worry, Mitchie. You’ve a whole lifetime ’till you’ll be an old man.”

Standing, taking hold of her son’s hand, the two began to walk again.

The boy looked over his shoulder at him one last time, but the old man had disappeared from sight. ­­­__________________________________________________________________          

                                             Becoming

                                                           Epilogue (Retrospective)

Brighton Beach, New York

Spring, 1956

Standing at the curb, the old man looked forward, watching the stoplight, waiting for it to turn green.

The lights on the four corners changed colors: from red to green, from green to red.

A dark-blue convertible, its top open to the early spring sun, rolled to a halt.

Stepping off the curb carefully, the old man began his shuffling journey across the wide street.

Scraggly gray hair hanging over his wrinkled, age-splotched forehead, he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane that he held tightly within his gnarled hand.

In the convertible, the young man placed his hand onto the bare, sun-warmed knee of the young woman that sat next to him.

Approaching the convertible, lifting his head, the fog-cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the young man, and…

…For a prolonged moment the eyes of the old man and the eyes of the young man locked, for there was a sort of unknown, but long-remembered, distant recognition.

And a shroud of unbearable sadness griped the old man’s heart…

…for he remembered “what was,” when once he was young.

The young man, though, had no fear, for after all he has a whole lifetime until he became an old man.

Shuffling on… passing the car, stopping, turning, the old man peered through the open window, at the beautiful, dark-haired young woman…

And a veil of tears covered the old man’s eyes, as…

Looking back at the old man, the young woman smiled, and…

Nodding his head, sadly turning his eyes from the face of the young woman, the old man continued across the street.

The lights changed colors: from green to red, from red to green.

Stepping onto the curb, the old man turned to look at the girl and him one last time …

But the convertible was gone.

_______________________________________________________________________

                                                     For Better or Worse

                                                   Prologue (Retrospective)

Brighton Beach, New York

Spring, 1956

Twisting on the seat, the young woman looked at the receding figure, watching the old man as he crossed the street. When he was no longer in view, facing forward, “Did you see that old man back there, the way he looked at us?”

As the convertible waited for the red to change to green, the young man did see the old man.

When they began to drive, his eyes had flicked nervously to the rear-view mirror and back to the busy, early evening traffic of Neptune Avenue.

Glancing at the pretty, dark­haired young woman sitting alongside him, “No,” he said. “What old man?”

“That old man back there!” she said impatiently. “When we stopped for the light he crossed the street. Remember? And he stopped and stared at you, then at me, almost like he knew us.” Feeling a chill, she shuddered. “I don’t know… the way he looked at us was… weird.”

Placing his hand upon her bare, sun-­warmed knee, hesitating… “Back there? An old guy? Nah, I didn’t notice any old guy.”

___________________________________________________________________

                                                        For Better or Worse

                                                      Epilogue (Prospective)

Ventura County, California

 Spring, 2024

Witnessing a sense of déjà vu, stepping back from the curb, the old man turned to look at the young woman and young man one last time.

But the convertible was gone.

Sighing, knowing he hadn’t really seen what he thought he had seen, reluctantly passing it off as the wandering imagination of an old man, continuing his walk, slowly making his way to the corner, turning right he walked the half block to the entrance of the modernistic, high rise Facilitated Apartments for the Elderly.

Still shaken by the illusion of himself and his long gone first wife—the illusion of his wife and himself in their early twenties continuing to cause a tightening in his throat and a stinging behind his eyes—opting to walk the four wide steps rather than using the slightly upward angled ramp, the pneumatic hiss proceeding the opening of the stainless steel and plate glass door, the old man entered into the climate controlled building.

Expecting to see his wife, straightening his back, the old man forced his body into more of an upright position. Hoping to see her, running his fingers through his rather scraggily hair, bringing it off his forehead, he looked about the chair and sofa appointed vestibule, and was not disappointed because…

Watching for him, seeing her husband, the petite lady sat upright in the wing chair she had been sitting in for the past half ­hour waiting for him to return.

Their eyes touched and held for the time it took him to shuffle across the low pile, carpeted lobby.

Nodding his head downward, “‘Afternoon, Bonnie.” Nodding his head upward, “You want to go up?”

Smiling, “Of course,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Offering his free hand, steadying his position with the cane he held in his other hand, the old man helped the lady onto her feet.

Draping her hand through his arm, walking closely side by side, the two slowly moved across the length of the large room.

It took no more than fifteen seconds for the imitation ­wood ­panelled elevator door to slide open.

Offering her first entry, he then stepped behind the old lady, between her back and the rear wall of the elevator. Backing into him, pressing her back against the old man’s front, arching her body slightly, the old lady pressed her buttocks into the old man’s lower abdomen and moved, oh, ever so slowly, ever so slightly from side to side.

Closing his eyes to the sensation of this very humanistic touch, to the sensation of this very humanistic sexual touch, nuzzling the side of her neck, kissing the lobe of her ear, the old man’s hand moved through the seams of the front of the old lady’s buttoned housedress, where he held a moderately small but, oh, so soft, so warm, breast within the palm of his hand.

Closing her eyes to the sensation of this very humanistic touch, to the sensation of this very humanistic, definitely sexual touch, continuing with what had by then become their ritual, “Know what?” Bonnie asked. Then answering her own question, “I can’t wait to get you naked in my bed.”

Always thrilled by…

Always loving the feel of the warm softness of a woman’s breast, of the warm softness of this woman’s breast, sensing an, albeit slight, but yet awakening of his penis, now whispering directly into her ear, “Me, too, Bonnie,” he replied. “I can’t wait to get into bed with you naked, too.”

Being a lifetime, major subscriber to the roughly ­thought theory that the day a man no longer looks at women, or desires women, on that day, at that time the man begins to die.

So…

Looking upward, I’m still alive! Mitchell Lipensky thought. I’m still alive.