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Ida Parminter was a diminutive woman who yielded absolute power over Norman, his baby brother, and her husband. Standing on their third floor porch, calling for Norman, Ida’s voice would resound throughout the entire block and Mitchell had often wondered how such a small lady could have such a big voice.

Standing well under six feet tall, Frank Parminter was a burly man that in his younger years had been a professional wrestler for a short time. Frank now earned his living by working at a defense plant during the week and vending beer or peanuts at the Chicago Stadium on weekends.

Chicago, Illinois

June 15, 1844

Searching under the table, Norman retrieved one tattered gym shoe. Looking about, “Where’s the other?” he said aloud as he walked to the living room where a quick search revealed one end of the frayed shoelace of his other shoe beneath the sofa. Going into the bedroom he shared with his two-year-old brother, removing his pajamas, Norman put on boxer shorts, corduroy pants, and a striped polo shirt. Checking to be sure that he had the key and his “four bits,” pulling the door shut behind him, swinging himself by the banister post over the first four steps of each landing, bounding down the three flights of stairs, Norman ran through his yard, then Mitchell’s, up the three flights of stairs, and through the gate onto the Lipenskys’ porch, where Mitchell stood just inside the screen door waiting for him.

The friends hadn’t seen each other since spring vacation, over two months before, and, embarrassed by the utter joy of being in the company of the other again, the two stood on either side of the door looking at each other through the screen. Too old to hug and too young to shake hands, the emotion of being together again was clearly seen on each of their faces.

“Hi, Mitchie.”

“Hi’ya, Normie.”

“For goodness sake,” Myra scolded, “let him in!”   

“Oh, yeah.” Pushing the door open, Mitchell stepped aside.

The odors of melted butter and frying cheese filled the kitchen as Myra pressed the second batch of four pieces of butter-browned white bread together with a spatula, causing the melted American cheese to ooze from between the slices of bread onto the hot griddle.

Looking at her, “Hello, Mrs. Lipensky.” Norman stared a moment at the size of Myra’s stomach beneath the apron she wore.

“Hello, Norman… You two go wash your hands. Lunch’ll be ready in a minute.”

                                                                                      ****

Through with lunch, sitting on the downstairs stoop, the movie section of the Chicago Sun on his lap, “So, Mitch,” Norman asked, “you happy to be home again?”

“You kiddin’?” Feeling the vibrations of the traffic. Hearing the rattle and clang of a streetcar. Smelling the mix of cooking odors coming from the open windows. Remembering just how badly he’d missed the sounds, sights and smells of his neighborhood, of his world, caused Mitchell to feel as though he were on the verge of crying. “Yeah, Normie, I sure am! So,” he asked, changing the subject, “what’s around?”

A virtual cornucopia of movie theaters to choose from: on Ogden Avenue, two blocks to the west was the Lindy; on Kedzie Avenue, four blocks east was the White Palace; on Cermak Road, four blocks to the south was the Douglas; and about a mile east on Cermak was the Marshall Square. In the opposite direction, going north to Roosevelt Road there was the Gold, Twentieth Century, and Central Park theaters.

On Saturday afternoons, all the neighborhood movie theaters catered to the kids, showing two movies, newsreels, weekly serials, three to four cartoons and, more often then not, a comedic short. Some of the theaters even gave gifts with the price of admission, and most had weekly raffles for anyone buying at least one ten-cent war stamp that came along with a raffle ticket.

For the price of a quarter for admission and a quarter for candy and popcorn, parents felt that the movies were, indeed, a baby-sitting value beyond comparison, giving them at least three and a half hours of peace and quiet and, “So, nu, you want to stay a second time? So, okay! So stay a second time.”

Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Red Ryder, Wild Bill Elliot, Lash LaRue.

The “good guys” wore white hats and the “bad guys” wore black hats, with the exception of “Hoppy,” Hopalong Cassidy, who always wore black.

Tarzan, Boston Blackie, the Thin Man, Charlie Chan, Sherlock Holmes… “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, Abbot and Costello, the Three Stooges…

“My girl Nellie wore a brand new dress,

it was really might thin.

When she asked me how I liked it,

I answered with a grin.

Wait till the sun shines, Nellie!”

Superman… “Up, up, and away!” Captain Midnight, Don Winslow of the Navy, Terry and the Pirates, Rocket Man, Captain Marvel… “Shazam!”

Popeye, Woody Woodpecker, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig… “Th-th-that’s all folks!”

Previews of coming attractions and the newsreel.

“Hey, Mitchie, let’s go to the Douglas!”

“’s’okay with me!”

Running upstairs, he threw the newspaper onto the dining room table. “Hey, Mom, me’n’Normie’s goin’ to the Douglas! Okay to take money?”

“Straw’s cheaper than hey! And Normie and ‘I’!” Speaking through the bathroom door, “My purse is on the dresser. Take fifty cents and…” knowing her son, “stop running!”

Running to the bedroom, he took two quarters from her purse, closed it, opened it again and took another dime. “Thanks, Mom,” he called on the way out. “I took another dime!” Without waiting for an answer, slamming it behind him, running out the door, he thumped down the stairs.

Below, “Oh, God!” Mrs. Kaplin looked at her ceiling. “He’s home again! Manny, the little mumser’s home again!”

Feeling the warm, mid-June sun on his back, Mitchell blinked his eyes a number of times to be sure that he was really there: once again walking to the movies with his very best pal, Normie.

Neither boy could think of anyplace they would rather be or anything they would rather be doing and, relishing the moment, both walked in silence until, “Normie,” Mitchell looked to his side, “you ever think ’bout girls?”

“Huh?” The question was so far from his field of thought that Norman was not quite sure that he’d heard right. “What do you mean, ‘think ’bout girls’?”

“Girls! Girls! You ever think ’bout them?”

“No, course not! Why’d I ever wanna think ’bout girls?”

“You’n’me don’t have sisters, so we can’t see ’em, an’… You ever wonder ’bout their, uh, pissers?”

“No! Why’d I ever wanna wonder ’bout girl’s pissers?”

“Why? ’Cause they don’t got ’em! Girls are different’n guys. They got… I d’know… somethin’ else.”

Looking at his friend to see if he was serious, “Mitch,” Norman said, “I never thought ’bout it before, but if girls don’t got pissers, what’d they pee out’a?”

“Yeah! That’s what I’m sayin’! That’s what me’n’Frankie… Remember my pal, Frankie?”

Sensing a pang of jealousy, “Yeah,” Norman nodded his head.

“That’s what him’n’me wanted to know, so I asked our teacher…”

“What girls pee out’a?” Norman could not believe that anyone, especially Mitchell, would have courage enough to… “I can’t believe it! You asked your teacher how girls pee?”

“Not how girls pee, what they pee out’a! An’ yeah, me,” he said proudly. “An’ would you believe she never told us? She pretended to tell us, but really didn’t tell us nothin’. So me’n’Frankie asked this older guy we know, Skorupski, an’ he told us what girls got there is really what’s called a… uh, cunt. An’ sometimes, if they wanna, guys go ’round puttin’ their pissers—only on guys pissers are really what’s called a prick—an’ sometimes, if they wanna, guys put ’em—their pricks into girls—an’ then they, uh, kind’a pee in ’em.”

Too much to comprehend, stopping, looking at Mitchell, “First off,” Norman asked, “how could’j’ya do it? How’d you ever be able to get ‘it’ in ‘there’? An’ then, even if a guy could get it in there, why, why would any guy ever wanna put his pisser, or whatever you wanna call it, into a girl’s pisser, or whatever you wanna call it, an’ then do that, what’j’ya said, pee!? That’s the most disgusting thing I ever heard!”

“I didn’t say guys pee in ’em, I said they kind’a pee in em. An, yeah, Normie,” Mitchell said, beginning to walk again, “that’s what me’n’Frankie thought, too, but it’s the truth!” Holding his right hand up, “Swear on my mom!”

Everyone knows that if a guy swears on his mom it’s got to be the truth.

“Okay!” Asking the universally asked question, “But why would a guy do that? Tell me that if you know so much. Why would a guy ever wanna do that?”

“Okay,” Mitchell answered belligerently, “I’ll tell you if you really wanna know!”

Girls… Girls are… Girls are just there! Although the thought had never entered Norman’s mind before then, then, as though the question had become some sort of basic knowledge that was absolutely necessary for him to gain, immediately, Norman then felt an urgent need to know, and besides, by then his curiosity had been piqued, so… “Yeah, Mitch, I do wanna know! So tell me already!” Adding sarcastically, “P-lease!”

Crossing Twenty-first and Christiana, plenty of time to teach him… “Okay,” Mitchell said. “When guys get boners… You do know what a boner is, don’t’j’ya?”

Sure, Norman knew, but didn’t want to admit that he knew so, “No,” he said.

“Normie, are you ever dumb! A boner’s like when you get up in the mornin’ an’ you gotta pee, an’ it’s like, uh, you know,” popping his index finger upward, “big.”

“Okay! Okay already! Yeah, I know!”

“Well, when guys get ’em… Only then when they get ’em, they ain’t been sleepin’, and when they get ’em they put it into a girl’s, uh, cunt and jack-off, only then it’s called…”

Of course by that time Norman had first-hand knowledge of what jack-off meant, but enjoying seeing his friend become red-faced, asked anyway.

Jesus! Mitchell thought, was I ever that dumb? “It’s when you, uh…” holding his well-used, index finger stiffly extended, “‘J’ya ever…” inserting the finger into his cupped hand, moving the hand up and down, “uh, do it to yourself?”

Norman, like most ten-year-old boys, was pleasantly familiar with a “pee boner,” and that it felt nice, really nice, when held and—so he’d very pleasantly discovered—that by creating tight-handed friction along the shaft of his pee boner he’d been able to achieve a fantastic sensation. But—not about to admit this to Mitchell—before he could formulate the words to respond…

“Well, anyways,” embarrassed that he’d asked, not waiting for an answer, “that’s what’s called jacking-off. Only then, when a guy puts it… his, uh…” wanting to say prick, but not wanting to try to teach Norman too much too fast, “boner into a girl, it’s called…” glancing about to be sure that no one was within hearing, “fuckin’. Understand?”

“Okay! Yeah! But what I still wanna know is why’d a guy wanna do somethin’ that disgusting?”

“’Cause it feels nice! Uh, well, it’s supposed to feel real nice when a guy does it.”

Mitchell did not want to talk too much about the… “climatic sensation,” because if he went into too much detail Norman might have asked, “How come you know so much?” And, even though he’d asked Norman if he did it, Mitchell wasn’t quite ready to admit to his very best pal that he did… “it.”

“Anyways, that’s what this older guy, Skorupski, told me’n’Frankie. He said that when you put your… boner into a girl’s, uh… cunt an’, you know, fuck, it feels real good, an’ then you…”

At that moment­ Mitchell had two clear-cut revelations: Maybe it ain’t pee, but that other stuff that guys make into girls. Also, until that very moment he had never considered that, If it feels so nice when I do it to myself, maybe it’s gotta feel even more wonderful when you do it with a girl, ’cause if it didn’t, why’d a guy ever wanna go to the bother of doin’ it with a girl?

“…Uh,” pulling his thoughts together, finishing his sentence, “you, uh, kind’a, like, pee in her.”

Not having time enough to fully assimilate what Mitchell had told him, Norman then had his own unbelievable thought: Mom’n’dad always sleep with their door open, ’cept sometimes, then they close it, an’ lock it, an’ maybe that’s what they’re doin’ there then!

Walking on, contemplative, both boys pondered their thoughts, and the silence, though lasting only seconds, became pronounced

“So,” Mitchell asked after about a minute of complete silence, “you understand now?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.” Wanting to change the subject until he’d had more time to think about it, Norman asked the unanswerable question: “But what’s it look like? You know, a girls… thing?”

“This older guy, Skorupski, didn’t tell us, but you know what I think, Normie? I think it looks kind’a like a guy’s looks, only on girls it’s littler an’ fatter and kind’a like has a big hole in it.”

Envisioning somewhat the same picture, agreeing knowingly, “Yeah, an’ it’s gotta be kind’a like all crinkly’n’ugly.”

Laughing, “Yeah,” Mitchell said, “s’no wonder girls are always catchin’ colds all the time.”

“Yeah,” Norman added, “with the wind blowin’ through it all the time.”

Approaching the theater, going to the end of the line of children waiting for the doors to open, “Wanna know somethin’ I’ve just been thinkin’ ’bout?”

“Yeah, sure, Normie.”

Standing back from the two girls before them, speaking softly, “I heard my Mom’n’dad talkin’, an’ they said somethin’ ’bout your ma bein’…” When he’d heard the word, Norman had made a mental notation and now searched his memory… “p… pr… preg… I can’t remember, only I’m pretty sure your ma’s gonna have a baby.”

“A baby? No!”

The two girls standing in front looked over their shoulders.

“Yeah, she is! I’m sure she is! That’s why she’s so fat.”

“No! She’s fat, ’cause… Uh, she…” Stopping, thinking, the statement became a question, “swallowed a watermelon seed?” The ridiculousness of his father’s statement suddenly apparent, “My dad said my mom swallowed a watermelon seed,” he said softly, as if not wanting anyone else to be witness to his stupidity, “an’ he said that’s why she’s so fat.”

“Don’t be such a dummy! You ever eat watermelon without swallowing a seed… a whole bunch’a seeds?”

Looking away, Mitchell didn’t answer.

But persisting, “You believe everything your dad says?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? Kid’s dads don’t lie… do they?”

“Maybe he was only kiddin’. I don’t know ’bout that, but I do know…” whispering directly into Mitchell’s ear, “your ma’s got a baby in her stomach.”

“Yeah? How? What makes you so smart? How’d you know?”

“‘How’d I know’? “’Cause she looks like Lou Ann before her’n’Sal had their baby, that’s how!”

“A baby?” Mitchell said in wonder. “I’m gonna have a baby brother?”

“Or a sister. Maybe it ain’t a boy but a girl baby. And if it is,” whispering directly into Mitchell’s ear again, “you’ll let me see… it? Her, uh, whatchamacallit?”

“Yeah, sure.” Distracted, still finding it all but impossible to believe. “But if she’s really gonna have a baby, Normie, how’d it… How’d the baby get there?”

“You know,” saying it out loud somehow giving his conjecturing a bit more credence. “I think that maybe,” speaking softly again, “havin’ a baby has somethin’ to do with what we was just talkin’ ’bout.”

“You mean ’bout guys,” cupping his hand over Norman’s ear, “fuckin’ with girls?”

“Yeah. I think that’s got somethin’ to do with…” cupping his hand over Mitchell’s ear, “how babies get made.”

Thinking a moment, “Nah!” Mitchell said loudly. “It can’t be!”

The two girls looked at him again.

Waiting till the girls faced forward again, “It just can’t be!” he repeated.

“Yeah! Why? Why can’t it? How do you know?”

“Why? ’Cause, Normie, my mom’n’dad would never do stuff like that!”