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Book 2#1: 7/11 to 12/20/58

July 11 through September 2, 1958

Paradise Found

Separated from 4:00 a.m. on Monday—when Mitchell drove directly to work—to 7:00 p.m. on Friday, when he returned to Lakeside where he and Marsha were as newlyweds their love, and lovemaking, practically knew no bounds.

When the passion ended, though, especially during the lonely, pre-dawn trips back to Chicago, Mitchell often wondered: when summer was through, would his life… would their lives revert to the argumentative, dispassionate life he and his wife had lived.

Knowing the tall, beautiful woman with a child, a legitimate child, did have a husband and was not a threat, some of the previously unfriendly women on the beach did befriend Marsha, so now…

As an adult with a commuting husband…

With the exception of the specter of  “Nate” Gordon Nathanson…

Lakeside, Michigan, did, once again, become a paradise for Marsha Goldman Lipensky.

September 2 through December 20, 1958

Back Again

“Holy shit!”

Overwhelmed by the expanse of the factory and the size and din of the machinery, this being his first sight of the interior of the plant. “Holy shit!”

“Yeah. Pretty darn impressive, isn’t it?”

Glancing at the man, “I’ve got to know all about all of this stuff, Gene?”

“Well, not so you’d have to run any of the machinery. But, yeah, by the time you’re in the field you’ll have a pretty good idea about what goes into the making of an envelope.

“Jesus, Christ, I never imagined…”

Grimacing at the words ‘Jesus Christ’, “Mitch, come here a minute, will you.”   Taking hold of his elbow, Gene Tarnowski steered him to behind a tall bank of stacked, folded cartons where the sounds of the factory were slightly muffled.

“I’ve a feeling that you and I’ll get along just fine, but I’m a Christian, you see, and I’d rather you didn’t use the ‘Lord’s’ name that way.”

Confused, Mitchell looked at Transco’s sales manager. “I don’t know what…” Remembering, “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay. Only try not to talk that way when I’m around, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry.”

“No problem. Come on, let me show you around.”

                                                                                ****

 Located on Chicago's near north side, easily covering one half of a city block, Transco Envelope Company was a twenty minute car drive from the one-bedroom apartment Marsha and Mitchell had rented prior to Labor Day and, once again with the help of Roger’s friend Myron, had moved into over the three-day weekend.

With Labor Day coincidentally falling on the first day of the month, one of the two newly-hired trainees in tow of their immediate boss, Mitchell Lipensky was starting his first day with an orientation of the plant.

The second trainee, whom, due to a prior obligation would not begin her—‘her’? What a radical idea: an outside female sales-lady—would not begin her training until the start of the second week in September.

                                                                 ****

Machines of all sizes: some no larger than a desk, some long and squat, some huge and, in Mitchell’s opinion, as tall as a two-story building, and some looking, in Mitchell’s opinion, like ‘Rube Goldberg’ inventions with huge, also in Mitchell’s opinion, million-pound rolls of paper of all colors that fed into one end of the machine and came out the other, after feeding through stainless steel cylinders that were moved by well-greased cogs, that were then die-cut by razor-sharp blades that rolled on never-ending belts that came out as white or colored regular or, as Gene Tarnowski called them, ‘C&O’s’: ‘commercial and official envelopes’ or, as Gene also called them, ‘O.E’s’: ‘open-end’, white or brown kraft envelopes of all sizes with regular gummed flaps or flaps with clasps or flaps with string and buttons. And there were envelopes with windows made of… ‘Cello’,” Gene said over the din, speaking directly into the trainee’s ear. Taking an envelope with a crystal clear window from the conveyer belt, he handed it to him.

Approaching another machine, “And this…” plucking an envelope with a slightly milky appearing window from the belt, giving it to him, “is ‘glassine’.”

Coming to one of the Rube Goldberg-like machines, signaling the operator, Gene waited until the blurred high speed machine slowed, then, snatching one of the envelopes, waving at the operator, the belt once again became a blur. “This is what puts us ahead of the competition,” he said proudly. “This is what our competitive edge is based on. This is our patented ‘Transco’ envelope with its exclusive ‘no peek’ window.”

Taking the business-sized envelope, Mitchell saw, unlike the other two envelopes that had a patch of glassine or cello beneath the die-cut window, the window of this envelope looked as though the transparent oval was made of the paper itself. Also,  the inside of the envelope was darkly tinted with what looked like Chinese lettering.

“You’ll notice,” Gene said, “that the envelope is all one piece; the window is actually a chemical patch that not only renders the paper transparent”— giving Mitchell part of the sales pitch —“but because of the way it’s made, it also makes it impossible to read what’s under the window.” Reaching into his breast pocket, removing an index card, he placed it in the cello envelope, then, squeezing the bottom and top edges, causing the envelope to buckle, “See?” And, indeed, beyond the window Mitchell could easily read a few lines of the index card. “But look at this.” Placing the index card into the Transco envelope, squeezing the edges, causing the envelope to buckle. “See?” Away from the surface of the card, the chemical patch became opaque, so now Mitchell saw nothing but a blur. “This makes”— going on with the pitch —“the enclosure absolutely private. Also, because there are no edges to snag, it makes this envelope perfect for automatic insertion… So,” he asked Mitchell, “what do you think?”

Not sure what ‘automatic insertion’  meant, or why any envelope would have to be all that private, “Yeah,” he said, doing his best to sound sincere, “that’s great!”

“Come on. I want Donna to show you the office procedures… Oh, by the way! About that matter we discussed,” Gene said as they made their way to the front of the plant, “you told your wife, didn’t you?”

Taking a moment for Mitchell to understand the question. Remembering the first and only time he’d mentioned it, he’d been surprised at Marsha’s positive reaction. However, unsure of her feelings now, now that things seemed to be going so well. “Yes. Sure I told her!”

October 13, 1958: Elizabeth

“Here you go, Mitch.”

“Mrs. Holroyd,” distastefully ruffling the edges of the never-ending stack of daily queries, said in mock sarcasm, “thanks a lot!”

“You’re welcome. And I told you,” said in a mock scolding tone, “the name’s ‘Donna’.”

“Okay, Donna, thanks.”

“Here’s yours, Liz.” Handing a like-sized stack of queries to the young woman on the opposite side of the head-to-head placed desks.

Concentrating on what she’d been writing, looking up, she smiled at the woman standing above her. “Here we go again, huh?” Looking across the width of the two front to front desks, their eyes touching, her lingering smile warming, very much so, too much so, the young man sitting on the opposite side of the double desks.

Why’s she got to be so damned beautiful? Mitchell thought for at least the thousandth time since meeting Elizabeth Herzon and, for at least twice as many times, Mitchell sensed the… that  well known longing sensation in the lower region… the far lower region of his stomach.

Being Transco Envelope Company’s first female salesman—saleswoman?—considered an experiment, at age twenty-one, Elizabeth Herzon had long, dark blonde, honey colored streaked hair, a beautiful, round face with large, green eyes and a crooked smile that warmed everyone it came in contact with.

Standing a bit below 5' 5", weighing approximately one hundred twenty-five pounds, with vital statistics of 38–28–38, Elizabeth had the kind of figure that turned men’s heads. The kind of figure that  especially  turned the head of the young man that sat directly across from her.

Yes! Knowing men followed her with their eyes had raised Elizabeth’s ego and yes, further knowing they looked longingly had sent her estimation of herself—compared to what her estimation of herself had always been before—soaring into the stratosphere because Elizabeth Herzon had always been…

Unknown to all but her family and a few remaining friends, Elizabeth had always been….

“Oy, such a punnum! Such a beautiful face!” Her mother and father and aunts and uncles would say. “Such a shame she’s so…

“Fat!”

Elizabeth’s job as a sales woman was meant as yet another challenge to herself because, after all, if only after fifteen months of pain, unbearable sacrifice and stubborn determination, she could lose a bit more than seventy pounds, then, Okay, Elizabeth thought, so he’s married! Who knew about the shy, handsome young man that sat across from her that she—unconsciously?—smiled at seductively. The young man that she—accidentally?—brushed against whenever they would find themselves passing in the tight corridor between the rows of filing cabinets, where she as much as he—she was sure—would go out of his way to be there whenever she was there because Mitchell Lipensky was the young man that Elizabeth Herzon had on, so many occasions, dreamt of meeting and falling in love with. And so long as she was fantasizing, her love, of course, would be fully reciprocated.

However she did know that Mitchell was married and did know that he had a child. Nonetheless, after living her life with no one to love, the young man that sat across from her—he should only know—had become the object of Elizabeth Herzon’s masturbatory daydreams and thought it would be so easy to seduce him, to have him, and Oh, yes, Elizabeth wanted him! Possibly because she knew she couldn’t have him. However…

There were three reasons Elizabeth did not allow her feelings to visibly surface. One: she was rather sure it would mean immediate dismissal from Transco Envelope Company. Two: she truly did not want to be the cause of a broken home. Three: dressed, Elizabeth—forcing her fat girl syndrome aside—thought she looked good… thought she looked great in fact. But nude, the tissue of her heavy breasts had stretched and, though beginning to fade with time and tighten with exercise, Elizabeth’s breasts, stomach, thighs and buttocks were crossed with translucent stretch marks. Also, due to the many years of extra flesh, her stomach and buttocks were ‘mushy’ and, in her opinion, so ugly. So, she thought, no way am I ready to have any guy see me naked!

Looking at Mitchell, Why’s he got to be married? Smiling at Mitchell, sensing a warming within her groin, forcing her eyes from the young man that sat across from her, lifting the top sheet, Elizabeth studied the heavily written, angrily underlined query…

Subconsciously still thinking of herself as a fat person, yet she thought, If I’m so beautiful, then how come men aren’t throwing themselves at me? Why? After all I’ve been through! After all I’ve done to make myself look good… beautiful, in fact! How come I’m not buried in men? Why? How come?

Why? Because, as an overweight child—as a fat child—Elizabeth had been taunted and tormented by other children.

Why? Because, as a teenager, Elizabeth had been snubbed and rejected by those whom she most wanted to be accepted by.

How come? As a mechanism of self-defense, Elizabeth Herzon had taught herself to put forth a show of contempt and indifference.

So…

Later, after losing a bit more than seventy pounds, as a beautiful, twenty-one-year-old woman—unable to shed years of an indifferent, contemptuous attitude—Elizabeth’s personality repulsed or intimidated most of the young men she met. Besides, most of the men she met rationalized: Any woman looking as Elizabeth looks must have boyfriends! Must have at least one boyfriend!

So in addition to old attitudes, Elizabeth Herzon’s newly found egotism at play, knowing an intimate relationship would mean the eventual showing of her stretch-marked, mushy body, which she was no where ready to allow…

However, Elizabeth Herzon really liked Mitchell Lipensky and did allow her guard to drop.

Thinking, actually hoping the young woman’s attitude toward him was nothing more than that of an extremely friendly co-worker, because his feelings were more, much more than those merely of a friendly co-worker.

Actually, thinking he loved Elizabeth Hurzon—other than the ‘accidental’ touching of bodies within the narrow corroder of filing cabinets—Mitchell Lipensky knew if he so much as touched Elizabeth it would open a dam of passion that he was sure he would be powerless to stop.

So, yes, he did return Elizabeth’s friendly gaze and, yes, he did melt within the warmth of Elizabeth’s smile and, Oh, God, he did feel the touch of her body when they accidentally brushed against each other in the narrow corridor of filing cabinets. And, Oh, yes, having honey colored-streaked hair, and being beautiful… unbelievably beautiful and having the type of body he’d always fantasized over. As men are able, at times, to fantasize the impossible, Elizabeth Herzon—she should only know—had become the embodiment of Mitchell Lipensky’s masturbatory daydreams. But fearing the breakup of his marriage, that had so recently mended, outside of the meeting of their eyes and the accidental brushing of their bodies and, Oh, yeah the envisioning of Elizabeth’s beautiful breasts and beautiful body and, Oh, God! the warmth of her vagina that Mitchell Lipensky envisioned in his daydreams… remained only in his daydreams.

To be continued