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Peoria, Illinois: May 23, 1959

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 a tetanus shot, 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 1-1/4–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 carry-out 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!”

Book 2#6: Moonshine ‘N’ Boobies        

Sitting on a slivery wooden bench alongside of a newspaper-covered, viscera-covered slivery 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, 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 who hated fish of all kinds except, strangely, ‘gefilte’ —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 two quart-sized Mason jars containing a clear liquid. Unscrewing the top of one, 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 ‘XXX’s 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. liquor,  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. “Me,” she repeated incredulously, “a ‘boozer’? Me, ‘on the wagon’? Most certainly not!”

Not liking her too much, thinking she looked down her nose at them. “Well, then,” Myrna said, nudging Marsha in the side with her meaty 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,” Valerie 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”—lying— “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 twenty, maybe thirty seconds. So maybe, because he didn’t ejaculate in her mouth then, she knew he wouldn’t now either because, first off, 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 the moonshine indeed…

“Nah,” Mitchell  lied, “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 born and raised in the Appalachian mountains. “Okay,” she said dubiously, her gaze shifting from Mitchell to Hugh, “I’ll take one,” holding one 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’d 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, my God!” Marsha handed the jar to Myrna.

Draining the first quart of moonshine, “How’z’bout it?” holding the second jar forward. “How’z’bout, Mitchie boy?” Myrna asked.

“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 Myrna, 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’d worn 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 the 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.

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—other than Marsha ‘looking down her nose’ at her and her husband— 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 and especially Bobby-Joe.

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 in 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…

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 Lipensky 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 his wife’s head to be, 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.

    To be continued