A "Becoming" Excerpt

Into A Different World

Chicago, Illinois

May 28, 1949

Invitation 

“Hello!”

 “Yeah, hello!” In a false-sounding, deeply masculine voice, “This the La’pish’ky residence?”

 “ ‘Lipensky’! Yeah, it is!”

 “Is there a, uh, Mitchell La’pish’ky there?”

 “This is Mitchell Lipensky!”

“ ‘ The’ Mitchell La’pish’ky?”

 “Yes!” Now knowing it’s a gag. “Who’s this?”

 “Mitchell La’pish’ky? The ‘Jewish peeeg’!”

 “My God, ‘Frankie’!”

 “Hey, ya big shit! Your hand busted? You can’t pick up the phone an’ call me once in a while?”

 “Yeah, I know, sorry. So what’j’ya been doin’ with yourself? How’d you like high school? Jesus, Frankie, you’re gonna be a junior!”

 “No. The Catholic school my folks sent me to doesn’t have half semesters, so I was put back an’ graduated same as you.”

 “That’s tough, bein’ put back that way.”

 “Nah, didn’t mind all that much. So, what’j’ya been doing’?”

 “I had my Bar Mitzvah… what? Jesus, almost two years ago, and I’m going to ‘Harrison’! ...When the hell’s the last time we talked to each other?”

 “When I called you!”

 “Okay already, I’m sorry! I promise, I’ll call next time! Okay?”

 “Okay, you dick, I’ll forgive ya… This time! I think the last time we talked was right after you got that stupid ring.”

 “My ‘Captain Midnight ring’.” He laughed. “It never did work.”

 “So, Mitch, so tell me, you still ‘cherry’? Ya ever get laid?” Frank laughed, too. “Ever even get to see a cunt?”

 Not too sure what ‘cherry’ meant, and ‘no’, he hadn’t been laid and had no more of an idea then, than when he’d been nine and so said nothing.

 “Yeah, that’s what I thought! Know what?” Without waiting for an answer, “It’s ’bout time I got’j’ya fucked. Look, why don’t’j’ya talk to your folks an’ see if you can visit here for a couple’a days after school’s out? You remember that girl I tol’j’ya ’bout?”

 He thought a moment. “Oh, yeah! The one that wants to see what a Jewish dick looks like.”

 “Yeah! An’ seein’ as you’re the only Jewish dick I know!”

 “Fuck you, Rizzo!”

 “No, I been fucked! Now we’re gonna get you fucked. Anyway, for years now, Gina keeps askin’ when she’s gonna meet my ugly Jewish pal. Shit! She ain’t even met’j’ya an’ she’s got the hots for ya! You get your folks to let’j’ya come an’ I promise you’ll get screwed, blewed an’ tattooed!”

‘Screwed’ he understood. However ‘blewed’ he had no idea and most definitely did not want to be ‘tattooed’. Referring to the ‘screwed’ offer only; “You mean it? That me and… what’s her name?”

 “ ‘Gina’.”

 “Yeah. Gina! She told you this?”

 “It’s a sure thing! I wouldn’t lie to my best pal.”

 Quiet as Frank’s words sunk in, both, ‘the sure thing’,” and Frank still considering him as his ‘best pal’…

 “Okay, school’s out in a couple’a weeks, an’ I’ll ask my mom’n’dad if I can go see you soon’s it’s over. I’m pretty sure they’ll say okay, an’ I’ll give you a call and let you know when, for sure. Okay?”

 “Yeah, that sounds great. Hey, I got an idea. You still got that Captain Midnight ring?”

 “Yeah, someplace. Why? I tol’j’ya it don’t work.”

 “It don’t gotta work. You bring it an’ I’ll tell you why when I see you.”

 “Okay. If I can find it, I’ll bring it.” For some reason, though, no matter how Frank assured him, Gina sounded too good to be true . “But you’re sure now, about Gina?”

 “Mitch, I told’j’ya, if nothin’ else, she wants to see what a circumcised dick looks like.”

 Mitchell laughed. “You guys ain’t got none’a your own?”

 “Yeah, we got lots’a pricks in my neighborhood, but none of ’em been whacked off like yours… You still got my number?”

 “ ‘Whacked off’, huh? Same old Frankie. Yeah, if it ain’t been changed, I got it filed under ‘Dago’.”

 “Okay, then I’ll be talkin’t’ya in a couple’a weeks.”

 “Yeah, Frankie. Talk to you soon’s I know… Bye.”

 “So long, Mitchie.”

June 18, 1949

 The Trip

“Got your hankie?”

 As though calling on God to help him, lifting his eyes to the ceiling he patted his back pocket. “Yeah, Mom, I got my hankie!”

 “Your keys?”

 Patting his left front pocket, hearing a muted jingle he nodded his head. “Yeah!”

 “Money?”

 “Mom, I’m fifteen!”

 “ ‘Going’ to be fifteen!” she corrected.

 “Okay! ‘Going’ to be fifteen—in two months! Mom, I ain’t a baby no more!”

 “Ain’t, ‘ain’t’ in the dictionary.” she corrected again. “And you’re ‘not’ a baby anymore! Do you have your money?”

 Sighing, he patted his right front pocket. “Yeah, I got my money.”

 “Show me!”

 Reaching in his pocket he removed five one-dollar bills and seventy-five cents in change. Holding the bills and change forward for her to see. “Okay?”

 “Okay.” Nodding at the canvas bag on the bed, “What are you taking to wear?”

 He thought a moment. “Two undershirts and underpants and two hankies and two shirts and my new khaki pants… ‘Okay’?”

 “Don’t be fresh! You know I’m still not too happy about you going and for two cents…”

 “Mom, I ain’t...uh, ‘haven’t seen Frankie in almost five years!”

 “I know you haven’t seen Frankie in almost five years! Why couldn’t he come here to visit? I’m sure this is a much nicer neighborhood than where he lives.”

 “Mom, that’s your opinion! An’ besides, I didn’t invite him here and he did invite me there!”

 “I know!” In an exasperated tone. “I know! Got your toothbrush?”

 “Yeah,” sighing, looking skyward again, “I got my toothbrush! Mom, I got ‘everything’ I’m going to need! I’m only going for two days!”

Regarding her eldest son, Myra fleetingly wondered, Good Lord, where have the years gone?

 Regarding his mother, Mitchell noticed a bulge beneath her house-dress and wondered, Another watermelon seed? Nah, it couldn’t be!

                                                  ****

 Other than his two years at Baylor, outside of a week’s visit to his aunt and uncle in Pittsburgh the summer before, this was the first time he’d left home alone. When he went to Pittsburgh, Myra and Walter had put him on the train in Chicago and he was met in Pittsburgh by his uncle Jerry, Jerry’s second wife, Meg, and her son, Bob, so he was never really on his own.

 But this was completely different: To go to a tough, gentile neighborhood that was a world apart from his?

 Myra was apprehensive about this trip, and rightfully so. In her eyes Mitchell was an innocent boy and, to her knowledge, had never faced true antisemitism. Oh, yes, she thought, there’d been that anti-Semite dictator at Baylor, but that was so subtle he probably never really felt it. Myra was sure he’d heard, if not been called the names: ‘sheeny’, ‘kike’, ‘Christ-killer’. That was the main reason she’d been against Harrison as his choice of high school. But, to her knowledge, even that had turned out okay. Maybe it’s because Mitchell is so big for his age? But, No, she reasoned, his size would only make him more of a target. That’s why Jews live together. That’s one of the reasons we live here. After all, there is strength in numbers. But maybe it’s not all that bad anymore, and maybe there are more Jewish kids in Harrison than I thought.

 When Mitchell had asked Myra if he could visit Frank, fully expecting Walter to say no, she gave him ‘mother’s standard answer number one’: “Go ask your Father.”

 “Dad,” he’d asked, “do you remember my friend Frank Rizzo?”

 Sitting in his chair in the front-room, reading the paper, Walter put his cigarette in the ashtray and looked at his son. “ ‘Frank Rizzo’? Yes, I do. Nice boy, for an Italian.”

 “I talked to him last week and he asked if I could visit him for a couple’a days when school’s out.”

 Giving ‘father’s standard reply number one’: “Did you ask your Mother?”

 “Yeah, Dad, I did, and she said...”— stretching the truth a bit—“... it’s alright with her if it’s alright with you.”

 Slightly surprised. “She did, huh? Where’s your friend live?”

 “Oh, somewhere around California and 63rd.”

 “The south side. That’s not such a great neighborhood there.”

 Knowing what his father was thinking, so long as he’d told one lie, he figured he might as well tell another. “Dad, Frank says that it’s not so bad there, and that he has lots of Jewish friends there.”

 “Really! Know what, Mitchell? It may not be such a bad idea after all. It might even be a good experience for you, being in a different neighborhood. After all, you can’t live here forever. You’ve got to meet different kinds of people sometime. Yes, I do think it’s a good idea that you visit your friend!”

 “It’s okay then, if I tell mom you said ‘it’s okay’?”

 Flapping the paper forward, “Uh-hu.” dismissing his son, he’d lifted it in front of his face.

 “Dad say’s he thinks it’ll be a good experience for me to be with other people for a change, an’ it’s all right with him.”

                                                      ****

 “You have Frankie’s phone number?”

 “Yeah,” sighing, looking skyward again, “I got it!”

 “You know, Mitchie,” taking her son by the shoulders, looking directly at him, “if I treat you like a baby, even though we have Larry.” Stopping, she considered if she should tell him, but decided against it. “You’re still my baby and I’m always going to worry about you. Do you understand me?” Not waiting for an answer/ “You know how to get there?”

 “Yes, Mom.” Pulling back, looking into her eyes, “I know how to get there! Stop worrying; it’s easy!”

 Forcing a smile, “Okay,” she stared at him a long moment. “And you will call me when you get there!”

“Yeah, Mom. I will! I’ll call you from Frankie's home.”

                                                              ****

 Holding the curtain aside, Myra stood at the front-room window watching Mitchell as he waited on the safety island for an eastbound streetcar.

 She heard the clanging before seeing it.

 The streetcar came to a stop.

 He stepped into the car’s vestibule and as though ‘knowing’ she was watching from the window, without turning, lifting his arm Mitchell waved his hand

 The conductor stamped on the steel button.

 Myra heard the faint ‘clang-clang’.

 The car moved across Homan Avenue and out of sight.

 Sighing, Myra let the curtain drop into place.

                                                            ****

 He’d traveled north on California Avenue many times. The dentist’s office and Grandma and Grandpa Lipensky’s house was along the north-bound route, but the furthest south he’d ever gone was twenty-second street.

 As the streetcar traveled south he was surprised at the change and deterioration of each following neighborhood.

Well-maintained apartment buildings changed to hulking, dirty tenements. Once thriving neighborhood storefront businesses give way to dirty, steel-barred storefront windows and doors. White faces changed to black faces. People stood on street corners or sat in the shade on door-stoops, or walked singularly or in pairs or groups... Just like the people in his neighborhood. Yet they seemed so different… So foreign.

 ‘Shvartzers’! ‘Negroes’!

 Not accustomed to Negroes, even though they did nothing in any way threatening, still he was glad to be behind the window of this moving streetcar and though it was the eighteenth of June and the temperature was 78 degrees, he shivered.

Mitchell had no idea why he was afraid. He’d never even met a Negro but they seemed to be so…? Not at all like ‘Charlie Chan’s’ chauffeur in the movies or ‘Jack Benny’s’ ‘Rochester’ on the radio. Uncle Al told ‘shvartzer’ jokes all the time, but looking through the fly-specked window of this fast moving streetcar as it passed from corner to corner, he saw nothing funny and was very glad to be in here, and not out there.

 Becoming cleaner, the stores, buildings and streets changed again and the black faces once again become white faces.

 “ ‘Sixty-third Street’!” The conductor called, “ ‘Sixty-Third Street’, next stop!”

 Mitchell stood, went to the rear platform and waited till the streetcar came to a complete stop before he stepped off, onto the safety island… into a ‘different’ place.

 Standing in the wash of the departing streetcar he felt the humid wind and the air seemed hotter here than it was there—hotter now than it had been before.

 As he stepped from the safety island, a speck of blowing grit stung his left eye. Rubbing his eye he walked from the street onto the sidewalk.

 Along, and around the corners of California and Sixty-third streets were dozens of intermixed shabby and somewhat better maintained stores.

Across the street, green and orange tissue-paper wrappers mixed with paper scraps and dust twisted along the gutter in a dwarf-sized cyclone.

 Names on the plate glass windows of storefronts were unfamiliar to Mitchell’s eyes and memory: ‘Vesuvio Bakery and Ristorante’. ‘Sicelia Cheese Co’., ‘Gesseppi Grocery and Olive Oi’l. Some were completely unpronounceable words in a gold scroll that was hand-painted on dirty, fly-speckled windows.

 Looking from corner to corner he felt a sense of dread but oddly at the same time a feeling of adventure as though when he’d stepped off the streetcar he’d stepped into a strange, foreign land. Even the air smelled different…

 “Ughhh!” He gasped as a pair of well-muscled arms encircled his waist from behind and lifted him off his feet.

 “ ‘Jewish peeeg’!” whispered in his ear from though a familiar but much deeper voice.

 “Frankie!” Attempting to twist out of the vice-like grip. Released, Mitchell turned around.

 “Jesus, Mitchie, you look just like always, only ten feet taller!”

 Feeling his smile fade. Thinking, It’s Sal Diamond! Mitchell blinked his eyes. No! Forcing the smile back. It’s really Frankie who looks like Sal Diamond.

  Frank Rizzo’s youthful appearance had drastically changed in the five years since the two friends had said goodbye at the train station in downtown Chicago. All of Frank’s features had…? Mitchell tried to put the changes into thought…

Frank Rizzo’s features had hardened and…? Dirtied? Frank’s face now appeared to be…? What? Chiseled out of white marble. His smooth skin and child-like features had given way to straight, hard, adult-like lines. His black hair was long and greasy and combed back with each comb stroke visibly etched in the sweeping growth that grew above and behind his ears, making a well-pronounced D.A.. He had a rash of small blackheads above his eyebrows and across the bridge of his nose. Frank’s hands, once well scrubbed, now had a grimy look. Dirt was ingrained in the pores of his knuckles and his fingernails were half-mooned with grease. But the change that most amazed Mitchell was Frank’s body. Wearing tight Levi’s and a cotton undershirt, his arms and shoulders fairly bulged with muscle that shined as though coated with oil. It was the torso of an adult rather than that of a sixteen-year-old boy and, with the exception of the blackheads, it was as though Frank Rizzo had jumped from childhood to adulthood completely bypassing puberty.

Finding it hard to believe that this… man standing before him was really his friend, his smile still forced, “Frankie,” swallowing, “you look so, uh, different!”

Looking at him, “Mitchie,” the worried look that crossed his face was quickly replaced with a broad smile. “Come on, we can’t stand here grinnin’ at each other or people’ll start thinkin’ we’re a couple’a ‘homos’.”

‘Homos’?

Taking him by the elbow, Frank steered Mitchell across California Avenue. “I can’t wait till Gina see’s ya… ’J’ya bring the ring like I told’j’ya?”

“Yeah, I found it.” Taking the ring out of his pocket, he handed it to Frank, who looked at it a moment, then gave it back. “But I told’j’ya it don’t work, and still don’t know why you wanted me to bring it.”

Walking east on Sixty-third, “Mitchie, you gotta understand women!”

“Well, I ain’t had much opportunity till now. But what in the hell’s this busted ring got to do with ‘understandin’ women’?”

“Look, Gina’s had the hots for you ever since I told her ’bout you an’ it ain’t gonna be a problem to get her into the sack. But I want everything to go right an’ you can’t treat a lady like a whore! That’s where the ring comes in. Understand?”

“No! I don’t understand what a busted ring’s got to do ‘with treating a lady like a whore’.”

“Mitchie, the damn ring don’t gotta work. But let’s say you’n’me’n’Gina’n’Lisa—Lisa’s my girl—are sittin’ ’round and I say to you: ‘Hey, Mitch, you bring your Captain Midnight ring? The one that shoots off all them shootin’ stars in a dark room!’ An’ you say to me, ‘Sure I brought it!’ An’ I say to you, ‘Gina would ‘love’ to see it. Wouldn’t you, Gina?’ An’ she says to you, ‘Hey, Mitch, why don’t you show me your ring?’ An’ then the two of you get up an’ go into the bed- room. This way you’n’her go off to fuck, an’ she don’t have to feel like a whore... ‘Capisce’’?”

The rational completely eluding Mitchell, “ ‘Capisce’?” he questioned.

“Don’t you remember anything I taught’j’ya?”

“Oh, yeah! ‘Capisce’ !Now I remember! ‘Understand’!”

“Yeah, ya dumb Jew fart!”

“Oh, yeah! Well, you’re not so ‘nishgafarelach’ either!”

“I’m not so nish-ga… huh?”

“Yeah!” Punching Frank on the shoulder. “See? You don’t know everything, you stupid wop!”

“What’s ‘nisgha’, uh,…. what you said mean?”

“Beats me. But whatever it is, you ain’t!” He laughed. “Or maybe...” remembering what he’d called him after their meeting with Skorupski, “...maybe you are, you Dago tittie!”

Laughing, too, in a show of friendship. Though he had to reach up to do it, Frank put his arm across Mitchell’s shoulder. Hesitating a moment, Mitchell put his arm across Frank’s shoulder also. then, going a few steps further, both boys began to feel self-conscious and their arms fell to their sides.

But together again, the years and the unaccustomed differences dissipated and each felt the warmth of their old friendship.

“Frankie…” Mitchell looked to his right. “I wasn’t sure till right now, but know what?” Without waiting for a reply, “I’ve missed you, a real lot!”

Looking to his left. “Yeah,” blinking his eyes, “me too, pal.”

Walking side by side, both boys quiet a few moments. “Where we goin’?” Mitchell asked.

“I got a couple’a things I gotta do for my old man, an’ I want him to meet you… There it is,” Frank said, proudly, “by the corner. See our sign?”

Sandwiched between a small savings and loan on the corner to the east, and a tailor shop to the west, ‘RIZZO & SON. FRESH PRODUCE’ was written in gold, italic lettering on a comparatively clean, plate glass window.

Frank held the screen door open as they stepped inside to the accompaniment of a tinkling bell.

Wearing a green- and red-smeared white apron over a pair of denim overalls, a short, obese man with a thick patch of graying, black hair that fringed his otherwise totally bald head came from the rear of the store. “Frankie is’a good you come back! I’m’a’need’a you bring some orang’a’an’apple up’a the stairs.”

“Sure, Papa. You remember I hadda go meet my friend at the streetcar?”

“Sure, I remember!” Looking at Mitchell, he held his hand forward. “My Frankie, he’s’a tink his Papa’s stupid.”

“No I don’t, Papa… Papa, this is Mitchell.”

Taking the chafed hand into his, Mitchell shook hands with the older man. “I’m glad to meet you, Mister Rizzo.”

“Mitchie, it’ll take a few minutes to get the crates up from the cooler an’ it’s hot in here, so why don’t you go outside an’ wait for me. I won’t be too long, then we’ll go get somethin’ to eat, and by that time we can head over to the girls’. Oh, an’ by the way,” taking the canvas bag from Mitchell, “Papa’ll bring this home for you.”

“Thank you.” nodding to Mr. Rizzo. “Can I give you a hand, Frankie?”

“Nah, thanks, though. The stairs are kinda steep an’ Gina’d never forgive me if you fell an’ broke somethin’.” He winked. “An’ anyway, how’d you think I got these?” Frank flexed his right arm, causing the biceps to pop. “Go on, wait outside, I’ll be done in a couple’a minutes.”

“Guess I’ll see you at home then, Mr. Rizzo.”

“Sure. You have a good time wit’a my Frankie.”

Outside…

Noticing a nail and staple-studded telephone pole kitty-c0rnor the Rizzo store. Walking to it he leaned against it for a moment then, with his feet in the gutter, sitting on the curb Mitchell rested his back against the dry, cracked wood. The warm sun feeling nice on his face, his eyes closed to the glare the sunlight causing a pleasant red glow though his eyelids…

Cooling the heat and darkening the glow beneath his eyelids, thinking it was Frank, opening his eyes Mitchell looked up... at two shadows silhouetted against the sun.

“Ai, she’s awake!”

“Yeah, I see that!”

Facing the sun, having to squint and shade his eyes in order to see their faces from his lower, sitting position, the two looming figures appeared to be huge.

Each had sideburns that trailed to below their cheekbones and oil-slicked hair combed into sharp D.A.’s. Both faces were covered with pimples and red scars where the pimples had been squeezed and ruptured.

One of the faces was dark and thin, having a long, sharp, hawk-like nose, a slit of a mouth and crooked, tobacco stained teeth. Scraggly wisps of hair sparsely covered his thin upper lip and pointed jaw.

Thick and pasty colored. with the exception of eyebrows and sideburns, the other face was completely hairless. This one’s nose had been broken, possibly more than once because it was discolored and lay somewhat flat above fat, saliva-coated lips.

Each wore oil-smeared undershirts that were dotted with holes as though sprayed with battery acid and greasy, tight fitting blue jeans held up by wide, steel studded, black leather belts.

Cigarettes dangling from their lips, the upward curling smoke causing both to squint and look, if at all possible, even more menacing.

‘Hawk Nose’ appeared to be about seventeen, and ‘Fat Lips’ sixteen, or possibly seventeen, too.

Stooping. Pinching, painfully twisting the flesh of Mitchell’s left cheek. “Ain’t she pretty!” Hawk Nose said through clenched teeth. “Who are ya? An’ what the fuck ya doin’ here, sittin’ on my curb?”

“Stan’up when my friend’s talkin’ to ya, ya prick, ya!” Grabbing Mitchell by the front of his shirt, Fat Lips yanked him onto his feet. “Jesus Christ, Look’a’dat! Ain’t she a big one!”

“Yeah!” Hawk Nose said, “That’s how I like my broads, big’n’pretty. Know what? Ya look like a fuckin’ fairy! Are ya? Are ya some kinda fuckin’ homo fairy?” Shouting, “Well, are ya?”

Terrified. “N-no,” emphatically shaking his head negatively.

“Ya ain’t, eh! Well I think ya are! What’s your fuckin’ name, ya fuckin’ fairy?”

The color drained from his face. His knees weak, Mitchell all but hung by the material of his shirt bunched in Fat Lips’ fist.

Speaking softly, Hawk Nose said, “Ya gotta at least know ya fuckin’ name, fairy!” Slapping him on the cheek. “Your ‘name’!” Slapping him harder.

Hardly noticing his stinging cheek, he stammered, “M-m…”

“I know!” Fat Lips said. “His name’s ‘Mama’!” He laughed. “Hi ya, ‘Mama’! How ya doin’, ‘Mama’?” Reaching with his other hand, he grabbed Mitchell by the crotch of his pants. “My, ain’t ‘Mama’ got a nice pussy!” Laughing, pulling his body even closer by both, his shirt and the crotch of his pants. Leaning into Mitchell’s face, drawing deeply on the cigarette, Fat Lips exhaled a double stream of smoke through his flattened nostrils.

Choking on the smoke, Mitchell instinctively attempted to pull away.

“Hey, ‘Mama’, when I talk to ya, don’t ya be tryin’ to move away; it ain’t polite.” Pulling him inward again, “Come on, tell my pal here,” cocking his head towards Hawk Nose, “What’s your fuckin’ name?”

“M-M…”

“Again with the ‘Mama’!” Fat Lips shook Mitchell by the shirt bunched in his fist, causing his head to whip back and forth.

“ ‘Mitchell’!” He said desperately. “My name’s ‘Mitchell’.”

“‘Mitchell’! See, that wasn’t so fuckin’ hard.” Releasing the shirt with a shove, Fat Lips pushed Mitchell hard against the telephone pole, where he cracked the back of his head and elbow.

“Ya know what, ‘Al’?” Hawk Nose said. “Mitchell’s a ‘kike’ name! I think this here guy’s a kike.” Poking his finger into his chest, “Are ya, ‘Mitchell’? Are ya a ‘Jew’, Mitchell? A ‘kike’, Mitchell? A fuckin’, ‘sheeny’ bastard, Mitchell?” Emphasizing each question with increasingly hard, sharp digs of his finger. “What the fuck ya don’ here sittin’ on my street, ya fuckin’ ‘kike’, ‘son-of-a-bitch’?”

Reaching to Mitchell’s throat, using his forefinger Al flipped the silver chain hanging around his neck out from under the collar of his shirt. “What’s this fuckin’ thing?”

Trembling, Mitchell looked to the left, towards the Rizzo store. Come on, Frankie! Please come on, Frankie! Praying that Frank or his father would come out.

“Ain’t no one here gonna help ya! Look at me when I talk to ya!” Looking at his friend, Al snickered. “Know what, ‘Guido’? I think you’re right! I think this here prick’s a fuckin’ Jew!”

Taking the chain from Al’s hand, Guido asked, “What’s this here thing?” lifting the oblong silver object that hung from the end of the chain. When he didn’t answer, Guido yanked the chain, causing it to cut into Mitchell’s neck. Glancing at Al, “This pussy don’t like to talk! Ya know what it looks like to me, Al? It looks like a half a crucifix. Ya!” Yanking the chain again, snapping Mitchell’s head closer to his, “I think it’s a cross what lost its arms. What is it? Wha’d’ya call this here fuckin’ Jew thing?”

“A, uh, m-m…”

Al laughed. “Mitchie, is that all ya kike, cock-suckers know how to say? ‘Mama’! ‘Mama’!” He imitated in a high, falsetto voice.

Becoming tired of the game. “Stop with the fuckin’ ‘mama’,” Guido snarled, “an’ tell us what ya call this here fuckin’ thing!”

“It, uh, it’s a m-mezzuza.”

“A what?” Al laughed. “What’d’ya call it?”

“A, uh, ‘mezzuza’.”

“A ‘mezuzziz’?” Laughing. “What the fuck’s a ‘mezuzziz’?”

Tugging on the chain again, closing his other hand into a fist, Guido brought it up and back…

Closing his eyes, Mitchell tensed his body…

But the punch didn’t come.

‘Thwack!’

Opening his eyes, Thank god!

A club in his hand, Frank had hit Guido in the small of the back then behind his legs, causing him to fall onto his knees, pulling Mitchell—because the chain was still entwined in the crook of his finger—onto his knees also.

Turning, “What the fuck!” Al lifted both hands to cover his face, but it was too late because a fist hit him, causing blood to squirt from both nostrils and run down his chin onto the holy undershirt. “ ‘M’dose’!” he screeched as, staggering backward, tripping on the curb, he fell onto his back. “Ya broke it again! Ah, shit! Ya broke m’dose again!”

Ignoring Al, grabbing hold of Guido’s fingers, bending them backwards, “Jesus, my fingers!” forcing him to release the chain.

Loose now, straightening his body Mitchell stumbled backwards, bumping into the telephone pole where he stood breathing deeply trying to bring his fear under control.

“You’re breakin’ my fuckin’ fingers! Aw, shit! Rizzo, let go’o’me! What’s it to ya if we kick some fuckin’ Jew’s ass? ‘Ow’! Come on Frank, le’go me… pleeease!”

Releasing him, Frank backed up a step. Rotating his wrist in a slight, clockwise motion, the heavy end of the club moved in a tight circle that Guido watched a moment then tried to stand, but his knee buckled and he fell back into the gutter. “Frankie, I think ya broke my leg! Why’d’j’ya do it?”

“Me’n’my pa both tol’j’ya to stay the ‘fuck’ away from our place here! We don’t want you hangin’ ’round scarin’ our customers.”

Pulling himself up, Al sat on the curb. Trying to stem the flow of blood, he held the all but non-existent bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand while tugging the now bloody undershirt out of his pants with the other revealing a white, blubbery stomach and a hairless chest. Wiping the blood from his chin, forcing himself onto his feet, he approached Frank, who, turning to him, menacingly lifted the club.

“Whoa!” Holding both hands forward, the blood beginning to flow again, “I d’want no part of ya, Frankie!” Al motioned over his shoulder. “This guy ain’t no customer! Since when d’ya care what we do to a Jew, Frankie? What’s this fuckin’ kike to ya?”

Frank looked from Al to Guido to Mitchell. His Adam’s apple noticeably moving up and down in his throat, he swallowed because here was a problem: Frank lived here, had a reputation to uphold, and although he had never taken an active part in Jew baiting, he had taken part in gang fights with other Jewish youths… But this was Mitchell. Not only his oldest and best friend, but also his guest, invited here by himself. What to say? If he did not admit that Mitchell was his friend he knew he would, and rightfully so, lose his friendship, and if he did admit he was his friend he’d lose the respect of Guido and Al Shit! he thought, Fuck Guido and Al!

Reaching down, Al helped pull Guido onto his feet.

“This here’s…” pointing the club at Mitchell, “my oldest pal. Mitch’n’me, we went to school together during the war an’ I didn’t invite him here so’s you two assholes could beat the shit outta him! Now,” pointing the club in their general direction, “get the fuck outta here!” he poked the club into Al’s shoulder for emphasis, then, pointing it at Guido, “Get the fuck outta here, I said!” Bringing the club back as though to swing it, Guido ducked while Al back-stepped, then, looking from Frank to Mitchell, the two turned and, arrogantly, Guido, limping, walked away.

Watching till they’d rounded the corner, Frank then looked at Mitchell. Having backed away from the street, was squatting, leaning against a building. His chin was on his chest, his eyes were closed and, holding himself as though in pain, both arms were wrapped around his stomach.

“Mitch,” kneeling in front of him, “God, Mitchie!” Frank put his hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry! So sorry this happened! Those ‘pricks’!” His eyes moistened. “It’s my fault! Goddamn it! I shouldn’t’a left ya alone! I should’a known somethin’ like this would happen in this neighborhood. Shit!”

“Frankie,” consoling him, “it ain’t your fault, I’m just glad you came out when you did. God!” he said in awe, “you sure beat the shit out’a them two assholes.” Standing, smiling reassuringly. “Come on, let’s get outta here, I’m starvin’!”

“Shit, Lipensky, you’re ‘always’ starvin’!”

“Yeah, that is true , but I get especially hungry when I get into a gangbang an’ beat the shit outta two wop hoods… You got any edible food in this shitty neighborhood?”

“You wanna eat, huh? Ya think you Jews know what good food is, huh? Okay, I’m gonna take ya for somethin’ like ya probably never had before in your life!”

“Yeah?” Becoming very interested, “Like what?”

“Ain’t gonna tell ya. You’ll find out.” 

 Continue as: Wine, Pizza and Girls