A “Becoming” Excerpt:

Skokie, Illinois, 1951

Bounded on the east by the Northwestern College town of Evanston, on the south by wealthy Lincolnwood, and the north and west by mostly undeveloped farmland. Located about thirty-five miles northwest of Chicago’s Loop, Skokie was that city’s fastest growing suburban community.

Walter had looked for two things in his search for a house: affordability and access for a boat, and he found one, with actually three boat accesses. The lot was pie-shaped with the narrow, twenty-two-foot side facing the street to the south, and the wide, sixty-five-foot end to the rear. In essence the lot was an island surrounded by Lee Street in the front and two long driveways leading to the backyards and garages of neighboring houses to the east and west, with a bisecting driveway to the north. Though this lot was larger in square footage than the neighboring lots, it was a fishbowl because easements prohibited any type of privacy fence for fear of limiting visibility for the cars that traveled the driveways, but it did give Walter easy access for his boat, which in winter would be stored on its trailer at the rear of the lot where normally there would be a garage. But strangely this house did not have a garage.

The first floor of the two-story house had two bedrooms, a bathroom, living room, dining area and a long, narrow kitchen that Myra had yet to figure out, ‘How in the hell are we all going to eat in there’ ?

There was a down stairway to a full basement and a stairway going up one story to the second floor to… nothing, which Morris, being the master carpenter he was, with the help of his son, Sheldon, and his son-in-law ,Walter planned on completing by adding two bedrooms, a long, adjoining, walk-through closet and a full bathroom. All of which he expected to complete, with permission from the builder, between the time of purchase and shortly after occupancy by his daughter’s family, which, with the exception of the bathroom, they did.

The smaller of the two downstairs bedrooms was converted to a den. Upstairs, Mitchell was given the room facing the street. Lawrence and Morton shared the larger room overlooking the back yard.

Whereas the other lots had been stripped bare of all existing vegetation, maybe, as compensation for squeezing this house in, Colby, the builder, had left four trees standing in the rear and had the front and rear seeded with rye seed early that spring.

The houses on all three sides of the pie-shaped lot had been occupied for months. This house, because of the shape of the lot and the builder’s omission, somehow, of a garage, was the last in this tract to be sold, and then only after the price had been greatly reduced by Colby and then again, after haggling with Walter and Myra.

The entire block across the street was undeveloped and the Lipenskys could see from their front door to Main Street, a block away.

After a lifetime of constantly clamoring streetcars and rumbling traffic, the silence at night was deafening and waking in the morning to the sound of birds rather than the clanking of the janitor’s garbage can at first seemed odd, but the quiet was easy to get used to and the Walter Lipensky family quickly adjusted.

In the future, for its size, the Village of Skokie would have a higher concentration of Jewish people than any other city in the world, even more than the city of Tel Aviv in the then three-year-old state of Israel. But in the last days of August, in the year 1951, Myra Lipensky was concerned that her children would be a lonely minority and in fact, when Mitchell did enroll for his senior year at ‘Niles Township High School’, he was one of only two Jewish teenagers in the entire school… Along with all those cute shiksas with big, up-pointed, pointy tits… Oh yeah!

September 3, 1951

Labor Day…

…was the excuse for the first of Myra and Walter’s giant barbecues and most of their relations and friends had made the long trek to Skokie for the party.

Fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, he offered it to Norman who took one, took one himself and leaned into the light Norman offered, took a deep drag… and chug-a-lugged his third bottle of beer.

Matching his friend beer-for-beer, “Know what, Mitchie?”

“No, what, Normie?”

“I’m gonna tell…” taking a drag on the cigarette, blowing twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. Drinking about a quarter of his fourth bottle of beer, “…you ‘what’ I...urpp—’scuse me—reeeally think!”  

Shoving some potato chips in his mouth, spitting crumbs as he spoke. “Oh, great paleface, pray tell, what’d you reeeeally think?” Mitchell gulped down the better half of his fourth bottle of beer.

Shoving some potato chips in his mouth, spitting crumbs as he spoke. “I think it’s some kind’a ‘don’t let em touch your titties’ conspiracy with all these Jewish broads.”

“Yeah,” munching on his hot dog. “I think they think that if they let a guy touch ’em, not even, God forbid, here,” pointing to his crotch, “but jus’ on their li’l ol’ titties, they think God’ll strike ’em dead or somethin’….Urrppp!” Mitchell smiled. “ ‘Scuse me.”

Drawing on the cigarette. Drinking the last of his bottle of beer. “Jesus, Normie! Where’d my folks ever find such teensy-weensy bottles? Want s’more?”

“Yeah. Nah, they’re just regular kind’a bottles. Sounds like you’re kind’a, maybe, drinkin’ a li’l too much beer, La-pimp-sky.”

Recalling Junior Johnson’s word, “ ‘Sheet’! Too much beer my ass! Livin’ in the country here, I’ve become some kind’a super goy an’ can drink beer till it’s comin’ out’a my dick… Yeah, what?”

“Yeah what, ‘what’?… Oh, beer! You asked if I want s’more beer, an’ I said, yeah, I do. I do want s’more beer.”

Extinguishing with a hiss, “Okay, pal,” Mitchell dropped his cigarette in one of the bottles. “Be right back.”

Taking his sneakers and socks off. Putting his socks into one of his shoes and lining them up with Mitchell’s loafers. “How the hell you getting’ ’em past your folks?” he asked when Mitchell returned.

Handing Norman two bottles. “My dad’s so busy cookin’ he wouldn’t notice if I swiped the whole tub.” Dropping onto the stoop and taking a gurgling drink he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “An’ my mom’s so busy talkin’an’ schleppin’ she don’t know from nothin’.”

Sipping slower now. Norman looking at his toes and Mitchell through the wood framing of the still-uncompleted houses to Main Street, both boys were quiet for a minute.

“Yeah, the only wej drub that ever let me feel her up,” continuing the conversation, “’cept Ina Dorfmann, was Debbie Schlumberger, an’ that was only ‘cause her falsies were so damn thick she didn’t know I was doin’ it.”

“Yeah,” Norman laughed. “Debbie Schlumberger could’a kept a whole family of shvartzers busy pickin’ cotton for her brassieres alone.”

“Y’know, Normie,” sighing loudly, “the only thing that makes me feel better ‘bout still bein’ cherry after all this time, is that you’re cherry, too.” He waited for Norman to answer and when he didn’t, taking a long pull on his bottle while staring at their feet. “Normie, you ever think ‘bout how ugly your toes are?”

“No, you ‘schmuck’,” suppressing a smile, Norman looked at his toes. “I never think ‘bout how ugly my toes are, an’ if you think yours are so fuckin’ beautiful,” taking a swill of beer, “how’s come you don’t enter ’em in some kind’a beauty contest?”

“Hey, just ’cause you got fuckin’ ugly toes, you don’t gotta get all ticked off at me.” Also swilling. “It ain’t my fault your folks gave you fuckin’ ugly toes.”

“Mitchie, me ol’ buddy,” putting his arm across his shoulders, “I ain’t mad at’ch’ya. I loooves ya!” The last of his fifth bottle of beer gurgling down his throat, “But I ain’t no more.”

“Me, too, Normie,” Feeling sentimental, blinking his eyes to hold back tears. “I loooves ya, too!”

Draining his fifth bottle of beer. “Uh, you ain’t no more ‘what’?”

Looking at his feet, wiggling his toes “Cherry.”

“Huh?” Mitchell looked at Norman.

“Cherry.” Norman turned his alcohol-flushed face to his astonished friend. “I ain’t no more.” Giggling, “I done been fucked.”

“Huh?” Taking a moment to register. “You got ‘it’? ‘You’? Who for ever since we been old enough to wanna fuck didn’t give a shit! An’ you been fucked an’ I ain’t! Who? Anyone I know? Who’d’j’ya do it with?”

“Well,” hesitating, taking a draw on his fifth bottle of beer. “Yeah, I’d say you do know her… Ina.”

“ ‘Ina’?” Taking a moment for the name to penetrate the beer-induced cobwebs that surrounded his mind. “Ina? ‘My Ina’? Ina Dorfmann?” Somehow remembering the conversation they’d had at the beach in Union Pier. “But you said that you’d never screw a broad like Ina Dorfmann!”

“Yeah, well I lied!” Becoming defensive. “An’ Ina ain’t ‘your’Ina! Ina’s ‘everyone’s’ Ina!” He giggled. “ ‘ceptin’ ‘your’ Ina.’ An’ when I saw her in the hall…”

“At school? When you saw her in the hall at school?”

“Yup.”

“How? How’d you see her in the hall at school? When I called, before you moved, she said she was movin’ to, uh…”

“ ‘Peoria’.”

“Huh?”

“Peoria. She tol’ me she tol’ you she was movin’ to Peoria.” Giggling again. “She said it but she wasn’t. She said it so’s she wouldn’t have to go out, or, in your case, stay in w’ch’ya. She tol’ch’ya ‘cause she didn’t know what else to tell ya.”

“ ‘Didn’t know what else to tell me what’? I don’t understand.”

“Mitchie, she, Ina, tol’ me she liked ya, really liked ya…”

“Well, then, why’d she lie ‘bout movin’?”

“She knew you’n’me are buddies, an’ she asked me not to tell ya that her’n’me, uh, saw each other.” Taking a cigarette, he offered one to Mitchell.

“No, thanks.” Shaking his head, “ ‘Saw each other’? Shit! Lighting one of his own, inhaling deeply. “You fucked her!”

“Well, yeah,” Norman smiled broadly. “I did! ‘Oh, boy’, I really did fuck her!”

Envious, “So why’d she lie?” ‘Downright jealous’, “Why’d she say she was movin’ for?”

Taking his time, sucking on both his cigarette and the beer. “Ina said that when to two’a’ya were on that date, that you did somethin’ to ’er.”

“ ‘Me’?” Mitchell said innocently. “I didn’t do nothin’ to ’er.”

“ Nothin’? Oh, yeah! You didn’t do nothin’ but shove a flashlight up ’er box.”

“ ‘Oh, God’!” Laughing, Mitchell put his head between his hands. “‘J’ya tell ’er that? ‘J’ya tell ’er ‘bout the flashlight?”

“Shit, no! Jus’ ’cause a broad’s a whore don’t mean she wants everyone goin’ ‘round tellin’ everyone she’s a whore, uh, jus’ ’cause she’s a whore.” Stopping, giggling again, draining his sixth bottle of beer. “That, urpp— ‘scuse me—make any sense to you?”

“Kind’a.” Remembering Frank Rizzos ruse of bringing his old Captain Midnight ring as an excuse to get Gina into a bedroom. “So, what she say ’bout me?”

“Ina said she don’t know wh’ch’ya did to her, but she knows you did somethin’, an’ thinks…” Beginning to laugh, “she thinks you’re…” laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks, “Ina thinks you’re some kind’a… ‘Oh, God’!” swiping his hand over his face, “Ina thinks you’re some kind’a pervert.”

“ ‘Perver’t!” Catching Norman’s laughter, Mitchell began to laugh, too. “Ina thinks I’m some kind’a pervert jus’ ’cause I shoved a flashlight up ’er box an’ turned it on an’ scared the shit outta ’er an’ she beaned ’erself on the steering wheel? That’s what’s botherin’ ’er? That’s why she thinks I’m a pervert?” Laughing, he fell off the stoop, onto the grass.

“What the hell’s going on here?” said in a stern, kind of bantering way. “Everyone’s wondering where you are. ‘Beer’! How in the world did you ever sneak…” Pointing her finger, Myra counted the bottles. “…’twelve’ bottles of beer past your father and me?”

“ ‘Beer’?” Mitchell looked at Norman. “Beer? J’ya drink any—urpp—beer, Normie? Two other guys must’a left ‘em here, Mom.”

“ ‘Beer’? No, ma’am, Mrs. Lipensky, ma’am. Me’n’ol’ Mitchie here ain’t drunk no, ‘urpp—’scuse me—beer. Like he said, must’a been them other two guys that brought ’em.”

“Yeah, sure, ‘them other two guys, huh’?” Smiling. Turning, Myra headed back to the backyard and her party, “Bullshit!”

“Mitchie, did I jus’ hear your li’l ol’ mommy say ‘bullshit’?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“So, you lookin’ forward to school tomorrow?”

“Always hated the thought of it before. But now? You bet’ch’ya! ‘Shiksas’! The place is lousy with bee-U-te-ful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed shiksas that don’t think their tits’r made of gold.”

Scrutinizing his friend through partially closed, fuzzy pink eyes, “You really been fucked?”

“Yeah,” Norman said dreamily, “I really been fucked.”

“So,” Mitchell asked jealously, “how’d it feel?”

“ ‘How’d it feel’, that I’ve been fucked? No different, Mitchie. You got this big thing built up in your mind and it ain’t no big deal.”

“No big deal, huh?”

“Yeah,” closing his eyes, both reliving the minute and teasing Mitchell, “It’s just that when you slip it in it feels, ‘ oh, God’, it feels so smooth and so, uh, ‘slickery’, an’ so, ‘oh, God’, it felt so warm!” Groaning as if in the throes of passion. “Ummmm!”

“You ‘dick’! Stop already!”

Smiling, opening his eyes, “Like I said, it ain’t no big deal.”

“Yeah, no big deal.” Listening to Norman, he’d poked his index finger into the opening of the bottle and, pulling it out with a pop, Mitchell brought the bottle to his lips, hesitated, lowered it and, “Blonde-haired, blue-eyed shiksas,” he said, “Niles is full of ’em.”

“Yeah? Good luck, buddy.”

Skokie, Illinois

September 4, 1951

For the first three years of high school, other than on special occasions, other than an occasional pair of chinos, Mitchell Lipensky wore nothing but blue jeans, open-necked dress- or sport-shirts, and his old dirty white-buck shoes. But now, for his debut at Niles Township High School, he wanted to start fresh and make a new, a different, a proper impression.

The style for the ‘cool guys’ at Harrison tech last semester and, so far as he knew, this semester too, was bright colored slacks with pegged legs; the cooler the guy the peggier the legs.

Knowing his looks had always given him as much attention as he wanted, and on occasion more than he’d wanted, Mitchell had never worried much about style, but in keeping with his desire for a new image he had purchased three pairs of slacks—green, blue and black—all with a slightly modified peg leg.

At 7:15 that morning he boarded the orange and black school bus wearing his new blue slacks, a yellow sport shirt, and shiny, black penny-loafers. After numerous stops to pick up students the bus stopped in front of Niles Township High School and its passengers, at least for this day, the first day of school, reverently disembarked.

The rolling lawn was landscaped with dark green grass, mature bushes and tall oak and pine trees. Fresh and beautiful, everything here seemed so new and so different than the West Side, and Harrison Tech.

Feeling lost within this sea of unknown faces, he stood a minute then walked up the wide sidewalk and eight steps leading to the school’s entrance where, waiting for the bell to ring, sitting to the side of the top step, he watched.

Groups of kids were all over—on the steps, on the grass, on the sidewalk—shaking hands, hugging, kissing, renewing last semester’s friendships.

The bell.

Inside, the black and white tiled hallways shined and the lockers looked new.

The girls wore dresses or calf-length skirts with sweaters or blouses, bobby socks and, for the most part, penny loafers or dirty, white-buck shoes. The boys generally were neatly dressed in jeans, sport or dress shirts open at the collar and, for the most part, dirty, white-buck shoes.

Usually shy in class. On this day, at this beautiful new school where he didn’t know a person, for some reason relaxing, Mitchell allowed his personality to come through and in classes was friendly and gregarious, and without his usual shyness giving the impression of conceit, he made friends, both male and female.

Returning to his locker that afternoon, he found an envelope taped to the door. Opening it, he apprehensively read the enclosed note:

‘Mitchell, you are one of the neatest and nicest new guys in school. If you want to make friends here, stop dressing like a Chicago hood. We don’t think you are really that way.

Your future friends.’

The next day Mitchell wore worn Levi’s, a white dress shirt open at the collar, and, his dirty, white-buck shoes.

Next “Becoming” Excerpts in sequence: Blue Eyes & Knobs