A “Becoming” Excerpt in sequence: Blue Eyes & Knobs

September 6, 1951

Blue Eyes

 Sandra was of average height and figure for a sixteen-year-old girl and did, indeed, have blue eyes and blonde hair and, Hey, he thought, she’s cute as a button. His eyes shifting from her cute-as-a-button face to the noticeable—though small—twin points of her breasts that poked from beneath her powder-blue sweater and, Yeah! This girl was just about everything Mitchell had always thought he wanted in a shiksa.

The class sat on straight-back chairs in a semicircle in front of the student giving the oration and once the speech ended the class was called upon to critique the subject matter and verbal delivery.

‘Public Speaking 1 was the only class he shared with the girl. Knowing this was the best way to meet her, Mitchell was very vocal in a friendly, positive way.

Sandra and most of the class picked up on his interest, and she felt flattered that this handsome new boy was interested in her and so responded with like friendliness. When the girl responded to him, though, standing where she was, about fifteen feet from his chair, she didn’t appear to be speaking to him but to someone behind his right shoulder.

Turning, he glanced at the student behind him, but knowing that she ‘had’ to be speaking to him turning back quickly he noticed that, although her face and eyes were looking in his direction, Sandra’s pupils were not, but when she looked at the notes in her hand or at nearby objects they straightened. Putting him off a moment…What the hell, he thought, so she’s a little cross-eyed.

“…Sandra!” Having to shout to be heard above the tumult in the hall, “ ‘S andra’!” Catching up, he tapped her on the shoulder.

She’d heard him call her name but wanted him to chase her down the hall and when he caught up and touched her shoulder, stopping, turning, “Oh, hi…” she knew his name, but, “...uh?”

Though crossing when looking at an object five or more feet away, close up Sandra’s eyes straightened and— accustomed to usually dark, Semitic eyes— becoming lost in this girl’s light-blue eyes

“ ‘Mitchell’,” he said.

Beginning to walk again. “Oh, yes, ‘Mitchell’.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“No,” glancing at him, “why should I? It’s a public school.”

“Sandra…”

“ ‘Sandy’.”

“Huh?” Looking at her over his shoulder.

“Call me ‘Sandy’. All my friends call me ‘Sandy’.”

“Okay... ‘Sandy’.” Thinking, All her friends! She wants me to be a friend! Shiksas are sure friendly here. “Sandy, uh…” not even wondering at his new-found courage, “how’s ’bout if you’n’me go for a Coke or something after school?”

“Sorry, I can’t...” She could. “...I’ve got to get right home today.” She didn’t have to get right home, but did not want to appear to be too anxious.

“Well, then, how’s ‘bout if I walk you home? You mind?”

Pretending to think. “It’s a public sidewalk, Mitchell.”

“ ‘Mitch’! All my friends call me ‘Mitch’, or,” he smiled, “when you get to know me better, ‘Mitchie’.”

Looking at him. Becoming no less lost in his smile then he had in her eyes. “Uh, anyway it’s a public sidewalk and if you want to you can walk me home.”

“Yeah, Sandy,” he said emphatically, “I ‘do’! Where can I meet you?”

Without so much as a moment’s hesitation. “In front of ‘Roundy’s’.”

“ ‘Roundy’s’ ?”

Remembering that he was new here. “On the other side of Lincoln. ‘Roundy’s’, the coffee shop.”

“Oh, yeah,” The hangout. “I know where it is.””

****

Living about a mile southwest of school, by the time they said goodbye Sandra and Mitchell had a date to go to a movie on Saturday.

Living about two miles northeast of school, on the long walk home Mitchell congratulated himself for finding a ‘cute-as-a-button’, blonde-haired, blue-eyed shiksa, almost the girl of his dreams—Okay, so she’s a little cross-eyed— on the third day of school, yet.

****

Walking her home the next day, reaching to the side he tentatively touched Sandra’s hand and when she didn’t move hers, their fingers intertwined.

****

In late August, on the Monday following his seventeenth birthday Walter had taken Mitchell to the Department of Motor Vehicles where he’d passed the written test with only two wrong answers and the driving test after knocking just two rubber cones over while backing into a parking space.

****

On Saturday, with his temporary driver’s permit ensconced in one of the plastic sleeves of his wallet,— and held firmer yet by the ‘long-carried’, but obviously never-used Coin-Pac prophylactic, Mitchell—only after promising his father that he would not drive faster than thirty-five miles an hour, and that he would not leave the boundaries of the Village of Skokie—was allowed to use his parents’ 1950 ‘Buick Roadmaster’ for his date with Sandy.

Having a car was a surprise and did impress Sandra.

Sandra’s parents, on the other hand, being rather straight-laced and more than just ‘slightly’ old-fashioned, were ‘not’ impressed and the only way they would allow their daughter to go on a date with this new boy was if he would leave the automobile parked in front of their house. Sandra and Mitchell could either walk to the movie theater in the village of Skokie or take a bus.

They walked.

In this sense Sandra’s parents were not discriminating against Mitchell ‘per se’ because they would never allow their sixteen-year-old daughter to go on a date with ‘any’ boy in a car. On the other hand, though, looking anything but Jewish, they didn’t ask and he had no reason to say.

In the theater he sat with his arm around Sandra’s shoulder and or holding her hand.

Afterward the theater, at the ‘Skokie Inn’ for ice cream sodas…

“Mitchie,” blushing under his gaze, “why are you staring at me?”

Being with Sandra, truly forgetting her problem, “Your eyes,” he said.

Always a source of embarrassment. Hiding her eyes, she covered them with her hand.

Remembering. Realizing that she might be self-conscious and certainly ‘not’ wanting to embarrass or hurt her feelings. “Oh, no, Sandy!” Removing her hand from her face. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “It’s not ‘that’ ! I like looking at your eyes because they’re so beautiful! You’ve got the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Being gentile, blue eyes were not a novelty to Sandra or the people she knew, and this was the first time anyone—‘especially’ a boy, ‘especially’ with her problem—had ever told her that she had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

Relaxing. Blushing “You know, Mitchie,” she said, “yours are pretty beautiful, too.” She tried to out-stare him by looking into his eyes, but could only hold her intense gaze for thirty or so seconds, till, covering her eyes once again, “Stop, Mitchie. You’re embarrassing me.”

Having had all of her, to date, five dates on foot or by bus, Sandra knew a place where a boy and girl, if they so desired, could be, somewhat, alone.

Leaving the Skokie Inn, Sandra led Mitchell into ‘Oakton Park’, to a bench in a ‘darker place’ at the far end of the sidewalk.

He put his arm about her shoulders. They moved closer. Turning their faces, their lips brushed lightly, then lingered.

Mitchell’s lips were eager, open.

Sandra’s lips were so warm and so soft, and so tightly closed.

Finally, after a number of moments, using the tip of his tongue he was able to pry her lips open… Then, a few seconds later, her teeth, and the very tips of their tongues touched… And when the tips of their tongues touched she immediately retracted hers, leaving him to wonder if this forced, momentary meeting of the very tips of their tongues might be the most sexual thing he’d ever be allowed with this girl. Which, in fact, it was.

On that night Mitchell Lipensky learned that, whether the girl be Jewish or Gentile, those girls with high morals and in-bred ethics all valued their principles and did, indeed, think their tits, and all else else were ‘made of gold’.

When a girl said ‘no’ to Mitchell it always had and always would mean ‘no’. Now, this is not to say that he wouldn’t try, because sometimes it had to seem to the girl that his hand was like a yo-yo, being moved away then, within seconds, returning to the vicinity of her breasts.

With Sandra, though, this very modest ‘necking’ session never remotely became a ‘petting’ session and Mitchell was not too sad when, a few days later, having enjoyed her company and thinking he’d try one last time…

Asking for a second date, Sandra told him that her parents thought he was too ‘fast’ for her—and really, she did, too—and that she could not go out with him again.

On the other hand, having asked their daughter, Sandra’s parents had learned Mitchell’s last name and figured that Lipensky was not exactly the name of a white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant boy.

As for Mitchell Lipensky: In later years, whenever he would think of Sandra the beautiful, ‘girl next door’ face of the singer and actress ‘Doris Day’ came to mind.

September 8, 1951 To September 19, 1951

Knobs

Taking the Oakton Street bus from downtown Skokie to the light industrial section of small factories on the south-eastern border of Skokie, Mitchell began walking the streets looking for an after-school, part time job.

This area was particularly good for him because it was only a twelve-minute bus ride from school and a brisk ten-minute walk to his house.

An hour and a half, two streets, and three job applications into the exploration, led into a small office where Mitchell was introduced to Mister Ed Rogan, who interviewed, then hired him.

‘Rogan Bros.’. was the name on the sign above the front door of the yellow brick, one-story building. The products made at Rogan Bros. were knobs: knobs for radios, televisions, washing machines, dryers, military radar—you name it; wherever a knob was needed to turn on, turn off, or adjust, it could be produced at Rogan Bros.

The manufacturing process was simple. Granular plastic of the appropriate color would be fed into a plastic injection press where, melted, it poured into the appropriate steel mold, making a hardened, semi-finished product that was pushed out of the mold by underpins. It was then swept into a carton and carried to a drill press where it was fitted by hand into a singular mold holding it steady so that a hole might be drilled in the proper position. The knob would then be brought to a tapping and screwing press where, fitted into a like mold, the drilled hole was threaded and an octagonal-headed screw inserted in one operation. The finished product was later counted, boxed and shipped.

Mitchell would be working on the drilling and tapping machines from four to eight p.m., with a half-hour break, three days a week with pay at union scale.

The presses would always be pre-set with the proper holding mold and at the right drill speed—leastwise at first.

The night shift consisted of three people: Stanislaus Kowalczyk, who worked in the press room, spoke only Polish and was never seen unless it was to cross the plant to re-fill his coffee cup or use the toilet; Tom Schmedling, a boy of Mitchell’s age who attended a private, Christian school; and Mitchell.

****

“Your cheatin’ heart, will tell on you.

“You’ll cry and cry, the whole night through.”

The pitch turned full volume to be heard above the whine of the drill presses, Hank Williams poured from the radio.

Tom Schmedling and Mitchell Lipensky sat on high, backless stools at the second and fourth drill presses. To the right of each boy, also on high stools, was a box of un-drilled knobs. On the floor to the left was the box of drilled knobs. The air pressure of each machine turned to near-exploding, the counters on the presses were ‘click’, ‘click’, ‘clicking’.

Reach to the right, grab a knob, fit it into the mold, hold it tight and stamp on the pedal and the descending hi-speed drill bit into the knob disgorging a thin ribbon of plastic. Lift your foot and the bit rose and,’click’, the counter counted. Grab another knob.

The boys timed themselves, having a new race every quarter-hour.

‘Click’, ‘click’, ‘click’.

Tom glanced at the counter to the side of his press. Tall and gangling, his straight, black hair hanging over his forehead: ‘lick’, 278; ‘click’, 279; ‘click’, 280.

Mitchell glanced at the clock on the wall. The sweeping second hand going from 7:29, ‘click’, from 55 seconds, ‘click’, 56, 57, 58, ‘click’, ‘click’ ‘ click’.

“Time!”

Stopping, straightening their backs, both boys leaned back.

“So?”

Looking at his counter, “286,” Tom said. “You?”

“283.”

“Ha!”

“Schmuck, I’ll get’ch’ya next time!”

Standing and stretching, the boys went to the foreman’s desk.

Sitting on the chair, tilting it back on two legs Mitchell stretched his legs across the desk.

Sitting on the desk, Tom called his girlfriend. Talked for near fifteen minutes, hung up, slapped Mitchell across the sole of one of his shoes.

Both boys returned to the presses, had another race, and fifteen minutes later stopped, declared who the winner was. Punched out and went home.

Turning the air pressure up. Speeding the presses, making a game of it, the two boys completed about as much work in four hours as three full-time men did in eight hours.

They did get complaints, though.

The excessive friction made by the high speed caused the drill bits to become dull about three times faster than normal, and breakage was about twice that of the full-time shift, and each morning there was a row of seven or eight bits left by the grinder awaiting re-sharpening.

From Ed Rogan: “What the hell you two guys doin’ to my bits? Eatin’ ’em?” But he couldn’t be too mad because extra production was always there.

From the day men: “Hey, why don’t you two fuckers slow down an’ leave us somethin’ to do once in a while? Shit! You make us look bad to the boss.”

****

After tax deductions, Tom and Mitchell each cleared about $22.50 a week, for what amounted to, in reality, approximately twelve hours of actual work— excluding, of course, their ‘self’ appointed’ breaks —which, for students with part-time jobs in 1951, wasn’t too bad.

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “ A Farm Girl”