A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence:

“Changes Forever/Susan 4”

Skokie/Chicago Illinois

February 14 Through June 12, 1952

Sweetheart Swing…

The Valentine’s Day dance was the first time that any of Mitchell’s school friends met Susan and his heart swelled with pride as Jack Brandon, dancing by, gave him the big “OK” sign with his circled thumb and forefinger.

A few minutes later it swelled even further when Bill Westguard whispered, purposely loud enough for Susan to hear, “Yeah! You were right. Just like Elizabeth Taylor.”

He introduced Susan to Sandra and Sally, both of whom looked at her with envy then, as the girls were pulled onto the dance floor by their dates, “Hey,” Susan said, pretending to look and sound angry, “who’s next?”

“Huh?” Leaning back so as to see Susan’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me, ‘Tammy’, ‘Tessie’ and ‘Tilly’?”

“Tammy, Tessie, Tilly? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t kid me, kiddo! I know what you’re trying to do! You’re trying to work your way through the alphabet.”

Looking at her blankly. “Huh?”

“Come on! ‘Sandra’, ‘Sally’ and ‘Susan’? ‘Tammy’, ‘Tessie’ and ‘Tilly’? Uh, ‘Unice’… ‘Ureitha’ and, uh…” Laughing, she searched for another U name. “ ‘Eureka’!”

“No, baby!” Hugging her. “Never further than ‘Susan’! God, but I love you!”

***

For her birthday he gave Susan a monogrammed white cashmere sweater, took her to dinner, and to see the movie ‘Moulin Rouge’.

"Whenever we kiss, I worry and wonder,              your lips may be near, but where is your heart?”

And the beautiful theme became ‘their song’.

Susan urged him to save money for his own car, so that when he did go to Rochester he’ll be able to drive home whenever possible to see her.

He began to put every spare cent into a savings account.

In an effort not to see too much of each other and possibly—although it seemed impossible—grow tired of what they did to and with each other, and maybe—more than ‘just’ maybe—allow their passion to progress further than Susan would want, but was afraid would would allow.

Susan and Mitchell saw each other only on Friday or Saturday evenings and then again, usually, during the day on Sunday. Which was all right with Mitchell because between school, cramming for his oh-so-rapidly-approaching entrance exam, and his job at the knob factory — with but one telephone call a night to Susan — each minute of each break was spent poring over his books and, since meeting Susan in December, five months ago, Mitchell had spent every possible minute cramming for the exam.

May 29, 1952

Having confidence that he would pass the R.I.T. entrance exam, on Thursday, the twenty-ninth of May, hating the lie, telling Susan that was going for a required orientation and to find living quarters, Mitchell boarded a train in Union Station bound for Rochester, New York.

He returned Saturday night in a highly elated state of mind.

June 12, 1952

“Hi, Mom! The mail come?”

“Yes, Mitchell, it came. I’ve a cake in the oven, don’t slam the d…” Coming from the kitchen, Myra watched as her son anxiously opened the envelope.

****

“Sue, I’ve ‘got’ to see you today, as soon as possible.”

Wondering at the tone of his voice. “You know the rules, Mitch. Can’t you tell me on the phone?”

“No, I can’t, Sue. It’s ‘real’ important, please.”

“I can’t imagine what could be ‘that’ important. But okay, when can you be here?”

“My dad left the studio early, and should be home any minute.”

“Okay. But it’s almost dinner, and you know how my mom gets.”

“Yeah, Sue, I know. I’m sorry.”

****

“…Sue, I’m sorry...”

Still believing that the circumstances of their meeting and instantaneous mutual love ‘had’ to be ‘God’ ordained, Mitchell Lipensky never allowed himself ‘even’ the thought of this moment.

“...I’m so sorry.”

Sitting in the Buick in front of her building.

“I ‘don’t’ understand, Mitchie.” Fighting back tears of both, disbelief and anger. “How could this happen?”

“Sue… Honey, we met each other on a Saturday and I’ve been studying and cramming for that damned test every spare minute I could since that next Monday… And, oh, ‘God’...”— a plea to both God and Susan — “...I thought sure I’d pass it.”

“I don’t understand!” she repeated. “If you carried a B-plus average you wouldn’t have a problem getting into almost any college! And you wouldn’t have to take a stupid entrance exam! What happened?”

‘God’, how do I tell her?

“Sue, I…” His head hanging dejectedly, unable to look at her. “I guess I, uh, lied.”

“ ‘Lied’?” Disbelieving. “ ‘You lied’? About what?”

“Sue, on that first night… When I met your folks… I saw how important college was to them…” lifting his head, turning to her, “...and you, and…” Tears coming to his eyes. “Oh, God, Sue! I knew that if I…” Sighing, “I lied about my average, and even about wanting to go to college.”

“I asked you if you told us the truth that night! ‘Didn’t I’?”

“Yes.” His stomach tightening in fear of losing her. “You did.” His voice rising in desperation. “But ‘what’ was I supposed to do? ‘What’ was I supposed to say? It wasn’t like I could just walk out of your life, Sue. I loved you the second I saw you! What could I ‘do’? I knew if I told the truth it would be over right then! What the ‘hell’ was I supposed to say? You think we’d be sitting here, ‘now’, if I told your folks ‘then’? No! You’n’me would never have even gotten started together! You’d have said goodbye to me on that first night and we’d have ‘never’ happened!” Taking a deep breath, he swiped his hand over his eyes. “Tell me, Sue, what should I have done? Should I have told your mother and father that their ‘A-plus’ daughter was about to start dating a dummy?”

“Oh, Mitchie,” turning her face aside, she began to cry. “I’d never think you were a dummy.”

“No! I know you’re not saying I’m a dummy! ‘I’m’ saying I’m a dummy.”

Taking hold of her chin, turning her face in his direction so he might see her eyes.

“Sue, right ‘there’, right ‘then’, when your dad started grilling me about my average and my goals, I ‘promised’ myself that I’d do ‘anything’ for you!” Forcing himself to speak slower, to speak softer. “And that’s why I lied, because I’m ‘not’ a dummy; I’m just lazy. And I thought that if I worked harder than I’d ‘ever’ worked in my life I’d be able to do it. ‘Shit’! I had no plans of going to college before I met you!” His voice rising again... making an effort to bring himself under control. “Hell, Sue, all I ever did was screw around in school before I met you. I never even cared about college before I met you. But then I did meet you, and I knew that if I wanted to be with you, that if I wanted to marry you someday, I ‘have’ to go to college! And thought if I worked my ass off, ‘really’ worked my ass off, I’d do it! And also… And I’ve told you this so many times! I ‘really’ believed—‘do’ believe—that God brought us together. And if God would do that—bring us together—then he’d surely help me to get into college so that we would be together… And if I did get into R.I.T., then why would you ever have to know what a complete fuck-up I’ve been?”

Never having used this type of language in front of Susan. Seeing her wince at the word. Fighting for control once again. “I love you so much!” Taking her hand, he kissed her palm. “You can’t believe how hard I’ve worked! That’s one of the reasons I didn’t care if I saw you on Saturday because on Saturdays I was being tutored. ‘God’, Susan, I’d do anything for you, honey! Anything in the world.”

Quiet. Concentrating on his every word. “I know you would, Mitch. But what are we going to do about college?”

‘We’! His heart lifting, ‘What are we going to do about college!’

“Look, I’ll have no problem getting into ‘Wright’. And I’ll keep working on it! And as soon as I can I’ll reapply to R.I.T.” Lifting her chin, looking into her eyes again “Please, baby, ‘please’ don’t let this hurt us. I ‘promise’ I’ll make it, Sue. I love you so much I don’t know how I’d be able to live without you, if we weren’t together.”

“It’ll be okay, Mitchie.” Caressing his cheek, “I just don’t know what I’m going to tell my parents.”

“Sue, let me do it! I’m the one that lied. Let me talk to them!”

“They think the world of you, Mitchie, and knowing that you lied to them from the start is going to let them down ‘terribly’. No, I know how to handle my folks.”—though, really, she had not the slightest idea of what she was going to tell them—“I’ll do it.”

“Susan,” he asked, “do you love me?”

“Of ‘course’ I do!” she answered without hesitation.

“Okay, It’s our lives! We love each other and ‘can’t’ let this come between us. I’ll do everything I can to get into R.I.T.! I promise!”

Skokie, Illinois

June 19, 1952

On commencement day, Susan came with Myra, Walter, Lawrence and Morton.

The Thursday evening ceremony took place outside.

As he walked across the stage to receive his diploma, Mitchell searched the audience looking for them. As the scroll was handed to him his eyes met Susan’s.

Smiling, she threw him a kiss.

Oh, God! All’s right with the world.

Chicago, Illinois

June 21, 1952

“Jambalay’an’a’crawfish pie an’a’fila’gumbo!”

****

He hadn’t seen Susan since saying goodnight to her after they’d gone to dinner to celebrate his graduation with his family.

Going for dinner at Walter and Myra’s favorite restaurant in downtown Chicago, rather than taking everyone home then driving back to Chicago with Susan— As having to be in early that night because she still had school the next day, with his family waiting in the car.— At Susan’s urging he hadn’t yet spoken to her parents so, not wanting to push it, giving Mister and Mrs. Friedman a little longer to cool off—the kiss in the stairwell was…? Perfunctory.

Yesterday evening, when they had spoken on the phone and made plans to spend Saturday at the beach, Susan had told him, ‘Mitchie, don’t come up. My mom and dad are still really hurt and they don’t care to see you right now.’

“Sue, you know that I like your mom’n’dad, and it bothers me that they’re still mad at me. I think if I can just talk to them, I’d be able to get them to understand why I did it. Why I ‘had’ to lie.”

“No,” she answered. “I think it’ll be better if you just let it be a while longer.”

“Okay, I’d rather talk to them and get it over with. But if you think it’ll be better that way...”

“I do!”

“Whatever you say, baby… Pick you up at eleven, okay?”

“Yes. That’ll be fine.”

“Susan…”

“Yes, Mitchell?”

“I love you.”

“…I love you, too, Mitchie.”

**** 

“Jambalay’an’a’cawfish pie an’a fila’gumbo…”

It was a beautiful Saturday.

Taping his hands on the steering wheel, Mitchell sang along with Hank Williams. “Jambalay’an’a’cawfish pie an’a fila’gumbo…”

As always, his heart quickening at the first sight of her, Susan was there, sitting on the stoop waiting for him.

Pulling to the curb, leaning across the seat, “Hi, beautiful!” he said through the open window.

Standing, Susan walked slowly to the car.

Rather than a bathing suit and a beach robe, she was wearing blue jeans and a blouse.

“Hey,” looking at her face, “where’s your bathing suit?”

Susan’s skin was sallow. The flesh around her eyes puffy and, as though she had been crying, her eyes glassy and bloodshot.

“Susan, what’s wrong?”

Opening the door, “I have to talk to you.” She sat down.

“Sue?” Attempting to put his arms about her, but, resisting, she held both hands, fists clenched, against his chest. “What’s the matter?”

Staring out the window, she didn’t answer.

“ ‘For God’s sake, Sue’,” becoming alarmed. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Mitchie…” Opening her hand, she looked down.

His eyes follow her eyes. On her palm there was a gold ring.

“Sue?” His mind not yet accepting what his eyes saw. Lifting her other hand he looked for a like ring. A ring with adhesive tape wrapped around the shank. A ring that looked exactly like this ring… that ‘should’ be on her finger… but wasn’t.

“Oh, God! Susan, no!”

“Mitchie… Mitchell, I…” Her chest heaved. Tears welled in her eyes. “I…” The words catching in her throat, barely able to whisper… “I… Oh, God. Mitchie, I can’t… I…” taking a deep intake of breath, “I can’t see you anymore.” Turning her face forward, she closed her eyes.

“ ‘No’! Sue, you can’t…!” His eyes stinging, feeling a constricting of his throat, and within his heart. “Susan, you can’t mean that!”

As though afraid to look at him, Susan’s eyes remained closed.

“They did it! Sue, don’t let them! Please, don’t let them do this to us!”

“Mitchie, I’m sorry… Oh, God!” She looked at him. “Mitchie, please, if you love me…”

“ ‘If I love you’? Oh, God, Sue, I love you more than anything!”

“If you love me like you say, then please don’t try to see me, or call me again.” She stared at him, as though committing his face to memory. “Please, Mitchie… ‘Oh, God’!” Putting the ring on the dashboard, Susan stepped out, and without looking back hurried from the car.

Looking at her through the mist of his tears, “Susan!” Calling after her as she disappeared through the entry door...”

Susan was gone!

Gone?

There was no memory of life before Susan.

Skokie, Illinois

June 25, 1952

He waited four days.

Somehow Mitchell lived through four days without speaking to Susan then, taking a deep breath, he called at 5:30 pm., at a time when he was sure she’d be home and her father wasn’t; meaning he would have a 50/50 chance of either Susan or her mother answering the phone.

“Hello.”

Silent a moment. The sound of Susan’s voice destroying his intended composure. “Sue,” his throat thickening, barely able to speak, “it’s me, Sue.”

Mitchie! Feeling her heart pound. Swallowing. Fighting back tears. Desperately wanting to talk to him. To tell him, Oh, God, I love you. I miss you…

Susan said nothing.

“Sue,” finding his voice. “Honey, I ‘had’ to talk to you one more time.” He waited three heartbeats for her to speak, and when she didn’t. “I love you! No one! I ‘promise’ you that no one in your entire life will ever love you as much as I love you! And I know that you love me, too. I know that this is because of ‘Rochester’ and I promise that I’ll do ‘anything’ to get into college, Sue. Only please don’t let them do this to us! Please, Sue!”

“Mitchell…”

Oh, God… he sighed. “Yes, Mrs. Friedman.”

“Mitchell, Susan does ‘not’ want to speak to you! And she does ‘not’ want you to call her again!”

“Mrs. Friedman, I know what I did was wrong! But I got trapped on that very first night and had to say what I said! But I swear that I’ve done ‘everything’ possible to make it right. You have no idea of what I did and how hard I worked to make it right! And I promise that I ‘will’ make it right! Please, Mrs. Friedman, I’m still the same guy, and I know that you and Mister Friedman like me… liked me.”

“No. Mitchell, apparently you are not ‘the same guy’ we thought you were, nor ‘the same guy’ my daughter thought you were!”

“Mrs. Friedman, I love Susan, and know she loves me, too! Please!”

“No! Susan does ‘not’ love you, Mitchell! Susan thinks what you did was reprehensible and she does ‘not’ want you to call here again! ‘Do you understand’? And if you do, we’ll call the police! Do you understand me, Mitchell?”

Not answering, dazed, he broke the connection.

Skokie, Illinois

June 26 to September 1, 1952

The summer was spent in an eclipse of unbearable loneliness.

Wanting as little time on his hands as possible, Mitchell had asked Jim Rogan, ‘How’s about me working full time this summer?’

As the Korean War was still in process and as the military, so it seemed, ran on knobs and as 1952 was an ‘up year’ in the knob business, Mister Rogan told Mitchell, ‘I got Gus and Duke off on vacation these next two weeks, then Willie and Stan and then Carlos… Sure, why not.”

However, sitting at a drill press eight hours a day doing mindless, monotonous work five days a week was not the way to keep one’s mind off of lost love and after a month, needing something new in his life, closing his—and, so he thought of it, as Susan’s savings account also—after a weekend of car shopping with Norman, Mitchell bought a 1948, gray, two-door ‘DeSoto’ with Fluid Drive, that also came with twelve, twenty-two dollar a-month payments.

Having no doubt that it was the worst thing he could do but yet, as though drawn by an irresistible force, Mitchell tortured himself by returning to Evanston and the Walgreens where he had first met Susan, where he sat on the same stool he had sat on on that day. Looking across the counter he envisioned Susan as he had seen her down to the slightest detail…

He could sit but for the minute it took for tears to come to his eyes and, to the confusion of the waitress, rushed from the store.

July passed into August…

And Mitchell passed his eighteenth birthday in black despair.

Refusing to go to out for a birthday dinner with his family, he could barely pretend to be thankful for the gifts they had given him and, making an excuse, even refused to speak to Norman when he called.

Sneaking a half full—not in a very optimistic mood—‘half empty’ bottle of ‘Canadian Club’ from Walter’s liquor cabinet...

At 11:20 that night he drove to Talman Avenue and parked in a tight, but perfectly situated space directly across the street from the building and turned the motor off.

Though the window-shade was three-quarters of the way down to allow a breeze, Susan’s back-lit bedroom window was opaquely visible.

Leaning against the passenger side door with both legs stretched across the seat, opening the bottle of bourbon, Mitchell took a full-mouthed drink… And, grimacing, had to concentrate on keeping it down. Lighting a cigarette and taking another near-gagging swig, he placed the bottle between his thighs and stared up at Susan’s window...

His heart lurched when the bedroom light went on and the shadow of a person he knew was Susan passed back and forth behind the partially drawn shade. Then the light went off and his heart pitched again as the shade was lifted higher to allow the passage of more air.

He imagined Susan pulling the summer quilt back, lying on the bed and closing her eyes…

And the bittersweet memory of that one time—that ‘one’ time only—when, in the darkness of her bedroom, ‘you can hold me ‘here’, pressing his hand to her left breast. ‘But only ‘over’ my clothes! Not under’!’ Adding sternly, ‘Do you understand me, Mitchell?’

Oh, God! Mitchell did remember…

Remembered that once Susan and he had lain on that bed together, and…

Though the words were for Susan, “ ‘Susan’,” spoken aloud, the words were a prayer, also. “ ‘Susan’,” he whispered, “ ‘do you remember ‘us’?” Taking another drink; this time, though, the liquor went down easier. “ ‘Do you think of me, Susan’? Damn you! Do you know what you’ve let them do to us, Susan’?” Holding back tears. Closing his eyes, drawing on the cigarette he then took another drink. Focusing his mind. Though still a whisper, forcefully whispered . “ ‘Think of me, Susan’!” Concentrating. Willing his thoughts to her mind. “ ‘Cry for me, too, Susan’!” His tears came. Miss me like I miss you, Susan, because…“ ‘Oh, God’,” he said aloud, “how I miss you!”

Crying. His chest heaving with his sobs.

Crying…

Forcing himself to stop. ‘Trying’ to ‘force’ himself to stop crying. At the moment wanting... ‘needing’ physical rather than emotional pain, he bit his lower lip until he tasted blood. But still, he cried.

Another drink.

Mixing with blood, giving him a bit more pain than he’d wanted, the bourbon stung his cut lip.

Drawing on the now raggedy end of the ‘Chesterfield’ he got a mouthful of tobacco and not knowing if the cigarette was wet from bourbon, his tears, blood or the snot that ran from his nose, he flipped the cigarette out the open window.

Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, Mitchell wiped his eyes, blew his nose, dabbed at the double cut on his lip… Took another swig from the bottle and for a few blissful moments his mind left there and went back to the only other time he had been this drunk.

He thought of Gina Lambos and, momentarily, their afternoon tryst. But then…

Oh, God, Frankie! He hadn’t thought of Frank Rizzo— at least since meeting Susan. But now remembered. “Frankie, my ol’ pal, you’re dead!” As though ‘now’ was the first time that he ‘truly’ understood, “ ‘Really’ dead!” And once more the pain swelled in his throat, mind and heart. Mumbling to himself, “Frankie, my ol’ pal, I ain’t never gonna see you again.” Thinking, If I live to be a hundred I’ll never, never see you again.

He envisioned himself at nine years of age, wrestling with Frank on the floor at Baylor. “Oh, Frankie.” Then he saw Susan and himself at the Valentine’s day dance. “Susan! Oh, God, Susan!”

Mitchell Lipensky cried for a friendship killed by a North Korean land mine and a love killed by a failed entrance exam, and he mourned Frank and he mourned Susan and he cried for himself because at age eighteen—he looked at the luminous clock in the dashboard: ‘12:12’; eighteen years and one day—he knew that he was an absolute, complete failure, and the total of his anguish became so excruciatingly painful that he thought if he had some painless way to do it he would kill himself…

But he didn’t... So he took another drink, then another. Until eventually…

Emotionally drained and ‘thoroughly’ soused, Mitchell’s eyes closed and his chin dropped onto his chest. Not awake and not asleep, even in this, for him, usually peaceful twilight place he could not escape the ache of his boundless dark depression…

Now however, things began to happen: His head began to spin. The car began to spin. The world began to spin and, ‘oh, yes’, his stomach began to spin. ‘Ulp’! Faster. ‘Ullpp’! And, “Uh, oh!” faster yet.

On the verge of vomiting, wrenching the door open he staggered to the rear of the car. Bracing himself against the right rear fender of the ‘DeSoto’ and the front fender of another car… a white, ‘1951 Cadillac’.

Mitchell Lipensky had done dumb and, oh yeah, even stupid things in his now eighteen years and one day, but he had ‘never’ been spiteful and he had ‘never’ purposely hurt another person or damaged someone else’s property, but now…

Mister and Mrs. Friedman’s white, 1951 Cadillac.

“Fuck ’em!”

Turning to the left, Mitchell….

**** 

His mouth dry, his throat sore, fighting a headache, “Normie!”

“Uh, huh.”

“Look, Normie, I’m sorry about yesterday, when you called for my birthday, but I was kind of… Shit! I didn’t want to talk to anyone! So, please, don’t you be mad at me, too!”

“Yeah, Mitch, I know. Don’t worry,” Norman said begrudgingly. “I’m not mad at you. But you’ve ‘got’ to pull yourself together… What time you picking me up Tuesday?”

“Seven, seven-thirty, okay?”

“Yeah, fine… You doing anything with your family on Labor Day?”

“Yeah, the whole mishpocheh—the whole family—is going to the beach in Kenosha, so I thought I might as well tag along… You working with your dad?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d give the old man a treat and do the ‘Air Show’ with him this year.”

“Okay, pal, make lots’a money… See you on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, thanks… So long, Mitchie.”

Chicago, Illinois ‘Wright Junior College’

September 2 to October 2, 1952

The gray DeSoto crisscrossed large and smaller side streets for almost a half-hour before finding a place to park.

“Jesus, it’s a good thing you picked me up early.”

“Yeah,” backing into the tight space, “there must be a million kids going here.”

**** 

“Take a look at that, will you!” Motioning to a group of girls on the other side of the street. “There’s more broads here than you can shake a stick at.” Knowing him, Norman knew the way to Mitchell’s heart, and was doing everything possible to pull him out of his doldrums.

Following closely behind three other girls, all three sets of tightly clad, each very well defined set of buttocks wearing slacks, Levi’s or a skirt. “And kate a kool [take a look] at the saaes [asses] on these three!”

Hearing him, one of the girls understanding ‘Franklin Park’, turning her head, “Drop dead, jerk!” he girl in the slacks said, giving Norman the Italian salute.

Nudging him in the side with his elbow, “Shit, Mitch,” Norman laughed, “with all the good looking broads here, you ought’a be in nookie heaven.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly, “some of them look pretty good.”

Becoming angry. “You’ve ‘got’ to stop, Mitch. It’s ‘over’! Forget her, will you! Look around,” sweeping his arm in an arch, “there’s a million shiksas here just waiting for you’n’me!”

Watching the swaying buttocks, “Yeah!” Feeling— for the first time since the breakup — a stirring in his crotch “Those asses look ‘real’ nice!” He said louder than necessary, not caring if the girls did hear, which still was very much out of character for Mitchell Lipensky.

Turning, the middle girl was about to say something, but looking at Mitchell, smiling, “Hi!” she said, and started to slow down, but taking her by the elbows, the other two girls hurried her along.

Encouraged by the girl’s reaction, “Normie, from now on we’re going to have all the ass we want.”

“Yeah! You remember what ‘Jack Armstrong’ always said?”

Thinking a moment, “No, what did Jack Armstrong always say?”

“ ‘Winners never quit…”

“Oh, yeah.” Remembering. “ ‘And quitters never wins’!”

“Yeah!”

September 4, 1952

Cutting his second period class. In the student lounge, sitting on a cracked, Naugahyde-covered sofa, an over-flowing ashtray balanced on its arm, between puffing on a cigarette and studying the girls in the lounge, he disinterestedly leafed through one of his textbooks.

So far, the only things that had impressed him about ‘Wright Junior College’ were the abundance of good-looking girls and that the students were allowed to smoke in designated areas within the building.

His bravado of three days ago—‘Normie, from now on we’re going to have all the ass we want’—having left him because whenever he saw a girl that he’d thought he would like to know, upon approaching he would change his mind because the girl dyed her hair. Because the girl was too tall. Because the girl was too short. Because the girl was too thin. because the girl was too heavy. Because… Because the girl wasn’t Susan.

“Hi! You’re Mitch Lipensky, aren’t you?”

Taking the cigarette from his mouth, looking up. “Yup, guess I’m guilty’a that one.”

“I’m a pal of Norm’s. We went to ‘Roosevelt’ together.” Shaking hands. “Name’s ‘Ron Lurey’.”

“Any friend of Norm’s a friend of mine… Come on, sit down.”

Moderately good looking, at 5”10’, Ron Lurey had light brown hair, closely set light brown eyes, a prominent nose, strong chin and broad shoulders.

“I wanted to meet you anyway, Mitch.” Coming right to the point. “You know that contest they’re having here?”

“ ‘Contest’? Oh, yeah. You mean the ‘Mister and Miss Freshmen Contest’?”

“Yeah. Norman suggested that I talk to you about it...Know how it’s done?”

“Nah.” Contests being the last thing on his mind—actually, other than Susan, there was nothing on his mind— “Never thought about it.”

“The way it’s done; during registration the counselors keep tabs on the best-mannered, best-looking freshmen, and guess what?”

“What?” he asked cautiously.

“You’re one of ‘freshies’, and I can get you to win!”

“I’m glad to meet you, Ron, but no thanks. I’m not interested.”

“Listen to me first!” Ron said excitedly. “You’re a ‘Wej’!”

“Okay, so I’m a Jew. So what?”

“Mitch, they’re mostly Polacks and Dagos that go here.”

“Yeah, I ‘know’ that. So what?”

“It would be great to have a Wej win for once.”

“If they’re all Italian and Polish here, how could I win?”

“First off, you ‘are’ the best looking guy here.”

“Oh, ‘come on’!” Mitchell said modestly. But was flattered and besides, he didn’t doubt it.

“Listen, most of the kids here won’t vote, and most of the girls that do vote will vote for you because you are so damned good looking, and I’ll personally get every Wej in the place to vote for you. So you’re a lead-pipe cinch to win. And there’s a…”

Mitchell needed something to re-build his shattered ego.

“…fifty-buck prize that you split with Miss Freshman and…”

“Twenty-five bucks each?”

“Yeah! ‘And’… And you get to go on a date with the best looking freshie here and Wright pays for the date.”

Thinking, The best looking freshie here! Looking about the lounge, Mitchell’s eyes returned to the beautiful girl— sitting on the chair by the window— with long, auburn hair, and great up-pointed breasts. “Ron,” he asked, “are you saying that you want to be my, uh, ‘campaign manager’?”

“If you want. Sure, why not?”

“See that girl there?” nodding his head.

“The one with the tits? Sure.”

“Think she’s a freshie?”

“I never met her.” Ron told the truth. “But we were in the same graduating class at Roosevelt,” he lied.

Still looking at the girl, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

****

For the past three months, ever since the breakup with Susan, Mitchell had eaten little more than enough food to survive on. His belt notched on the fifth, rather than the third, hole and he weighed twenty pounds less than he had in June. His face had taken a leaner look and, if anything, Mitchell looked better now than any time in his young adult life.

The girls still considered his shy and—due to his incessant love of Susan—indifferent attitude as conceit. But by this time, at this age the girls had all been with conceited boys and it didn’t matter too much to most of them. As a matter of fact, any unattached freshmen girl, and even some that were attached, and even some that were not freshmen, would have been more than happy to be asked out by the aloof Mitchell Lipensky.

****

Norman, Ron Lurey and Mitchell had quickly become good friends and, except for classes, were rarely seen apart.

As for classes: Mitchell found it impossible to concentrate and soon began to think that there was something wrong with his mind because whenever he tried his hardest to determine what a professor was talking about, it was as though an impenetrable fog covered his mind causing what the professor was attempting to teach to became wholly incomprehensible.

Within days he had fallen behind, and by the end of the third week, if he had any idea of what he would do if not going to college, he would quit altogether.

**** 

Ron Lurey was right! Mitchell easily won the contest and became the first Jewish ‘Mister Freshman of Wright Junior College’.

But it was a hollow victory that he did not enjoy because, after all, no one really knew him and, to him, it was nothing more than a beauty contest and he, oddly, actually felt degraded by it.

Miss Freshman was an eighteen-year-old, big-busted, blonde-haired beauty by the name of Maria Slywka, who happened to have a well-muscled boyfriend by the name of Vince Malczewski, who kissed Miss Freshman… and glared death at Mister Freshman

The $50 prize was split between Mister and Miss Freshman. The pre-paid date was secretly given to Maria and Vince, and Mitchell didn’t really care too much because no, not even Miss Freshman of the class of 1952/53 was Susan.

The day after being crowned Mister Freshman, Mitchell did not go to Wright. Instead he drove to Talman Avenue. Stopped in front of Susan’s building and looked at her bedroom window. He then drove to the corner, made a U-turn and passed the building without a glance. Driving east on Peterson, north on Ridge, east on Howard until he found the building then stopped, parked, put three pennies into the parking meter and walked through the door of a one-room, storefront office.

****

“…A test? I’ve got to take a test?”

Tapping the eraser end of a pencil onto the desk-set blotter, “That’s right.”

Mitchell looked about the sparkling clean office.

Centered on the wall behind the desk were two flags: one, the Stars and Stripes; the other, deep blue with a gold, nautical emblem. Between the flags was a picture of ‘President Eisenhower’. Hanging on the wall were a number of black and white photographs of ocean-going vessels. On an easel to the left of the high-sheen varnished desk was a large poster of a sharp-prowed ship slicing through mountainous seas.

“So, you in?”

“Yeah,” straightening his back. “Yes, Sir, I’m in.”

“Good. You won’t be sorry.” Opening the top drawer of the desk, Chief Petty Officer Brian Walters removed a sheath of papers. “We do the paperwork here, then tomorrow you go to ‘Civil Service’ downtown for the physical exam and written test. And if you pass ’em both...” Walters looked at the young man over his glasses, “...and I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t, you’re in the United States Coast Guard… You do know the term of enlistment is for four years?”

Four years away from his home.

Four years away from his family.

Four years!

But Mitchell could ‘not’ stay here! He could not stay in this close proximity to Susan and not be allowed to see Susan, to love Susan.

He could ‘not’!

“ ‘Four years’… Yes, Sir.”

“Name: last first, first name, middle initial.

“Lipensky, Mitchell, M.”

Cross a street, turn a corner and your life changes for ever.

End: The ‘Susan’ series

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: October 8/9, 1952

Author’s notation: One might wonder, why the picture of an elevated (EL) car for my “Becoming” cover.

I wanted a cover that depicted a large city, in this case Chicago.

I wanted a cover depicting the period of time. This picture of a Chicago El rounding the ‘loop’ at Wabash Avenue is circa 1938 and below the tracts can be seen old, discolored awnings and boxy— mid twentieth century— automobiles.

I wrote “Becoming” and “For Better or Worse” as a chronicle giving the reader the exact place and time of the developing story.

The story: Anyone living with a young child, seeing the child every day does not realize nor notice the growth of that child until one day the child is as tall or as big as the one/s he/she lives with… This is how I want “Becoming” readers to see the growth of Mitchell... Meeting him in 1939 at age five and— not noticing his growth— living with him through each episode until the time of Mitchell “Becoming” a man.

Up to the “Susan” series I depicted the growth of Mitchell through a series of disjointed episodes that I think of as, “Points In Time.”

From the meeting of Susan on December 8, 1951 “Becoming” will continue, into “For Better or Worse” as one continuing, ongoing story.

Thank you!

Mark