A “Becoming” Excerpt in sequence: CG Rockaway/Ewing

Remembering Ewing’s order for him to be back in five minutes.

Dropping his sea bag Mitchell opened it and rummaged till he found a pair of rolled jeans and a chambray shirt. Digging deeper, felt for his work shoes. Kicking his dress shoes off and hanging his pea coat and uniform on wire hangers that had been left in the closet, he hurriedly re-dressed.

Glancing at his watch as he rushed downstairs: 4:11.

___________________________________________________

February 8. 1953

USCG Rockaway Life Boat Station

Rockaway, NewYork

Looking at the chronometer, “1611! That’s ‘nine’ minutes! I told you to be back in ‘five’!”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Yeah,” Ewing’s mouth twitching, “I’ll bet you are, sailor… Down the hall,” motioning with his thumb, “is a head. If you look in the paint locker there you’ll find everything you need to clean it. I want the deck swabbed. The urinals and commodes and sinks clean enough to eat off and the faucets shining so’s I can see my face in ’em. ‘Got’ it?”

Swallowing, “Yes, Sir.”

“And I want it done by seventeen-hundred.”

“Uh, seventeen-hundred, Sir? That’s only…”

“Yeah, Lipensky, I know how to tell time. And I’ll be by at seventeen-hundred to check, so you’d better move your ass!”

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast at Cape May, and as the odor of food wafted from the galley down the hall his stomach churned. “Yes, Sir.”

The head had a swinging door with brass kick-plates on the outside and inside. The deck was made of four-inch square gray ceramic tile. There were three sinks with mirrors and liquid soap dispensers, two urinals and one toilet stall with a door.

Opening the paint locker—broom closet—he found a string mop, a wringer bucket, cans of scouring powder and glass cleaner, a toilet brush, a large sponge and a pile of blue waste rags.

Scoured at 0800, it was now 1623 hours—4:23 p.m.—and the deck and sinks were muddy and dirt stained.

Wondering why he was being made to do this job at this time of day. Well,he thought, if I want chow, I’d better get going. And besides, I’d like to get off on the right foot with…not remembering Ewing’s name…that asshole.

****

Working as quickly and effectively as possible. Not caring how much water slopped on the deck because it was going to get swabbed anyway, he scoured the toilet and urinals, then buffed the white ceramic bowls with dry rags until they shined. He did the mirrors, but rather than using the waste rags that would leave a film of lint, he used sheets of that morning’s newspaper that he’d found in the garbage can.

After scouring the sinks and shining the chrome handles, with six minutes left he swabbed the deck using the water that had slopped onto it earlier then, working on his hands and knees, backing himself through the door, he rubbed the deck to a shine with the waste rags and had just enough time to put the cleaning materials away before…

The shrill, three-whistle, two-note piping sound of a boatswain’s whistle came over the loudspeaker. “Now hear this! Secure all work details!” The boatswain’s whistle piped again.

Where the hell is he? he thought, as, “Shit!” He quickly moved aside as four men rushed into the head.

Soap, water and dirt splashed onto the recently cleaned, recently clean mirrors, sink and deck. Wet shoes left muddy imprints on the recently cleaned, recently clean deck as they tracked from the urinals to the sink to the continuous towel dispenser on the opposite wall.

“Why the fuck’d you clean the head now?”

“Damned if I know.”

“New man, huh?”

“Yeah. Got here less’n an hour ago.”

“An’ the ol’ man tol’j’ya to clean this fuckin’ head ‘now’?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well...” the man said matter of factually, “...he’s…” calling Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing what he was lovingly referred to by his adoring men as, “a mother- fuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch!” Motioning to the sinks. “Sorry for getting every thing all fucked up again,”

The three men were gone, leaving the head dirtier than it had been forty minutes earlier…

‘Now’ the door swung open.

“Thought I told you to clean this fuckin’ head!”

“Captain, I…” Mitchell realized that Ewing knew that he would never be able to do it at this time of the day, and rather than using the excuse he was sure Ewing expected… “Sorry, Sir. If you want, I’ll do it again.”

“ ‘Bet your ass’, sailor!” Turning, heading out the door. “Do it again!”

Sighing, Mitchell opened the paint locker…

The door opening again. “When you’re through, secure and grab chow.”

“Aye, Sir.”

The door swung shut behind Ewing but, immediately opening again, “Oh, and by the way Lipensky…”

Taking a deep breath, “Yes, Sir?”

“Welcome aboard.”

****

Floyd Richard Ewing: Born in Toledo, Ohio in 1918, Ewing had joined the Navy in 1936.

In 1941, at the start of World War Two, he had held the rank of Boatswains Mate Second Class.

Ewing worked his way through the ranks receiving two battlefield upgrades during the war years.

In 1948, at the time of his third ‘re-up’, he’d transferred from the Navy—with the rank of Boatswains Mate First Class—to the U.S. Coast Guard, where he was immediately upgraded to ‘Chief Petty Officer’. Ewing had received his final promotion to Warrant Officer in 1951, during the Korean conflict.

U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station was Ewing’s first singular command and he ran it as though it were a ship using sea-going terms for his land base: the office was ‘the bridge’; his quarters, ‘the Captain’s state room’; the lookout tower, the ‘crow’s nest’, and Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing was ‘alway’ referred to as ‘Sir’ or ‘Captain’.

In 1953 Ewing was thirty-six years old with slightly more than two years of active duty remaining before retirement with full military benefits.

Standing 5'6", Ewing had a noticeable paunch that overhung his well-pressed slacks. His dark-brown hair rapidly thinning, he attempted to hide the fact by brushing the longer strands from left to right across his balding dome. He had an oblong face with close-set, dark-brown eyes and thick brows that met across the bridge of his nose. He had thin, pinched lips and, when angry—which was often—or prior to smiling—which was rarely—the corners of his mouth would involuntarily twitch, confusing anybody about to receive—usually—a chewing out or—rarely—a smile.

A bachelor, no one on base had ever seen Floyd Richard Ewing with a woman, which had caused—if he was not around—not ‘too’ quiet speculation as to his sexual preference.

Ewing was not bigoted; he just hated ‘Niggers’, ‘Gooks’, ‘Kikes’, ‘Wops’, ‘Spicks’, ‘Pretty Boys’, ‘Civilians’, ‘Politicians’ and ‘Philadelphia Lawyers’—not necessarily in that order.

And ‘lucky’ him! Mitchell Lipensky fell into two of, Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing’s hated categories.

At ‘U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station’, Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing was as God.

****

Through, again, Mitchell headed to the mess hall.

Walking the long hallway— adjacent to the head he’d just all but spit-shined for the second time— was an outside doorway. Directly across the hall was the recreation room with a television, pool and ping-pong tables, two sofas, scattered easy chairs and a writing desk. Further down the hall, to the left, was the “Captain’s State Room.” Then the alcove containing the stairway, street door and ‘Bridge’. To his right was the alcove with the bay-side door leading outside and the work area. To the immediate left of the bay-side door was the Communication Room—the ‘Con’—containing a short-wave radio and a commercial, plug-in type telephone switchboard. At the far end of the hallway, on the right, was the kitchen and, directly across, the mess hall.

Liberty at Rockaway Lifeboat Station was ‘port and starboard’: one night off, one night on; one weekend off, one weekend on.

Most of the men in the starboard section— who were planning on going ‘ashore’ had either left the base without eating, or had eaten and were now in their rooms preparing to leave.

Well past 1730 when he got to the mess hall, there were two men left sitting at the far end of the long, dark oak table drinking coffee. One of the men was ‘Yeoman Second Class Richard McDonald, who nodded at Mitchell. And the other…

“Hey, you must be the new guy!”

Rising from the table, an older, dark-complected man wearing a kitchen-stained apron, white slacks and a T-shirt, holding his hand foward, “I’m Joe Mendez,” he said, speaking with a slight Mexican accent. “The cook for this motley crew.”

“ ‘Mitch Lipensky’,” shaking hands, “and if you’re the cook, then I’m ‘real’ glad to know you… I’m not too late for chow, am I?”

“Fuck, no! I been waiting for you. How you like your ‘T-bone’?”

“Excuse me, did you say ‘T-bone’, like in steak?”

“Yeah, just like. Come on!” Motioning for Mitchell to follow, Mendez went into the kitchen, opened one of the doors to a huge, commercial refrigerator and lifted out a heavy package wrapped in white butcher’s paper. Elbowing the door shut he dropped the package onto a wooden cutting block and opened it. Inside the package was a mound of beautifully marbled T-bone steaks, each at least one-inch thick. Lifting a steak with his fingers, tossing it, sizzling, onto a hot stove griddle, “How do you like it?”

“ ‘Medium rare’. Where the hell do you get meat like this?”

“ ‘Medium rare’. Good thing. Only three ways I make meat around here: ‘Rare’, ‘medium and raw’.”

Taking a package of Camels from his rolled T-shirt shirtsleeve, turning a burner on, bending over the stove Joe lit the cigarette.

“We get all our goods from civilian stores. Matter’a fact, all the chow in this here kitchen came from the ‘A&P’ over on ‘Flatbush’. And we’re such’a good customer that to keep our business there they give us little bonuses like ‘premo’ T-bones for the price of not-so-premo T-bones.”

Lifting the lid of one of two pots that were still on the stove, pointing to a cabinet. “Grab a dish and take some’a these here peas and…” lifting the lid off the second pot, “...potatoes, so’s I can get these pots scrubbed.” Dropping the lid, picking up a long-handled fork, Joe speared the steak, turned it over and slapped it back onto the hot griddle.

“Don’t you have help here?” Mitchell asked rather stupidly. “Ain’t no KP here?” he asked—‘very’ hopefully.

“ ‘KP’? Bet your ass there’s KP! And from what I hear and from the way he started with you today, you’n’me is going to get to know each other ‘real’ good.”

Opening the refrigerator, taking a gallon bottle of milk, Joe poured a dollop into his coffee mug. “You want milk with chow?”

Having ‘nothing’ to do with kosher dietary laws, the thought of drinking milk with meat truly repugnant, “No. No, thanks.”

“You ain’t ‘kosher’, are you?”

How’s he know I’m a Jew? “Nah,” Mitchell said. “I just don’t like milk with dinner. With dessert, yeah, but not usually with dinner. You got anything else?”

Motioning to the refrigerator, “Be my guest.” Joe said, flipping the steak again.

“Joe, let me ask. How’d you know I’m Jewish?”

“With a name like ‘Lipensky’?”

“Shit, Joe, Lipensky could be Polish if it were spelled with an I rather than a Y.”

“Mitch, word gets around, and we…” Joe said conspiratorially, “you’n’me and a couple’a others here are in the minority. It ain’t no fuckin’ democracy here!” Taking a deep, angry draw on his cigarette as jerking his thumb to the left. “This here’s a fuckin’ dictatorship, and there ain’t nothin’ you’n’me can do ‘bout it but do our work, keep our mouths shut and help each other the best we can.”

Absorbing what Joe had said, using a clean ladle that was on the sink he dished generous portions of peas and mashed potatoes onto a dinner plate.

Turning the steak again. “Don’t get me wrong, most of ’em here’s good guys,” Carrying the two pots to a large, galvanized garbage can, he dumped the peas and banged the potato pot on the inside of the can. “And there’s only a couple here that I’d tell you to look out for. But maybe that’s just my opinion and anyway, I don’t know you from shit and you might be a prick, too. But I do know you’re going to have a tough time here and just thought that maybe you’d feel better knowin’ you’re not the only one here getting’ it from that ‘motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch’.”

He knew, but asked anyway: “ ‘The Skipper’?”

“Yeah, Captain Ewing!” he said contemptuously. “The fucker hates me ’cause I’m a ‘spick’ and he’s tried to burn me, a ‘lot’, but I’m a cook ‘first class’, so’s there ain’t too much he can do to me so long’s I do my job.”

At the sink, Joe ran steaming water into the potato pot. Using a steel-wool pad, he scrubbed the pot as smoke from the cigarette held between his lips spiraled upward, causing him to squint.

“I’m glad you told me about it, Joe, but it seems so unfair. Can’t anyone do anything about him?”

“You ‘don’t’ want to try it. The skipper of a unit is the boss, and ‘anyone’ tryin’ to hang him better sure as hell to have every man in the whole fuckin’ unit behind him, or he’ll end up gettin’ his ass shipped to a weather station at the ‘Arctic fuckin’ Pole’..”

Wiping his hands on the apron. “Looks like you’re about done.”

The overflowing dish in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other, returning to the mess hall Mitchell found McDonald still there, smoking a cigarette while nursing his coffee.

Mitchell sat at the far end of the table.

After a few seconds, “I’ve put you in the port section, so if you want, you can pull liberty tomorrow,” McDonald said. “And you got the 12 to 1600 watch so someone’ll take you to the tower in the morning to break you in.” He dropped his cigarette butt in the dredges of his coffee. “Oh, yeah, and your duty station’s the upper deck.”

“ ‘The upper deck’!” Remembering the width and length of the second floor passage, he swallowed. “The ‘whole’ upper deck?”

“Yeah. And it gets swept and buffed every day, and scrubbed and waxed and buffed on Friday. Duty station’s from 0800 to 0900, except on Friday when it’s ‘field day,’ then it’s from 0800 to 0930, when the ‘Old Man’ has his white glove inspection.”

Thinking, That’ll give me plenty of time, at least. Taking a bite of steak. Chewing a minute, “Mac,” he said, “can I ask you something?”

Hesitating, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“What did the Captain see on my record when he said, ‘Look what they sent us’?” Taking a drink of water, he looked at McDonald.

Who looked away. “Nothing.”

“ ‘Come, on, Mac’! He even brought it to you to see. I haven’t been in the Coast Guard long enough to do anything ‘that’ bad.” Cutting another piece of steak, halting the trip to his mouth. “What was he pointing at when he brought my papers to you?”

Standing, starting to walk out of the mess hall. Stopping, McDonald turned back. “ ‘Hebrew’,” he said softly. “Where it says ‘Religion’, it says you’re Hebrew.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Thanks, Mac.”

“Hey, Mitch, I’m takin’ off! When you’re done, just wash your stuff and leave it on the sink, okay?”

“Sure, Joe. See you tomorrow.”

****

…He’d been lying on his bed, reading. “Hi.” When Mitchell entered the room, the young man sat up. “I’m Sal Minnossa. Looks like we’re roommates.”

Recognizing him as the man that had spoken to him in the head. Crossing the room, shaking hands, “I’m Mitch Lipensky.”

Twenty years old, Minnossa had a thin, handsome face with dark-brown eyes and tightly curled brown hair. In clean denims, he had one chevron with the ‘Machinist Mate’ emblem stenciled on the sleeve.

“The asshole had you cleaning the head before you even got unpacked, eh.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have minded, except he knew that by the time I’d finished you guys would be securing for the day and it would be getting filthy again.”

“Sounds like the ‘cocksucker’… Where you from, Mitch?”

Taking his sea bag from the closet and putting it on the bed, he began to unpack. “ ‘Chicago’… You?”

“ ‘Brooklyn’. Not too far from here.”

“That’s ‘great’! You get to go home whenever you want.”

“Yeah. I spent more’n a year and a half on a buoy tender out of Boston, and when I got transferred here I could hardly believe it! And if it weren’t for that ‘motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch’ it would be like heaven.”

“You got a…” stopping, smiling, “gal, Sal?”

“ ‘Minnie’… The guys call me ‘Minnie’. Yeah, we’re engaged… You?”

“Nah,” he sighed. “No one at home but my family.”

“Just as well you don’t have a girl that far away, Mitch.”

Putting his underwear and socks into the top drawer of the empty dresser. “At boot, the guys called me ‘Lippy’.”

“Okay, ‘Lippy’… You had a chance to see New York yet?”

“No. I caught the subway at Grand Central and came right here.”

“If you’re a drinker—or even if you’re not—there’s lots’a broads to pick- up at bars.”

“Nah, bars ain’t my thing, and the girls you can pick-up at bars seem…?”

“Yeah, I never liked that kind either. You ought to go to the U.S.O. over on 42nd Street. There’s lots’a good looking broads there and even if they’re ‘not’ supposed to, a guy looking as good as you should have no problem talking some of ’em into going out with you.”

“What about girls here, in Rockaway?”

“In summer, ‘yeah’! Lots’an’lots of ’em. But in winter? Forget it!”

Changing the subject. “So tell me about ‘here’, Minnie. What do we do here all day?”

Lighting a cigarette. “Shit, don’t worry about that. The old man’ll be sure to keep you busy, even if it’s just to go to the beach and move sand dunes around… Just a word of advice.”

Lighting a cigarette also. “Yeah?”

“Do whatever you got to do and stay the fuck out of his way and don’t do ‘anything’ to make him madder at you then he already is.”

“I got a feeling just being alive makes him mad.”

“Yeah, for the both of us. He don’t like ‘wops’ either. Mac’s a good guy, though, and he tries giving guys that bunk together the same liberties and watches, so’s we don’t wake each other coming and going, so I’ll usually be in the ‘con’, when you’re in the tower.”

“ ‘Con’?”

“The ‘communication’ room. I’ll usually be on the switchboard there when you’re in the tower. And if I know the fucker’s coming, I’ll give you a call to warn you. Problem is, sometimes the prick sneaks out and we don’t know he’s gone and, ‘believe’ me, you’ll always want to know when he’s coming.”

“How’s a prick like Ewing get to be skipper of a place like this?”

“He was a Chief Petty Officer during Korea and had a couple’a LSTs shot out from under him, and he even got wounded. The ‘gooks’ should’a killed the motherfucker, but they shipped him stateside and made him a warrant officer and gave him Rockaway as his first command and it went to his head and he became a first class asshole.” Standing, “I’ll help stow your gear, then how’s ’bout we shoot some pool?”

 Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Rockaway/Changing Emotions