A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “The Red Light”
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“Mitch! ‘Hey, Mitch’!”
Reluctantly turning from Marsha, “Yeah, Ron?”
“Come on over here!” Motioning urgently. “There’s something we got to talk to you about.”
“Marcy,” turning back, “excuse me a minute. ‘Don’t’ go away now. I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah,” said impatiently. Clearly annoyed at being pulled away from Marsha. “What’s so damned important?”
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March 20/April 3, 1954
Chicago, Illinois/Far Rockaway, New York
“Mitch Lipensky, meet Irv Steinberg… Irv, Mitch.”
“Yeah,” offering his hand, “hi, Irv.”
“Mitch, Irv knows a guy that’s got a whore at his place and she’s only charging two bucks a fuck. And Irv says there ain’t supposed to be too many guys there.”
“A 'whore'?” He glanced at Marsha, who was talking to a couple of girls.
Though wanting to have intercourse for as far back as he could remember, Mitchell had 'never' wanted—had never even considered—having intercourse with a prostitute.
“So?”
“What do you mean, 'so'? Come on, let’s go! Irv’s going there now and says we should follow, and you’re the only one with a car!”
“Nah, I don’t know, Ron.” He looked at Norman, “You want to go?” who shrugged his shoulders. “You 'don’'t want to go, do you?”
About to speak, cutting Norman off, “ 'Sure' he wants to go! Don’t you, Norm? 'Come on'! She’s supposed to be real pretty! Ain’t she, Irv?”
“D’know.” Starting to walk away, “Wadd’a’ya want for two bucks?” Irv said over his shoulder.
“Hold on, Irv!” Grabbing Mitchell by the elbow, attempting to steer him out of the courtyard, “Come on, Mitch. I ain’t been laid in weeks!”
“Yeah, sure, Lurey. I’ll just bet ' you ain’t been laid in weeks'.”
He looked for Marsha. But by then she was nowhere to be seen…
And being a guy, and being with guys, Mitchell Lipensky, 'very' stupidly allowed himself to be led away... and astray.
****
In the DeSoto—following Irving Steinberg’s black, '52 Chevrolet—with Ron in the middle, “I don’t know why I let you talk me into doing this, Lurey.”
“That girl I was talking to back there, you know her?”
“I see her once in a while, but don’t know her. She’s just a skinny broad that hangs around. What the 'hell' difference does it make?”
“We used to know each other when we were kids. I think she’s kind’a pretty and was enjoying talking to her.”
“Forget her!” Jabbing Mitchell in the side with his elbow. “We’re gonna get laid.”
Far from enthusiastic. Knowing he made a mistake by leaving the J, and Marsha.“Yeah, Lurey, we’re gonna get laid.”
They followed the black Chevy south on Kimball, east on Montrose, south on Western to Waveland where they turned right, went two blocks and turned left where double parking, getting out of his car and walking to the DeSoto, “This here’s where the guy lives.” Irv said, motioning to a long, two story building on the other side of the street. “Don’t know why it’s so fuckin’ crowded here; ain’t hardly no place to park. The guy, my pal, he tol’ me to go ’round the back so’s the neighbors won’t notice if there’s a few guys comin’n’goin’. He’s on the second floor an’ said we’ll spot his place 'cause he’ll have a red light burnin’ on his porch.”
Leaning across Mitchell, “ 'A red light, Irv'?” Ron said. “And the guy, your pal, don’t want the neighbors knowing he’s got a whore there! Kind’a’dumb, don’t you think?”
“Hey, I don’t know. That’s what he tol’ me! Anyways, I’m gonna find a place to park an’ I’ll see you ’round back.” Going to the Chevy. Peeling rubber, Irv pulled away.
“Ron, how the hell do you know this guy? Who the hell is he?”
“I’ve got a class with him. He’s a law student.”
“He’s a 'law student'? Jesus Christ! And I dropped out of college!”
Cruising slowly. Finally finding a place to park, goaded by Ron the boys ran the two blocks back to the building...
Rounding the corner into the alley…
“ 'Holy moly'!” Norman said.
“ 'Holy shit'!” Mitchell said.
" 'God damn'!” Ron said, because…
There was a line of men snaking from the entrance of the alley into the back yard of the second building, up two flights of stairs to a porch that was well lit — sure enough — with a bare-bulbed red light.
About ten men up the line. “ 'Hey, Irv'!” Ron waved to him and — as they stood — three more guys fell in behind them.
“And that 'idiot',” Mitchell said, jerking his thumb towards the red light, “doesn’t want his neighbors knowing that he’s got a 'few' guys coming up?"
"I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sure as hell not 'tha't horny. And to be honest, I don’t want my dick anywhere near any whore who’d just taken this mob on! Come on!" Norman said. "What say we get the hell out of here?”
“I didn’t want to come in the first place!” Glaring at Ron. “Yeah, let’s get…” Stopping, the three listened to the wailing of nearby police cars. “…the hell out of here!”
Ronald needed no coaxing however and within a few minutes they were laughing over the absurdity of the 'unnoticed' red light whore line.
Hoping to find Marsha still there, speeding back to the J…
“I didn’t have a chance to ask before, but how long are you in for?”
Glancing at Ron, “Four years, but only have two and a half left.”
“No. I mean how long are you going to be home?”
“Oh. I had three weeks leave coming, but the skipper, that 'motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch', would only allow me two. But Mac… 'McDonald’s' the yeoman on base… Mac rigged it so I’d be able to take off on my liberty weekend. So even though I’m here for fourteen days, 'leave time' will only count as twelve making it all that sooner, once I accumulate more 'leave' to coming back again.
“Sounds like you don’t care much for your skipper.”
“ 'Care for him', Norm?” he said angrily, “If the fucker fell into the props of one of our crash-boats and got ground into little pieces and they put him into a can I wouldn’t feed the asshole to a fuckin’ rat… Then again, I probably would, so he’d end up as rat shit.”
Knowing him, Norman knew that Mitchell rarely held a grudge. Taken back by the vehemence in his voice, “Mitch, I’ve never heard you talk about anyone like that before.”
“Yeah? Well I’ve never been the resident 'kike','sheeny', 'Christ-killer' before, either.”
“It’s like that, huh?”
“Yeah, Ron, and there’s 'not' a damn thing I can do about it!”
“That’s bullshit! You can’t ask for a transfer?”
“Yeah, I suppose I could. But he has to approve it and I think the fucker likes torturing me too much to let me go. And beside, my alternative is probably a 'weather ship' and I don’t know if I’m quite ready to spend four to six weeks at a time freezing my ass off bouncing around in the Atlantic Ocean.”
Anxious to get back to the J and, hopefully, resume his conversation with Marsha, speeding through an amber light, God, he thought and prayed, let her still be there!
…But she wasn’t.
He knew that Marsha was, physically, not the type of girl that he had ever been attracted to. Yet, in bed that night he lay awake thinking about her because there was something about Marsha—her 'sense of humor', her 'personality' her 'face'. That evening in the far past—and it haunted him.
The next day he asked Norman and Ronald if they could think of 'anyone' who might know Marsha.
They could not.
Opening the Chicago telephone directory, What did she say her last name was? 'Goldstein'? 'Goldman'? 'Golden'? 'Goldblatt'? 'Goldfarb'? 'Goldbloom'?
“No!” Slamming the book shut. “Jesus!” There’s a 'million' names like that here!
****
The first week of his leave passed quickly… Too quickly.
On Saturday he went back to the J to see if Marsha was there.
She was not.
Describing her, he asked a number of kids if they knew her.
They did not.
****
…Talking to the girls that she had come to the J with, waiting a minute or so for Mitchell to end his conversation with Norman and the other guy that she’d seen once in a while, but didn’t know, and that guy that looked like a hoodlum, Marsha went to the washroom to check her face... and when she returned he was gone.
Marsha’s first thought was that Mitchell—he’d 'never' said and she’d never asked, so she had no idea what his second name was—had ditched her.
The wedding of her cousin had kept her from the J on the following Saturday, and two weeks after meeting Mitchell again…
His leave over, Mitchell had flown back to New York City the day before, and…
As Marsha looked for Mitchell in the courtyard of the J on April 3rd at 8:00 p.m….
More than eight-hundred miles away.
In the tower on 2000 to 2400 watch. Because he knew that he would not be home again until… God knew when? Because he had no way of contacting her, he had given Marsha up as a lost cause and...
With the one-hour time difference, at 9:00 p.m. on Saturday, April 3, 1954, Marsha Goldman was the last thing on the mind of Mitchell Lipensky...
As Marsha looked for Mitchell in the courtyard of the "J" at 8:00 p.m….
April 3 to June 8, 1954
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When he had enlisted in the Coast Guard — due to his love of Susan — Mitchell had been under a great strain and felt that he 'had' to get away from Chicago! So without too much effort he had become rather used to being away from home…
Before.
On his first leave, though, there was no longer the sense of 'having' to be away and his time at home was as Though it had never happened.
Desperately homesick, Mitchell spent the first three weeks back at Rockaway in a state of lonely depression.
What he had — more or less — become accustomed to he now found all but impossible to accept: the unfair watch assignments the KP the work details and' especially' Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing and his never-to-be-accounted-for anti-Semitism.
“Floyd Ewing, operator. In Rockaway.” Having no idea why, other than looking for some venue for revenge, on a hunch he called information to see if Ewing’s private phone number at the station was listed. “Yes.” Writing. “Thank you.” Well, I’ll be damned!
****
When he developed an abscessed tooth in early April, Mitchell held off for a day, then, asking permission to see military dentist…
“Got a problem with your teeth, eh?”
“ 'With a tooth', yes, Sir.”
Sitting behind his desk in the commanding officer’s private quarters—any other enlisted man would be standing at ease but—Ewing had kept Mitchell standing at attention.
“And you’re asking permission to see a dentist, are you?”
Hating him as he did. Afraid that if he looked directly into his eyes Ewing would notice and make things even worse so staring at a point slightly to the left of, and above his head, “Yes, Sir.”
Glancing over his shoulder to see what the younger man was looking at, seeing nothing, “Well, Lipensky,” bringing his attention forward again, the corners of his mouth twitching with his make believe smile, “you know how I look at it?”
Knowing he was well within his rights to request permission to see a doctor at any time, no longer caring if Ewing did see his hatred, his eyes shifting, looking directly into the eyes of the man behind the desk…
'Completely' unaware, of course, that his hatred was exactly what Ewing wanted because—his eyes flitted from Mitchell’s face to the slight bulge at the lower left of his fly and quickly upward again—as he stared at the helpless young man standing stiffly before him, as his left hand toyed with the fountain pen upon his desk, Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing’s right hand toyed with the well-pronounced bulge in his own trousers and, being 'who' he was and being 'what' he was, as he could 'not' have this man’s love he 'must' have this man’s hatred.
“No, Sir! How do you look at it?” Adding contemptuously, “ 'Sir'!”
“Well, ‘Sir’!” Mimicking. Curling his lip, the twitch becoming even more conspicuous—his erection throbbing—“The way I look at it, 'Lipensky', is like this, ‘Sir’! You fucking Jews have enough money and if you want to see a dentist, then I damn well think you ought to pay for it… ‘Sir’!”
Flashing through his mind, Mitchell remembered a time years ago in the principle’s office at Harrison High when he and Norman had been threatened with expulsion for collecting milk and soda bottles for the deposits… It had worked then.
“Yes, 'Sir', Captain Ewing, 'Sir'!” His own lip curling with contempt. “I will call my father and ask him to wire money to me so that I can see a dentist because my 'commanding officer' refuses to give me permission to see a dentist because he says ‘we Jews’ have enough money to pay for doctors ourselves. I 'know' he’ll just love to send me money for that… 'Sir'!”
Of all the branches of the military—because in times of peace the Coast Guard does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defense but rather the Department of the Treasury—the Coast Guard is the most political, so…
Both hands upon his desk now. His erection wilting, Ewing 'knew' it!
And as the principle of Harrison High had thought, Who knows who this kike’s father knows? So then did Ewing.
Two sets of hateful eyes boring into each other… For once, Floyd Richard Ewing’s stare breaking first,.The words barely more than a whisper, “Permission granted.”
“Excuse me?”
“ 'Permission granted'!” His face re. His hands knotted into fists, “Go see a god-damned dentist!”
****
Not thinking beyond the fact that Floyd Richard Ewing hated—among a host of hatreds—Jews. The man’s 'rumored' homosexuality never thought of as anything other than a malicious joke. The idea of himself as the target of Ewing’s lust, 'beyond' conception—if Mitchell had thought of it at all—was 'positively' ridiculous!
****
No longer thinking of sea duty as a bad alternative to duty at Rockaway Lifeboat Station, knowing that he must request a transfer, to anyplace. With the help of Yeoman Second Class Richard McDonald, Mitchell Lipensky submitted a formal request.
Truly sadistic in his love/hatred, Ewing did enjoy torturing him: “Transfer denied!”
On the third of May, submitted again…
Afraid now—not knowing what Mitchell may have told his father, or whom his father may have spoken to—not wanting his motive for denying the repeated request of a lowly seamen for a transfer to sea duty…
Mitchell Lipensky did receive orders to transfer.
May 20, 1954
Carrying his sea bag on his shoulder and a suitcase in his hand, he left U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station at 0800 hours.
He took the two buses to the Flatbush Avenue subway, then the subway to Times Square. Going into the men’s room at the 'Times Square station' he changed into civvies. Locking the sea bag and suitcase in a locker, going up the stairs onto the street he asked a policeman for directions
Mitchell walked until he came to a tall building…
June 8, 1954
Tuesday: The port section’s duty night, the phone rang at 2017 at… “Coast Guard, Rockaway.”
“Hi,” muffling his voice, “is Minnossa around?”
“Yeah, I’ll call him for you.”
Taking about four minutes. “Yeah, Minnossa here.”
“Minnie.”
Recognizing the voice immediately. “Lippy! How the fuck you doin’?”
“Fine. I’m doing just fine. HQ may think Rockaway’s great duty, but let me tell you, ‘anyplace’ away from that asshole is like heaven.”
“Figured you’d feel that way… So how do you like sea duty?”
“Ain’t had a chance to find out yet, but we’re heading out on Monday… Minnie, where are you now? Where you talking to me from?”
“The office.”
“Anyone around?”
“No.”
“Check it out, will you.”
Wondering about the secrecy, Minnossa poked his head through the door. “No…”
Leaning against the half-wall partition, balancing the chair on two legs, the man on watch in the communication room was reading a paperback.
“...No one’s around.”
“Look, Minnie, I wasn’t going to call to find out because I don’t want that motherfuckin’”—little did he know—“cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch coming after me, but I’ve got to know if…”
“It ‘was’ you! God-damn, Lippy!” He began to laugh. “I thought it was you, but Joe and everyone else said you wouldn’t have the guts to do it. Shit! It had’a cost a ton’a dough!”
“Yeah, it did, but ‘fuck the money’! How’d it work?”
“Jesus, Mitch, it had the fucker hoppin’ for the last two weeks and he couldn’t stop ’em ‘cause they’d been paid for in advance. How much longer it’s got to run?”
“This Sunday’s the last time.”
“Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted.”
“Yeah, Minnie… Look, say hello to the guys for me. And, if you want, it’s okay to tell Joe, but ‘please’ don’t go spreading it around because that cocksucker could really make trouble for me.”
Mitch, you think ‘any’ guy here would squeal on you?”
“I’d guess not, but you never know.”
“Well, yeah, okay, if you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t. But I tell you, no one would ‘ever’ tell that asshole nothin’.”
“Yeah, Minnie, I’d rather you didn’t.” The line silent a moment. “Anyway, maybe we can get together for liberty sometime.”
“Sure, Lippy. You know my number, Just give me a call and let me know when.”
“Yeah, I will… Well, so long Minnie.”
“Yeah, so long, Lippy.”
****
Mitchell didn’t, and they never do.
****
Minnossa did, however and —true to his word —no one at U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station ever told the ‘motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch’ and next Sunday an advertisement that had run for the two prior Sundays appeared for the last time in the real estate section of the New York Times:
STEAL THIS
Choice Sheepshead Bay Marina Property suitable for commercial development on 1/3 acre. Triple boat docking facility w/boathouse, huge hotel-like living quarters, triple-size garage w/machine shop. Must Sell! Absolute Sacrifice Call “Dick” Ewing after 10:00 p.m. NU 3-5597
The telephone number was Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing’s private number.
So ends the U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat series
Next “Becoming” excerpt in Sequence: 6/14/54: USCGC Halfmoon
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