May 2, 1955 to June 13, 1955

Spring Patrol/Shark

Dead, flat out calm.

Diesel smoke emitting from the funnel left a long, unbroken trail of black fume against the dull cloudless sky.

The ship’s forward motion bringing the ‘only’ movement of air onto the three sweating, bare-chested men working on a scaffold lowered mid-way between the main deck and the surface of the water.

Sweating profusely. Wearing neckerchiefs about their foreheads to keep sweat from stinging their eyes— thinking he knew how a slice of toast must feel—the sun burnt their backs and reflected heat radiating off the steel hull, burnt their front-sides, too.

‘Always’ a sun worshiper, by this time Mitchell Lipensky well knew that lying on a beach was just a ‘bit’ different then standing for hours at a time chipping paint and scraping rust under the commanding, demanding eyes of Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Myron Linton.

The men worked with three tools: a sharp-edged chipping hammer; a double-sided, steel scrapper and a wire-bristled brush.

By Mitchell’s reckoning, the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean must be littered with these three hated tools dropped by ‘accident’, or more likely on purpose.

Tapping the hammer he chipped away a patch of corroded paint. Using the scrapper and wire brush, he removed all trace of paint and the rust inhibitor ‘red-lead’ for four inches around. Later in the day either he or one of the others would repaint the down-to-steel spots with anew coating of red-lead. The next day, when the red-lead was dry, this entire section of hull would be repainted Coast Guard white.

****

Work through for the day.

Work parties secured the men took tepid showers in processed seawater then, while awaiting chow—because below deck the temperature of the steel-hulled ship stood at near seventy-eighty degrees—those men not having other duties lounged on the shady side of the ship.

Standing on the fantail with ten or twelve crewmen, Mitchell watched as Machinist Mate Third Class John Spagnola and Yeoman’s Mate Second Class Don Wilson trolled for shark.

****

The Halfmoon having a yeoman striker, Mitchell had been denied permission to strike for yeoman, but he and Don Wilson—whom he jokingly referred to as ‘Don Wilson of the Coast Guard’, in parody of the comic strip and old time movie serial ‘Don Winslow of the Navy’—had become friends. It was with Wilson’s permission that Mitchell had been allowed into the ship’s office to practice typing and to study his yeoman’s correspondence course. Which—as his studies in the past—he found hard to concentrate on and after almost ten months was becoming bored with and losing interest in.

****

Using machine shop equipment, Spagnola had fashioned an evil looking fishhook out of a two-foot long, half-inch thick steel rod. Attached through the eye of the hook, there was a three-foot leader of light chain. Tied to the end of the chain was a length of half-inch line. A large chunk of bacon rind— triply speared through the hook’s barbed point—was used as bait. The standing end of the line was wound once about the capstan, while about forty feet of line trolled behind the slowly moving ship. A bobber made of an empty, sealed five-gallon milk can bounced on the wake approximately thirty feet off the stern.

As evening approached a welcome cooling breeze blew across the Halfmoon and the men, dressed in denims, fully appreciated it.

“Fuckin’ hot today, eh, Lippy?”

****

Voluntarily activated from the Coast Guard Reserve, ‘Seaman First Class Stuart Baker’ had come aboard the Halfmoon one week prior to sailing.

Spotting Baker as a ‘Jewish guy’, Mitchell had asked Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Myron Linton, “Hey, how’s  'bout I teach this guy the ropes?” As reservists were often ‘given’ to regulars to break in, “Yeah, sure!” Linton had readily replied.

So on this patrol Seaman First Class Stuart Baker, with the ‘knowledgeable’ assistance of Seaman First Class Mitchell Lipensky, was in the process of learning the finer points of cleaning a toilet… Or, if you will, a ‘head’.

****

“Fuckin’ hot today, eh, Lippy?”

Forcing his eyes from the hypnotic bubbling wake. “Yeah, Stu, it sure is...” Reaching into his shirt pocket, pinching two cigarettes out of the package, “...but this breeze feel good, though.” Handing one to Stuart, Mitchell lit both with his Zippo.

“ ‘Hey’!” Wilson yelled. “I think we got somethin’ here!”

Lining the stern, focusing their attention on the milk can the men on the aft deck watched as…

Bouncing on the wake... the can sunk beneath the surface of the water until —buoyancy forcing it up— the can jostled against the seething wake for a number of yards before, pulled under again... popping up again.

“Yeah!” One of the men said, “they got ‘something’ all right!”

…Once, twice, three times. On the fourth repetition the line went slack and the five-gallon can sank from sight for four, five, six seconds, until... Surfacing, hurdling several feet out of the water, the bronze colored can— violently jerked beneath the waters surface again— disappeared… Till, with an audible ‘twang’, the slack line suddenly pulled out of the water and. running at a ‘straight’ angle from the fantail to the water’s surface, snapped taut.

Word spreading throughout the ship, the men not on duty— crowding the rear quarter of the Halfmoon— stood still as all eyes were riveted to the beads of water that dripped off the straining line and at the point where it disappeared into the water.

Fortunately for his hands the line was wound around the capstan yet, “Christ!” Spagnola shouted as he’d almost been jerked overboard. “Hey, some’a you guys gi’me a hand!”

Already there, Wilson hung on behind Spagnola and Mitchell and Stuart Baker grabbed hold immediately behind Wilson.

“Lippy! Baker!” Wilson shouted over his shoulder. “Soon’s we get some slack throw another hitch on the capstan! … ‘Now’! Do it ‘now’!”

As the two threw another loop over the capstan Wilson kicked the switch and the iron wheel began to turn, and as layers of rope wound around the winch the length of rope in the water shortened.

No longer needed, Stuart and Mitchell were once again standing to the side with their eyes glued to the quivering line.

A black, triangular fin breaking the water. There’s the fucker!” someone called.

At least fifteen feet in length. “Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ!” another man said. “Will ya look’a the size’a that fucker!”

“Holy shit!”

Swallowing the chunk of bacon rind the hook was deeply embe dded within the creature’s stomach. Blood from the tear in the beast’s stomach now mixed with air and came through its gills in a red froth. Thrashing savagely, the water turned to bloody foam as the shark fought against the forward pull of the line as…

Aboard the ship the capstan hesitated, allowing the line to play in reverse but before anyone realized and could grab hold behind Spagnola, biting, the cogs in the winch began pulling forward again and a trace of smoke, caused by the strong opposing friction, rose from the tightly winding line.

As a precaution—in case they did catch a shark—Spagnola had propped an M2 carbine against the winch housing. Grabbing it, throwing the stock to his shoulder and sighting at the thrashing form, he fired… and missed. Another round clambering automatically he fired again. A stream of blood trickling into the bloody froth, this time hitting the shark high on its back. The movement of the ship and the thrashing of the shark making it a difficult target, Spagnola’s third, fourth and fifth shots missed also. The sixth round, though, striking just above the snout, a geyser of blood erupted. The seventh bullet missed, but the eighth shattered the beast’s brain and all thrashing stopped… for a moment.

“Hey, here come more!”

The onlookers had been so intent with the capture and killing of the shark, they hadn’t noticed six other triangular fins that had silently closed in on the bleeding, dying beast.

“Hey, we got fuckin’ company!”

Whipped into a blood-feast frenzy, violently jerking from side to side, the dead shark was being bitten into by the hoard of cannibalistic carnivores.

Handing the carbine to Wilson, Spagnola turned the winch off.

Inserting a fresh clip of .30 caliber ammunition into the rifle, firing indiscriminately into the pack causing more blood, attracting more sharks.

Popping the spent clip, “Lippy!” Jamming a fresh clip into the carbine, handing it to him. “Take a shot!”

Not really wanting to but accepting the rifle. Holding it to his shoulder. Sighting through the two sights, Mitchell squeezed the trigger…

As the piece was on automatic—the rapid recoil jerking the rifle upward—not wanting to appear too inept to his shipmates, instinctively forcing the barrel of the rifle downward, the entire clip of eight bullets fired. Five shots shooting harmlessly into the water, three ripped into the gray side of a baby shark that immediately turned belly up exposing its soft underside that—spewing a fountain of blood and intestines—was instantly ripped into by two other sharks.

Not intending to hit anything. This being the first time he’d killed anything. His face turning from gray to green. “Here.” Handing the M2 back to Wilson he walked from the fantail. Leaning against a bulkhead, slumping to the deck Mitchell sat in the shade with his head hanging between his cocked knees.

The Boatswain’s whistle.

“Now hear this! Chow time! Chow time!”

Again, the Boatswain’s whistle.

Mitchell Lipensky never, ‘never’ missed a meal. As a matter of fact he was usually one of the first dozen or so men in line.

On this evening he still sat with his head hanging between his propped knees.

Chicago, Illinois

June 16, 1955 to July 2, 1955

Home Again

Resting her head on his lap, “Normie,” scratching behind her ears, “hi, pal!”

“Hey, Mitchie! When’d you get in?”

Rubbing between the Dalmatian’s expressive eyes. “About five.” Sitting in the den with his ankles crossed over the corner of the desk. “How the hell’ve you been?”

“Okay! You?”

“Fine! Now that I’m home, just ‘fine’… So, what are you doing?”

“At the moment, studying, but later, anything you want… How long you back for?”

“Sixteen days. I got to be back on the third… So, how’s college? You glad you didn’t enlist last year?”

“College? It’s okay, I guess. But still have no idea where I’m going with it, and I’m still considering the Navy when this semester’s over.”

“Hey, Normie, take it from me and give it lots’a thought before you do.”

“I have, Mitchie, I have.”

“So, how’s it feel to be an old fart?”

“ ‘Old fart’, huh? Why, ’cause I’m twenty-one? Hey, schmucko, you got what, another couple’a months?”

Quiet a moment. “Jesus!” Mitchell said, “Twenty-one! I can’t believe it.”

“You know what the alternative is, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess… Hey, where the broads hanging out now’a’days?”

Coming into the den, Myra handed her son a dish.

“Same ol’ Lipensky, eh? Never change, do you?”

Nodding to his mother, “Yup,” opening the sandwich of homemade bread, “that’s me, the same ol’ Lipensky,” revealing a thick layer of chopped liver. Biting into it, “Mmmm.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said, ‘mmmm’ but I’m talking to my mother.” Holding his right thumb upward, “That’s great, Mom!”

“ ‘Thursday evening’?” Norman hesitated. “Saturday nights it’s still the J, I guess.”

“Think, maybe, we’re getting a little old to hang out at the J?”

“You think!”

“Yeah.” The J. The remembrance of a tall, pretty, dark-complected Semitic-appearing girl flitting through his mind. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

 Coming up with. " ‘Askanaz’.” Norman said.

“Askanaz? You mean the deli on, uh…?”

“ ‘Morris Avenue’.”

“Yeah, near the beach.”

“On a' Thursday'? That’s the best I can figure.”

“Mitchie, hi!”

“God-damn!” looking over his shoulder.

“ ‘God-damn’ what?”

“No, I wasn’t talking to you. Hold on a minute, Larry just came in.”

Laying the phone on the desk, “Holy shit! I can’t believe it! Look at you!”

Just past his twelfth birthday, Lawrence was almost as tall, and just about as broad as his older brother.

“Jesus, Larry, you’re bigger’n’me!”

Beginning to hug. Thinking better of it the brothers began to shake hands, but then hugged anyway.

“Yeah, well,” pointing to the chopped liver sandwich. “You know how mom feeds us.” Glancing at the phone, “Who you talking to, Norman?”

“Yeah.”

“Go on, Mitchie, talk to him. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Norm, shit, I can’t believe how these kids have grown. How’s Marshall? He’s a giant, too?”

“Nah, I’m still bigger’n him… How’s your folks and Mortie?”

“My dad’s still at the studio, so I haven’t seen him yet. Mom and Mortie drove to the airport to pick me up and I couldn’t believe it when I saw him also. God! Can you believe he’s going to be seven in six months? Shit! Where’s the time fly?”

“You said it! So, you want to see who’s at Askanaz?”

“Yeah, I guess… I’ll pick you up at, oh… say about six-thirty, seven, okay?”

**** 

“You want to meet me at Askanaz later, maybe see who’s around?”

“Yes, sure. What time?”

“You want to grab dinner there?”

“Sure,” she said tersely. “You don’t think my mother came home to feed me, do you?”

“No, guess not… Six-thirty, seven, okay?”

“Yes, that’s fine, but make it closer to seven and if you beat me there, get a table… Bye, Shelly.”

Dropping the phone on the cradle. Walking from the kitchen to her dresser in the dining room. Opening the top drawer, the girl rummaged carefully until she found a push-up bra and nylon underpants. Going to the 6x5 passageway between her parent’s bedroom, the living room and the bathroom—that also served as her closet—the girl removed the summer wool skirt and white cotton blouse she’d worn that day. Dropping the blouse in the clothes hamper, she hung the skirt on a hanger. Sitting on the hamper the girl removed her loafers and bobby socks. Leaning against the wall, holding her legs forward, letting the comforting air cool them, she wiggled her long toes.

The girl had spent the last eight hours on her feet, working as a ‘corsetiere in training’ at ‘Lanathan’s’, a large lingerie shop located on ‘Lincoln Avenue’ on Chicago’s north side—A job she’d held since graduating from high school last spring.

Standing, she unhooked her bra, pushed down and stepped out of her panties and using the toes of her right foot, lifted them off the carpeted floor and dropped the underpants, along with her socks, into the hamper.

Nude. Going into the bathroom and closing the door, the girl stood a long moment looking at her reflection in the full length mirror that hung on the back of the door.

No one knew where her height came from because, at five-seven and a half, the girl was taller than her brother and both of her parents.

Having broad shoulders, a straight waist, practically no hips and small, tight buttocks, looking at her from the rear the girl could easily pass for a slight boy.

From the front, though, there was no mistaking that ‘Marsha Goldman’ was definitely all woman.

Her long, curly black hair framing a pretty, dark-eyed classically sensual face. Deeply tanned, the portions of her body that had been protected from the sun stood out in solid contrast to the rest of her body. Though the size of her bra was 34B, because she had a wide rib cage, appearing larger than they actually were, her breasts did tend to fill out at the sides giving her attractive, wide cleavage. Roughly the size of half-dollars, her areolae were domed, dark pink in color. Marsha had a thin—bordering on skinny—torso and long, slender legs. Her tightly curled, pitch-black pubic hair was silky fine and had been trimmed short so that no embarrassing, stray ‘pubies’ could slip out from between the legs of her bathing suit.

No matter how good they may look to others. As most people, being unhappy with certain aspects of their appearance, Marsha wished there was some way her nose could be made shorter and, bringing her hands tightly down her sides, pushing her fists into the soft flesh above her hips making deep impressions, Marsha thought—for at least the millionth time in her eighteen, going on nineteen years—If I only had hips!

Marsha Goldman had a sharp, quick mind and a funny, extremely pleasing personality. Well liked, she was often the center of attraction no matter whom she was with and did have numerous friends, both male and female.

As though to spite, or rather in spite of her mother, Marsha was a definite ‘hands off’ girl. This was not to say that she didn’t like to ‘neck’; on the contrary, with the right young man she truly enjoyed ‘schnoogling’.But no matter how hot the situation had become— for either the young man or herself— Marsha’s breasts and everything between her waist and thighs were ‘absolutely’, strictly hands-off!

Fastening the three hooks of the push-up bra in the front then rotating it around her chest, Marsha fit her breasts into the cups and lightly pinching the flesh, pulled both upward. Searching the bar that held her blouses, choosing a light blue, sleeveless blouse, she put it on and buttoned all but the top button, then decided to leave the second button unbuttoned, too. Pulling on a pair of ironed Levi’s, she tied the tails of the blouse over the waistband. Sitting on the hamper, Marsha put a pair of sandals onto her bare feet then went back to the bathroom to appraise herself in the full-length mirror.

****

The Goldmans lived two blocks from ‘Morris Avenue Beach’ on the ninth floor of a moderately priced— due to location— somewhat fashionable apartment building, a long block west of Sheridan Road on the far north side.

 Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: Finding Marsha