A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: 6/17/55:

“Friendship”

JUNE 17, 1955

Chicago, Illinois/ Michigan City, Indiana

"Fend Off!"

Sitting forward, Larry reached to ‘Friendship’ breaking the dinghy’s forward momentum and preventing the bow from scraping the white-hulled boat.

Back-watering, Walter moved the stern closer as Mitchell, grabbing hold of the gunnel pulled the dingy alongside.

Larry scampered aboard followed by his older brother.

First handing Mitchell the heavy ice chest, as Walter stepped onto the coping, Larry pulled the dingy forward where it was secured to the buoy.

As the lowest ranking ‘mate’ on ‘Friendship’ Hey, what else is new? Mitchell thought as he carried the ice-chest below— into the cabin— then brought the floatable cushions and life preserver topside.

As Walter unsnapped the canvas boot that covered the furled sail Larry attached the jib to the forward guy wire. Dipping the swab into the lake, Hey, what else is new? Mitchell swabbed the deck.

Hoisting the mainsail at 7:47 a.m. —Walter at the helm— Larry secured the line to the cleat on the brightly varnished mast as, lying on the bow, moving the dingy to leeward, ‘slipping’ the buoy he called , “Anchors away, Skipper!”

Once upon the boat, until they returned and hooked up, the word ‘Dad’ was dropped and Walter was called ‘Skipper’—and he loved it.

Holding the helm in his left armpit ‘Skipper’ drew inward on the ‘sheet’—the line that controls the reach of the main-sail boom— Trapping the light wind the boom moved inward as the white sail bellied gently outward and Friendship moved past the buoy and tethered dingy.

Sitting on the bow calling out and using hand signals, Mitchell directed Skipper past boats and vacant buoys that he might find hard to see from his position in the cockpit aft.

Skillfully working his way past ‘rag baggers’ and ‘stink pots’, Skipper steared Friendship out of the harbor, past the breakwater... “Hoist the jib!” ...and into Lake Michigan.

Taking up on the line, “Aye, Skipper!” Hoisting the thin triangle of canvas upward along the cable then securing the line to a polished brass cleat by means of a turn and two half hitches. “Jib secured, Skipper!” Mitchell called, then went aft.

Larry took up on the starboard line.

In the slight breeze the jib furled outward along the outer edge and inward along the inner.

The helm moved a point to port. The bow sluggishly turned a point to starboard. The jib billowing Friendship picked up speed and three minutes later wanting to take a different tack, to sail ‘closer’ to whatever wind there was. “ ‘Coming about’!” Skipper called as throwing the helm to starboard, he took up on the sheet moving the boom from starboard to mid-ship where, hesitating, the sail ‘luffed’ until catching the breeze shifted to port.

Forward, the starboard jib line was released and the port ‘taken up’.

‘Tacking’—taking angled legs into the wind to move forward—Friendship tacked five times in the next half hour.

Five nautical miles off shore, taking yet another southerly tack, Friendship followed the Illinois-Indiana shoreline for fifteen minutes then, “ ‘Coming about’!” Skipper called and tacked once again, setting a visual east-by-southeast heading.

The sky was clear. The sun was brilliant and even this far onto the lake temperatures were in the low eighties.

Sitting on floatable cushions, Walter and his sons watched as Chicago’s beautiful skyline became smaller… Smaller… Until even the tips of the tallest buildings disappeared from sight.

Shortly, whatever breeze there was all but died and Friendship moved lazily over the still water.

The three aboard were now bare-chested with the brothers wearing only the bathing suits they’d worn beneath their jeans.

Larry holding a bottle of ‘Coke’ and Mitchell a ‘Pepsi’. Walter drank from a tin cup placed in one of the compartments under the aft cushion that was kept for scoping and drinking fresh Lake Michigan water once far enough from shore.

“Hey, Skip, okay to go for a swim?”

“Doesn’t look like we’re going anyplace fast. Sure, why not.”

Standing on the coping with a spring that caused the boat to rock and the mast to sway, Larry dove off the side.

“How’s the water, Squirt?”

“Come in and find out yourself, you old fart!”

“ ‘Old fart’, huh? You little shit! I’ll show you who’s an old fart!” Also using the coping as a springboard, almost landing on his brother, grabbing an ankle as he went down Mitchell pulled him under. In a second or two both boys came up sputtering and laughing.

In a well-remembered whine, “Mi-tchie,” Larry wined, “I’m tel-ling! Daa-d, Mitchie called me a little shiiit!” Surface diving, it was his turn to pull Mitchell beneath.

“Hey!” Horseplay interrupted. “ ‘Cat’s paw’!” Pointing to a far off patch of rippling wind on the water’s calm surface.“Wind’s on the way!”

Swimming to the boat and pulling themselves aboard.

Standing in the cockpit the father and sons watched for signs of the rapidly approaching wind.

In the calm, the sheet had been hanging loosely.

Not knowing what tack he was going to take or the wind’s velocity, Skipper held the sheet in his right hand and the helm in his left. Waiting…

The wind hit…

Friendship began to move.

Judging the wind’s speed, Skipper moved the helm to port and ‘sweating’ the sheet, dropped a hitch over a small, clicking capstan bringing the boom inboard, causing the sail to snap full and puff outboard. “Jib to starboard!”

“Aye, Skipper!” Larry sweat the starboard jib sheet, tightening the narrow forward sail that— straining against the guy wire— began to billow.

Faster…

Creaking, the mast angled to starboard as faster…

Friendship began to move faster.

Looking aft now they could see bubbling wake.

Seating themselves, Larry and Mitchell sat on the port… On the high side.

‘Heeling’ now...

Surging green water ‘buried’ the starboard coping.

Allowing the sheet to play out…

‘Spilling’ wind, Friendship ran on a somewhat even keel till…

Skipper hauled three ‘clicks’ on the capstan and— churning water racing beneath the edge of the coping— the starboard gunnel slanted sharply downward once again and…

Another click…

The outer, luff, edge of the sail furled inward as the force of the wind thrust the ‘belly’ of the sail outward propelling Friendship forward…

‘Heeling’…

One inch of coping buried in the rushing water…

Two inches...

Abandoning his stern position, Skipper joined his sons on the high side.

As the port gunnel elevated the starboard gunnel submerged…

As three inches of coping buried, the mast angled closer to the rushing bubbling water.

Their legs stretched across with their bare feet braced against the low side cockpit, their buttocks hiked over the high side coping, Skipper now manned the helm by means of a tiller extension, as…

‘Chuting’ by, green water cascading into the cockpit drained out through the aft scuppers.

Letting up on the sheet, Skipper moved the rudder a point to starboard turning the bow minutely out of the wind.

The billowing sail spilled wind allowing the drastic heel to slightly right itself and from where the three sat— looking to starboard— what they saw was the boom, the foot of the sail and foaming, rushing water.

Mitchell looked over his shoulder…

Slanted out of the precipitous water, counterbalancing the wind’s driving force, the anti-fouling, gold painted keel was at an even angle with the mast.

Grasping the guy wire in both hands. Standing. Bracing both feet on the outer edge of the coping while leaning backwards...

Unheard, he screamed back at the screaming wind as…

‘Holding steady’ Friendship knifed through the water.

“Hey!” Letting up on the sheet, allowing wind to spill and Friendship to level somewhat…

“One’a you guys get your skipper a beer! Anyone hungry? I’ll take a sandwich, too.”

Hanging on while going below. Having done this before— hanging on— opening the cooler Larry handed three cans of beer and sandwiches topside.

****

“Yeah, hello.”

“Hi. Is Marsha home?”

“No.”

“This her father?”

“No. Her brother.”

“Uh, Roger. You’re name’s Roger?”

Disinterested. “Yeah.”

“You probably don’t remember me, but you’n’me met about six years ago at the bowling alley in Union Pier.”

No response.

“You were bowling with some buddies and Marsha and her friend Shelly, and me and a pal of mine came in and Marsha introduced you’n’me.”

Silence.

“My name’s Mitch Lipensky.”

Not even the sound of breathing came from the other end of the line.

“Anyway,” becoming irritated, “I’m calling from Michigan City. Any idea when your sister’ll be home?”

“No. I don’t live here. Only stopped by to get something.”

“Well, if you’d tell her Mitchell called, I’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Roger dropped the receiver onto the cradle.

Taking a few seconds to realized that the line was dead. Looking at the phone, “Thanks, ‘schmuck’!”

****

Across the lake. Not giving Mitchell another thought. Going to the refrigerator he removed the package of steaks his mother had told him to take, Roger left the apartment.

****

Mitchell had spent a good part of the time on the trip to Michigan City thinking about Marsha and was not too sure if— as he’d wishfully imagined — she liked him as much as he hoped. Or if by now she had cooled off and the night before had only been a romantic night thing.

The more he’d thought about Marsha, the more he thought that, ‘Yes’, maybe I really do love her!

‘Yes’, he had enjoyed the time spent with his father and brother and the sailboat ride.

Oddly enough, though, he wished that he hadn’t made this trip because he would much rather have spent the time with Marsha.

****

By the time they’d docked— if for nothing more then to confirm what he hoped her feelings towards him were— he had ‘desperately’ wanted to speak to Marsha. But knowing she would be at work, he had not wanted to waste a long distance call which, as he was calling from a public phone booth, Marsha would not be able to return if she was not at home and someone else answered the phone….

Thinking she would be at home by that time, Mitchell had waited until 5:40 to call.

****

The elevator door gliding open, “Marsha.” Glancing at his sister, nodding his head Roger walked past her.

Responding just as indifferently, “Roger.” Stepping into the elevator, Marsha pushed ‘9’.

Unsure if he was even going to call, Marsha waited until almost 6:30, then — The bathroom on the far side of the apartment, closing the door behind her— Marsha took a shower.

Thinking she’d received the message that he’d called, letting the phone ring eight times, he had waited until 6:32.

****

7:20: Let it ring! Sitting on the sofa with her legs folded beneath her, Let it ring!

Willing the phone to ring, Let it ring… It did. Running across the apartment, grabbing the receiver off the cradle on the third ring, “Hello!”

“Hi, Marsh.”

“Oh,” obvious disappointment sounding in her voice. “it’s you.”

“Hey,’ thanks’! It’s nice talking to you, too, kid.”

Mitchell called… The line was busy.

“Sorry, Rose. I thought it might be someone else.”

“ ‘Someone else’, huh? Could only be a guy!”

“Good guess.”

“Someone new? Anyone I know?”...

Across the lake, Mitchell dropped his dime into the slot again, dialed ‘O’ and gave the operator Marsha’s number then dropped the requested change into the appropriate quarter, dime and nickel slots… Probably her mother, he thought and hung up.

...“No, I don’t think you know him. Well, maybe; you might have met him in the country, or seen him around the J.”

“Yeah.” Becoming interested, Rosalie asked, “who is he? What’s his name?”

“ ‘Mitchell’, uh…” trying to remember, “ ‘Lipensky’.”...

Walking the half block from where Friendship was docket to the public telephone booth, Mitchell called again… Getting the ‘busy’ signal.

...Rosalie thought a moment. ‘Mitchell Lipensky’. “Name doesn’t sound familiar. What’s he look like?”

“Rose, you ‘wouldn’t’ believe me! You’ll see when you meet him.”

“That bad, huh? Your mother’ll have a cow.”

“Oh, God! I sure hope so!...”

Still in the phone booth he tried calling again.

“...Look, Rosalie, I don’t know if he’s even planning on calling, but if he does, I don’t want the phone tied up.”

“So what are you going to do, Marsha, just sit there all night waiting for a call from a guy that might not even call?”

“Don’t know… Guess so.”

Continually fighting a futile battle to control the girth of her hips and buttocks. Jealous, Rosalie never missed an opportunity to ply her perpetually-thin friend with food. “That’s ‘dumb’! J’ya eat?”

“No. Not yet.”

“So, hows about meeting me at Askanaz?”

Mitchell tried calling yet again… with the same results.

“Askanaz? No, I don’t think so.”

“For ‘God’s’ sake, Marsha, at least play a ‘little’ hard to get!”

Remembering that last night she’d been thinking that exact thought. And really, she was hungry. And, If he does decide to call and I’m not here, then I guess… Marsha thought, he’ll just have to call back.

“Yeah, okay, Rose. I’ll meet you there… When?”

“Right now! Okay?”

The decision made. Suddenly not wanting to be home if he should decide to call. Wanting him, if he ‘really’ wanted to talk to her, to have to call back

“Yeah, I’m on my way.” Hanging up. Grabbing her ‘loafers’, Marsha was slipping them on during the downward trip in the elevator, as…

Becoming a bit compulsive, “ ‘Damn’!” Now no one was talking, but no one was answering, either.

****

Friendship tied to a ‘finger dock’ at the Michigan City Yacht Club, Walter still ashore having a drink or two with a couple of men he knew. But in the state of Indiana— as Illinois— the drinking age was twenty-one and as Mitchell was legally too young to stand at the bar with the older men, and as he’d wanted to reach Marsha and really, he would rather spend the evening with Larry.

Besides, Walter had replenished the beer and they had better than a dozen bottles in the large cooler.

The only time Larry was allowed to drink beer was when he was aboard Friendship and then his father saw to it that he ‘never’ had more than one bottle… But but his father was ashore and Mitchell was ‘not’ his father.

****

“Mitchie…Urrpp! I wanna tell you sompin’. But’ch’ya gotta promise to ‘never’ tell no-one.”

About to make the trek to use the phone again. Putting his third near empty bottle on the coping, Mitchell looked at his bleary-eyed brother.

“Yeah, sure, Larry! You’re my baby brother an’…” — mimicking his younger brother in a falsetto wining voice— “...I ain’t tel-lin’!”

Taking another pull on his bottle. belching again, Larry whispered, “I’ve gone all the way with a girl.”

“You ‘what’?”

“Yeah, Mitchie, I done it! There’s this girl, she’s fifteen, an’…”

“Jesus, Larry, you’re big, but you’re ‘just’ twelve!”

“Yeah, but there’s this girl, ‘Vickie’, she’s in high school an’ she thinks I go to…” Giggling, he took another swig of beer. “…Catholic school an’ that I’m fifteen, too. An’ her’n’me went to her home when no one was home an’ we, uh, did it.” His voice raising an octave. “An’ it was ‘grrreaat’!”

Not knowing if he knew, How could a twelve year old kid know?

“You didn’t just put it in! Your, ‘uh,” pointing to his crotch. “You used a rubber, didn’t you?”

“Yeah!” Looking at his brother incredulously. “What’a’ya’think, I’m’a baby?”

Actually, Yes! Which made Larry’s admission all the harder. Briefly wondering, Where in the hell’d he get a ‘rubber’? Now his turn to be incredulous. “You got ‘laid’, Larry? You got ‘it’? You been ‘fucked’?”

“Yeah! Shhh,” holding his finger in front of his lips. “I don’t want dad to know ‘cause then he’ll tell mom, an’ you ‘know’ how she is!”

Thinking, Yeah, she’d probably be overjoyed knowing that at least ‘one’ of her sons got laid!

He stared at his brother. Then chug-a-luging the rest of his third bottle of beer. “Larry,” he said, “I’m going to bed.” And Jealous—hell, green with envy—that his twelve-year-old brother… Hell, his ‘just’ twelve-year-old brother had had intercourse and that he, his ‘almost’ twenty-one year old brother, hadn’t.

Mitchell stood and — because no one was nearby to see him— urinated over the side of the boat, then pushing the hatch open, “Good night, Larry.” went below, flopped onto his bunk and went to sleep wondering what kind of a God it was that lets a ‘just’ twelve-year-old kid get fucked while denying the privilege to his almost-twenty-one-year-old brother, as…

***

Home again, Marsha still hoped that Mitchell would call.

Chicago, Illinois

June 18, 1955

A Mother?

Knowing she should get up and get ready to go to work but lingering, remembering Thursday night and how Mitchell’s kisses had felt on her lips, and how his body felt pressed against hers. Closing her eyes Marsha ran her hands sensuously over her breasts and between her thighs. I think I love him, she thought for at ‘least’ the thousandth time. I think I’ve always loved him.

The thought that after all these years they’d finally found each other seemed too good to be true , and she could not wait to talk to him again so that she’ll be able to confirm his feelings towards her… To be ‘assured’ that he liked her as much as she hoped. Or if he’d ‘cooled off’ and that Thursday night had only been a romantic night thing

Disappointed because Mitchell hadn’t called yesterday; having no idea when he might call today but knowing it would most likely sometime in the afternoon…

Going to work, then — at eleven-thirty— telling her boss that she had cramps…

Being a shop that catered to women and was managed by a woman, even though Saturday was usually the busiest day of the week, Marsha was given permission to ‘punch out’.

****

About to pour another cup of coffee, Rhea answered the phone.

Waiting anxiously since returning home, Marsha turned her minimal attention from the five o’clock news.

Though he’d never spoken to her on the phone, the voice seemingly too old to be that of Marsha. “Hello, is this the Goldman residence?”

“Yes,” Rhea said, “it is.”

Hearing this, rushing to the kitchen, “It’s for me, Mother!”

“Is Marsha there, please?”

“Yes, she is.” Pushing her daughter’s hand away from the receiver. “Who’s calling?” Brushing her hand away again. “Hold on, I’ll call her.” Holding her hand over the mouthpiece, “It’s a ‘Mitchell Lipensky’… And don’t be so ‘damn’ anxious!”

“Thanks for the advice, Mother,” she whispered sarcastically. Taking the phone, “Hi, Mitchie!”

Hearing her voice. Attempting to keep his excitement down, “Marcie, hi!”

Hearing his voice. Attempting to keep her excitement down, “I was starting to get worried, Mitch, it’s much later than you said. How was your trip?” Looking at her mother, thinking, Go away.

But pouring her cup of coffee. Sitting at the table Rhea lit a cigarette and ‘knowing’ she was annoying her daughter, obviously, purposely listened to the—from her perspective—one-way conversation.

“Yeah, I know,” Mitchell said apologetically. “I’m sorry, but there was hardly any wind when we shoved off this morning and we sat off-shore for about an hour before one came up and then we flew, but then it died again and we ‘finally’ tied up to the can...uh, buoy, about an hour ago and by the time we got everything ship-shape and rowed ashore…”

“Mitchie, it’s okay, you don’t have to explain...”

Still looking… ‘glaring’ at her mother, Marsha would walk away but the phone cord could stretch no further than the kitchen doorway.

“...The important thing is that you’re back safely. So, did you enjoy the trip?”

“Yeah, it was great being with my dad and brother and, other than no wind this morning, the whole thing would have been perfect except for one thing…”

Waiting for him to go on. “Yes,” Marsha asked, “what’s that?”

“ ‘You’.” he said softly.

“ ‘Me’?” Her heart thumping. “Why me?”

“It would have been perfect if you’d have been with me. I missed you, a lot!” Stopping, waiting, hoping she’s say that she missed him, too, but…

“Oh.” Turning her back to Rhea, Marsha closed her eyes. Mitchell had said exactly what she wanted to hear him say, but a ‘me, too’ would open too much speculation for her mother, so…

The line silent… Worried, wondering if maybe he’s moving too fast and that she did not feel towards him as he felt towards her, Mitchell swallowed… And finally, after what seemed an eternity…

To hell with mother! “Me, too, Mitchie.” Marsha said softly, “I missed you a lot, too.”

Holding his breath… letting it out, “Look, Marcie, if there’s not too much traffic—and there shouldn’t be now—we’ll be there in about a half-hour and I’ll ring the bell. Remember, we’re going to be in a hurry to get home, and like I said, after two days in a small boat I’m not too presentable. So explain to your mom and dad why I don’t want to meet them yet… Damn,” the words slipping out, “I can’t wait to see you!”

“Me, too, Mitchie.” Marsha said softly. “And it’s okay. Daddy’s still at work and you’ll meet my mother…” tomorrow, “some other time.”

“Hey, I got an idea! We are spending tomorrow together, aren’t we?”

Oh, yeah! “Sure, if you want.”

“Yeah, I ‘do’ want! Okay! ‘Great’! What if, when I pick you up in the morning I meet your folks then? And then, if you want, we can spend the day at the beach…” Though not an ostentatious person, Mitchell Lipensky was not above trying to impress a girl, especially this girl. “…and go to the yacht club for dinner.”

Oh, yeah! Marsha would like nothing better than to spend the day at the beach with Mitchell— showing him off— and she’d be happy to go ‘anyplace’ with him for dinner… But a ‘yacht club’? Oh, ‘yes’! Without a doubt it worked alright, Marsha ‘was’ impressed.

Forcing her excitement down. “The beach...” turning, taking a shot at sounding blase, looking at her mother, watching her reaction, “...and your ‘yacht club’ for dinner tomorrow. Yes, Mitch, that sounds real nice.”

And she did get as reaction as, drawing on the cigarette, looking quizzically at her daughter. “A ‘yacht club’, yet. ‘Fancy-schmancy’.”

“Okay, Marcie, then we’ve got a date for all day tomorrow?” And a bit of tomorrow night would be nice, too.

And the next day! “Yes,” she said, “we sure have.”

“Okay, great! See you in a little while.”

“Bye, Mitchie.” Hanging up.

“They’ve just sailed back from Michigan City and we’re going to his home in Skokie for dinner…” Marsha had told Rhea that she had a date and nothing more. “…but he says they’re in too much of a hurry to meet you now, Mother, and that he’ll meet you tomorrow when he comes to pick me up. We’re going to spend the day at the beach, and then…” hesitating, watching Rhea’s face, “we’re having dinner at his yacht club.”

“Yes, so I heard… Mitchell, uh...” appreciating money, Rhea ‘was’ impressed “...what’s his last name again?”

“ ‘Lipensky’, Mother. Mitchell Lipensky.”

“And you met him in the country? They have a place in Lakeside?”

“No, I don’t think they still do.” Sitting at the table. “And it wasn’t Lakeside, it was Union Pier, near the Lakeview Hotel.”

“This boy, this Mitchell Lipensky, he’s a schlub with pimples?”

“I didn’t say that, Mother. You did.”

“Well, no matter, don’t let him get away!”

“I don’t know if he’s ‘really’ my type, Mother.”

“Jesus, Marsha, then he must be ugly as hell.”

“Well, you’ll get the chance to see for yourself tomorrow, Mother.”

****

Marsha had plenty of time to decide what she wanted to wear on this night—a new lilac-colored peddle-pusher outfit—but tomorrow? To a ‘yacht club’? Pushing the hangers in her hallwaycloset apart… Yes! she thought. A light-blue linen skirt and matching, short-sleeved sailor blouse with dark-blue piping. Yes, perfect!

In the bathroom, Marsha put eye-liner and light-pink lipstick on; which was about all the makeup she ever wore.

**** 

Running into the outer lobby, he pushed the Goldman button.

Her voice coming through the intercom almost immediately. “Hello!”

“Marcie,” the word slipping out, “ ‘honey’, it’s me.”

‘Honey’! He called me honey! “I’ll be right down!”

Hearing the ‘click’ of the inner door lock. Going into the lobby he waited at the elevator… The door gliding open…

When she saw him, she smiled.

Oh, God!

Appealing to him two days ago. Now: tall, thin and youthfully radiant. The soft lilac color of her outfit setting off the deepness of her tan. Her smile… Oh, God!

Marsha’s smile touching him in a way no smile in memory had touched him and—his heart coming into his throat— Mitchell stood stunned by the beauty before him…

“I love you.” Faintly spoken, coming from within the soul of Mitchell Lipensky, “I love you.”

Throughout the years of her childhood, to this very moment, with the exception of her father Marsha had felt unloved. Now, to her, Mitchell’s words were as beautiful as the first snow of winter, as warm as rain in May…

“I love you, too.” The faintly spoken words coming from within the soul of Marsha Goldman, “I love you, too.”

“Marcie…” Her soft words searing into his heart. Searing into his mind. Barely able to speak…

Standing five feet apart. She in the elevator, He in the lobby…

The door began to close, and…

Stepping inside their arms found each other and their lips found each other.

Whispering, “I can’t believe it.” Marsha whispered. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me, too, baby, me, too.”

“I think I’ve ‘always’ wanted you and me together like this. But I ‘never’ thought, not in a million years, that we ever would.”

As though to confirm that it was Mitchell in her arms, pulling back she looked at his face.

“Marcie, when I saw you at the J last year, then again the other night, I felt… ‘something’. I wasn’t sure then, but I am now. I love you and think maybe I have since we first met.”

“Mitchie?”

Not wanting to move from her arms, now or ever. “Yes?”

“Your dad and brother, they’re waiting in the car?”

“Christ! I forgot about ’em! Guess we’d better go, huh?”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Pushing the button. The door sliding open, “Oh, and by the way, you were right, mister.”

Walking through the lobby, “Yeah?”

“Yeah! You are ‘definitely’ scroungy, but cute.”

Wearing old, holey cut-off jeans, a dirt-smeared T-shirt and filthy white deck shoes without socks and he hadn’t shaved since Thursday morning when he’d left the Halfmoon.

“I’m kind’a thinking now’s a good time to grow a beard.”

“Don’t you ‘dare’!”

Opening the right, rear door for Marsha, “Dad,” he said proudly, “this is Marcie Goldman.” Closing the door quickly, Mitchell entered the Buick from the driver side.

“Mister, Lipensky,” smiling, “I’m glad to meet you.”

Returning the smile, “Me, too, Marcie. Mitchell hasn’t shut up about you the whole trip.”

And this squirt’s my brother… Larry, meet Marcie.”

““Jeeze, Mitchie, how come you lied? She ain’t all ‘that’ ugly!”

“Well, Larry,” Marsha said, “You ain’t all ‘that’ ugly, either.”

Walter and Larry formed an immediate affection for this girl and the feeling was ‘completely’ reciprocated.

“Guess we’d better get going! My wife’s going to kill us as it is.” Checking for traffic, making a U-turn and driving west on Pratt Boulevard...

Glancing at Marsha in the rear-view mirror… She’s beautiful! Walter Lipensky sighed.

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: A Real Family