A “Becoming” excerpt: “Meeting Eli/Silver Speck”

June 20, 1955

Chicago, Illinois

“Marcie, this is a ‘terrible’ neighborhood!”

Driving west on ‘Madison Street; two blocks east of the ‘Chicago Stadium’ they were on the fringe of Chicago’s skid row.

“You’re right, but daddy makes a good living out of the store.” Pointing to the south side of the street, “There it is.”

“Where?”

“There! See the sign?”

“ELI’S GRILL”

Vienna Meat Products

Hot Dogs — Hamburgers

“Yeah, I see it now.” Passing ‘Eli’s,’ making a U turn at the next corner and coming back the car stopped in front of the store.

11:05: With the exception of a man behind the counter dicing onions at the steam-table, the store was empty.

Hearing the bell above the door, turning, the man smiled.

If pressed, he would have to admit that after his wife his daughter was his second love. Although ‘truly’ Marsha was the ‘only’ warmth in life of Eli Goldman.

Smiling warmly, “Hi, baby!” Wiping his hands on the clean white apron he wore about his waist, coming from behind the counter Eli took Marsha in his arms hugging her tightly while looking over her shoulder, to the boy she had brought to meet him.

Having pleasing features: Seeing Eli as slightly shorter than his daughter with sandy-colored hair, striking blue eyes, a warm infectious smile and a squarely built, powerful body, Mitchell’s first and everlasting impression of Eli Goldman was, Nice man!

“Daddy, this is Mitchell.”

Holding his hand forward, “Mitchell.”

“Mister Goldman...” shaking the offered hand. “Marsha talks about you all the time and I’m ‘so’ glad to meet you.”

Noting the sincerity in his voice. Instantly liking the look and mannerisms of this young man... “I’m glad to meet you too, Mitchell.”

“Daddy, Mitchell says that he’s ‘one of the greatest connoisseurs of hot dogs in the world’, and that he’s eaten hot dogs from here to New York and he says that your hot dogs couldn’t ‘possibly’ be as good as some of the others he’s eaten!”

“Oh, I ‘did not’!” Laughing, “Don’t you believer her, Mister Goldman. I never said any such thing!”

Placing an arm about each of their shoulders, “Oh, yeah?” Eli said jokingly as steering them to a booth and seating them on opposite sides of the table. “I’ll fix you a hot dog that’ll knock your socks off!”

Going to the steam-table, “How many you want?” he asked from behind the counter. “Two? Three?”

Reaching across the table, taking Mitchell’s hand. “He’s real bashful, Daddy.”

“Maybe about lots of things, Mister Goldman, but ‘never’ about food and ‘especially’ hot dogs! Two, thank you.”

“Two hot dogs coming up! How you like ’em, Mitch?”

“The works, Mister Goldman.”

“ ‘Mustard’, ‘onions’, ‘celery salt’’, ‘relish’, ‘sport peppers’,’ tomatoes’ and ‘fries’?”

“Tell you what; lots of onions and hold the relish.”

“You, baby?”

“Hamburger today, Daddy.”

“Roger,” Eli called, “we’ve got company! Take a break.”

“Yeah,” came a voice from the back room, “be right out.”

A ‘White Sox’ baseball cap on his head, wearing an apron over jeans and T-shirt Roger came from the back room carrying a large pot of peeled and oblong cut potatoes.

Seeing his sister, “Hi,” he said unemotively, as walking behind the counter he dumped the potatoes into a stainless steel bin alongside the deep fryer.

“Roger...” partially standing so she might better see him behind the counter “...this is Mitchell. I don’t know if you remember, but you two met a long time ago, in the country.”

Leaving the pot alongside the fryer. Wiping his hands on the apron as he walked to the booth he sat alongside his sister.

“This is Mitchell,” she repeated. “Mitch, this is Roger.”

Scarcely looking at him— let alone offering to shake hands— reaching into his shirt pocket, “Nah, I don’t remember,” Roger pinched a cigarette out.

Irritated by, and instantly remembering the look of utter indifference he’d received from Roger six years earlier. “Yeah...” he said in a none-too-friendly tone, “...but I remember you.” Softening his tone, “And I spoke to you on Friday, when I called from Michigan City.”

Catching Mitchell’s tone. Lighting his cigarette. “You called and talked to me?” Inhaling. “Nah,” he repeated. “I don’t remember.” Looking at the ceiling, exhaling... “Oh, yeah! That was you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me Mitchell called?”

Shooting a look of annoyance at his sister, “ ‘Cause I forgot!”

Provoked. Not wanting to let it pass that easily. “Roger...” holding his hand forward, “...even if you don’t remember me and even if you forgot to tell Marcie I called, I’m glad...” like hell I am! “...to meet you anyway.”

Exhaling twin streams of smoke, Roger looked at the offered hand... then begrudgingly lifted his.

Deliberately tightening his grip, “Yeah...” Mitchell said, in his none-too-friendly voice, “...you may not remember me, but I sure remember you!” You ‘schmuck’!

Ignoring Mitchell’s snide comment and tone. Changing the subject. “So, you dating my sister?”

“Yeah...” he answered belligerently, as though challenging him to make it an issue. “...I am!”

“What’d you do? You a student?”

“No. I’m in the ‘service’.”

“ ‘Army’?”

“No. ‘Coast Guard’. I’m stationed in New York.”

“Here you go!”

Holding two tissue-covered plastic baskets — each containing a hot dog, two wedges of kosher pickle and a mound of French fried potatoes — Eli placed both in front of Mitchell…

“Looks great Mister Goldman, thank you.”

Returning to the griddle Eli flipped—then pressing it flat with a wide spatula— scoped the sizzling hamburger up, put it into a bun in another tissue-covered plastic basket and heaped a mound of fries next to it.

Coming back to the booth, “Here you are, baby,” put it in front of Marsha.

“What’d you kids like to drink?”

“Orange, please.”

“Me, too, Daddy.”

“Lunch crowd’ll be starting soon.” Standing, “Sit down and talk to ’em. I’ll get the drinks.”

“Thanks, Roge.” Sitting next to his daughter. “So, Mitch, my hot dogs as good as those in New York?”

“New Yorkers don’t know what’s good; they just grill ’em. But nothing’s better’er’n’a good old-fashioned steamed Chicago hot dog. And to tell the truth, Mister Goldman...” starting on the second hot dog, “...Marsha’s right. These ‘are’ the best!” Pinching a small mound of chopped onion that had fallen from the bun, putting the onion back in the bun he took another bite.

“Here.” Placing two bottles of ‘Nedlog’s’ orange soda onto the table.

Glancing at him, “Thanks, Roger,” Mitchell said.

Taking a pack of ‘Old Golds’ from his shirt pocket and eaching under the apron, into his pants pocket for a lighter. “You about ready for another, Mitch?” Eli lit a cigarette.

“Well…” He did want another hot dog but did not want Marsha’s father’s first impression of him to be that of a pig.

“Roger…” Choking on the smoke. Coughing, his eyes tearing, his face becoming deep crimson, Eli coughed until, catching his breath,“Roger,fix Mitch another dog with everything, hold the relish.”

Drawing on the cigarette again. This time able to hold his cough down. “Marsha tells me you’re in the service and home on leave. When do you have to report back?”

Washing down a mouthful of hot dog before answering. “I got in on Thursday. Today’s Monday, and I’ve got to be aboard ship by 2400…” glancing at Marsha, “...uh, midnight on the second. So I guess I’ve got about twelve days left.”

Without Mitchell!

Suddenly Marsha could not imagine how she would be able to go back to living as she’d lived before. Without Mitchell!

“ ‘Twelve days...” her voice breaking. Snapping her fingers “...will go like that!”

Looking at his daughter, Eli realized that this young man was different than any of the young men his daughter had introduced him to in the past.

“And if you don’t mind...” Marsha said, fighting back tears “...I’d just as soon not talk about when you have to leave.”

Looking at Marsha. Suddenly finding it difficult to swallow the french fries in his mouth around the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” Mitchell said, “me, too.”

July 2, 1955

Chicago, Illinois

Oh, God! It’s time!

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, Mitchie,” holding back tears as she and her eldest son kissed then held each other tightly for a long moment.

“Dad.” The two men did as they’d done twice before: look stoically at each other, then—always surprising Mitchell—hug emotively.

Staying back, Myra and Walter left the two to their own goodbyes.

Walking hand in hand to the boarding gate. “My, God, Mitchie!” She’d tried to hold the tears, but couldn’t. The shine in her eyes becoming fluid. “I’m going to miss you so much!”

At the gate. Standing facing each other. Watery eyes locked onto the others face. Minds and hearts thinking and feeling as one.

Oh, God! It’s time!

The painful lump in his chest moving to his throat, barely able to whisper her name. “Marcie.” Averting his face so she wouldn’t see him cry. Pulling her to his chest and holding her tightly. “I love you! I’ll miss you!”

“Me, too, Mitchie! Me, too!”

Knowing he must! Pulling from her arms. Without looking back Mitchell rushed through the gate up the boarding stairway and into the plane.

Sitting on the port side window just aft of the wing. Looking through the rounded-square window— through the shimmering distortion of his tears — still standing at the gate he was able to see Marsha, and…

She saw him and waved and Mitchell could see her mouth moving in exaggerated movements and though he could not hear the words, he knew what the words were and silently mouthing the words back…

“I-love-you!”

I love you!

Slammed shut, the hatch was secured by a stewardess…

The portable stairway pulled away...

the four motors sputtered… then roared to life…

The plane, moving from the terminal…

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

**** 

They’d spent every possible moment together.

That Monday; after leaving Eli’s they had driven to ‘Lanathin’s’ where Mitchell came in and stood by Marsha’s side as she’d ‘honestly’ told the store manager why she must have the next twelve days off.

As the manager’s husband had been in the army during Korea. And as she well remembered her own feelings, she did understand Marsha’s and— liking this young couple, did give Marsha the time off… without pay.

They went to the zoo.

To the beach.

To movies.

They went for quiet walks and long drives.

****

With the barrier broken on ‘Undeen’, if the situation became ‘hot’ enough—and, ‘oh,

yes’, it most often did—she would allow him to hold her breasts— but only over her clothing— and though he’d tried, his hands were ‘not’ again allowed beneath her blouse or bathing suit.

They’d had long, hot, ‘so hot’ necking sessions with restricted petting and barely restrained passion and even though — at times — he’d thought Marsha must think him a centipede and a half, Mitchell was happy to be with her and to be allowed to touch and hold her within whatever boundaries she’d felt herself comfortable with, however...

Being human with a natural curiosity and very much in love and ‘certainly’ wanting him as much as he wanted her, Marsha actually had—although considering how emphatically she’d been able to hold him off —as hard a time controlling her passion as Mitchell and, ‘yes’ she did want to touch him ‘there’ and, yes’ she did want him to touch her ‘there’.

But somehow Marsha was able to find the presence of mind to keep his hands and eyes above her bathing-suit or blouse and completely away from the area of her groin and…

Whereas she had counted their ever-dwindling days with dread, she really didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to keep her resolve and virginity intact. And though she knew she would miss him ‘terribly’, she also thought — in a sense — that she’d be relieved when he did leave.

But ‘oh, no’! She wasn’t, and…

**** 

Watching as the plane became little more than a reflecting silver speck, Marsha was sorry that she hadn’t gone further and allow him to go further… Maybe even… No! She knew herself and knew she’d never let Mitchell go all the way… Maybe.

This was the fear he’d felt when Mitchell had first realized the depth of his feelings for Marsha.

When he left home last year he’d had an immediate sense of homesickness. But ‘not’ like this. ‘Never’ like this!

‘Now’?

Now he knew that he had left a part of himself on the runway of the no longer visible airport.

Their time together: talking to Marsha; the sense of her touch; the scent of her hair; being with her; loving her…

Also, the dream of sex: of seeing Marsha nude; of lying next to Marsha nude; of the sight and feel of Marsha’s breasts; of kissing her nipples; of tasting her nipples; of placing his hand onto her, into her ‘there’; of feeling the warm moisture ‘there’; of kissing her there of tasting her there; of loving her, there! Of Marsha loving him in return! Of, Oh, God! The consummate act.

These were the factual thoughts and masturbatory fantasies that had occupied Mitchell’s mind while he and Marsha had been together.

But now…

Passing over Illinois, the plane flew east and with each passing moment, with the physical distance between Marsha and himself widening he could remember only one other time in his life that he’d felt this alone and this lonely.

There was not a thing he could do about it then…

Now?

For the first time, My, God! a thought came to mind and the thought jolting him, Why didn’t I think of this before?

He ‘knew’ this time! Now he ‘definitely’ knew.

****

The plane landed at La Guardia Airport at 7:57 PM Eastern Standard Time.

He had thought about it the length of the entire flight.

Knowing with absolute clarity what he intended to do.

Taking the subway to Times Square, he walked no more than a half-block before finding the exact type of store he’d thought about finding.

Inside he found exactly what he’d thought about finding. Bought it and wrote the note he’d mentally written and rewritten the entire length of the four-hour flight.

“Do you have a box for this?” Mitchell asked the girl behind the counter.

Reaching into the waste-can beneath the counter, “Yeah,” she tossed him a cardboard box and cover that was triple the size needed.

Using crumpled newspaper taken from the same waste can—to keep it from ratt;ing— he enclosed it along with his note.

“You got something I can wrap it with?”

Chomping on a wad of ‘Double Bubble’, “Yeah.” Becoming tired of this bothersom customer, the girl handed him a brown paper bag, scissors and a roll of Scotch tape.

He wrapped it and addressed it, and using five stamps — just to be on the safe side—Mitchell dropped the clumsily wrapped package into the first mailbox he came to.

****

Writing the note and sending the package had helped, somewhat. but now, despondent and lonely, standing on the bow of the Staten Island Ferry he saw the greenly-illuminated Statue of Liberty and the lights of the dozens of boats that were in the harbor.

There was a bright, three-quarter moon and the pin-point lights of millions of stars that speckled the clear, pitch-black sky.

“Marcie...” he whispered as he struggled to keep from crying, “...is it possible that maybe you’re looking at this very same moon now? Right ‘now’ at this exact time?”

****

Mitchie, is it possible that you’re looking at this very same moon at this very same time?

From her ninth floor apartment window, Marsha Goldman was.

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Reactions”