A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: James Dean & Elvis (A Timeline)

September 8, 1955, to October 11, 1955

Coast Guard Cutter Halfmoon: Fall Patrol

In the fourteen months since his first patrol to ‘Ocean Station Charlie’, his entire life had turned about and this patrol—his second to Ocean Station Charlie—unlike the first, was spent in pushing the days because now he had someone waiting for him. Someone he could not wait to see again. If the days were filled with the cold, hard work of the ship, the nights were filled with warm, hand held dreams of Marsha.

September 30,1955

“Hit me.” Seaman First Class Stuart Baker brushed his hole card lightly over the Formica table top.

The dealer, Radio Man Third Class Ollie Kittler, turning a card, slammed it alongside Baker’s six and trey cards. “Queen, for nineteen! You’re busted, asshole!”

“The fuck I am!” Turning his hole card, Baker revealed a deuce.

“Fuck you!” Kittler slid a nickel across the table.

“Me, too; a little one.”

“Yeah, an’ here’s a little niner for you, Lippy.”

“Too much.” Turning his cards, he slid his nickel to Kittler.

“…died today in a high speed automobile accident on a highway in Southern California.”

“Hey, j’ya hear who the radio just said died today?” Seaman Apprentice Owen Shroyer, —holding his card to his chest— looked at the loudspeaker on the upper bulkhead. “Lippy, who’d he say died?”

“Beats me.” Mitchell looked at Baker.

“I wasn’t listening. You hear it, Ollie?”

“Nah. Hey!” Kittler yelled across the compartment. “Any’a you guys hear who the radio said got killed?”

“Ain’t you heard,” one of the swabbies answered, “ ‘James Dean’. He got croaked in a car accident.”

“Jesus,” Baker said, “I can’t believe it. James Dean, dead.”

Sitting quietly for a moment…

“Okay, asshole!” Boatswains Mate Third Class Myron Linton hit the table with his fist, causing the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters to jump. “Let’s see a fuckin’ card!”

“You fucker! Ain’t you got no fuckin’ respect?”

“Sure, Ollie, but not when I’m holdin’ what I’m holdin’. Hit me!”

Coming from Newfoundland, the music and news was picked up by the ‘Halfmoon’ and piped into the mess and recreation areas.

“Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ!” Linton, going bust on a three-cent bet, slamming his card angrily onto the table. “God-damn nigger music! Is that all they ever play at that fuckin’ station?”

“Hey, prick!” Kittler said. “That ain’t no nigger music.”

“Oh, it ain’t huh! Then just what the fuck is it, then?”

“You dumb asshole! Ain’t you never heard’a ‘Elvis’?”

“ ‘Elvis’?” Linton looked around the table. “What the fuck’s an Elvis?”

October 11, 1955

Pulling the pillow over her head— covering her ears she still heard the ringing.

Opening her eyes, Marsha looked at the clock: ‘5:53’. “My, God!” Remembering. Realizing what day it was and who would be calling this early. Running from her bed in the living-room to the kitchen and grabbing the phone... “Yes, operator, I’ll accept the charge… ‘Mitchie’! Hi, baby!”

Having the warm, fuzzy quality of a woman who’d just awoken. Silent a moment relishing the sweet sound of her husky, early morning voice. “Marsha, God, you sound ‘so’ nice! I’d give anything to be with you now, only still in bed.”

“Oh, God, Mitchie, me, too! When’d you get in? I can’t wait to see you!”

“About 0510 and I came ashore to call soon as we secured from duty stations.” Remembering the hour’s time difference. “Hope it’s okay, my calling this early.”

“Sure it’s okay! I’m glad you called now.”

“God, Marcie, I can’t wait till Friday. You realize we’ll be seeing each other in three days! Can you believe it?”

“Can I believe it, huh? ‘Flight 702 departing La Gurdia Airfield, 10/14/55, five-thirty a.m., E.S.T, arriving Midway Airfield 8:45 a.m., C.S.T.’ Mitchie, that’s all I’ve thought about!”

“Marcie,” said in true awe, “we’re going to be married in six days! That’s all I’ve thought about since I saw you in Askanaz last June: Holding you. Touching you. Seeing you. Making love to you… Oh, God, ‘real’ love!”

The line silent a moment. A solemn look coming to Marsha’s face.

As the day of this first marriage came closer, Marsha’s thoughts of how she was going to tell him had been on her mind almost constantly. And yet, still not having the words, “Believe me,” she said in absolute truth, “I can’t wait either!”

“Really, Marcie? Really? You can’t?”

‘Yes, ‘really’! I’ve told you before; most girls aren’t that much different from guys. We all want the same thing, only girls show it differently.”

Momentarily quiet, recalling that long ago conversation with Frank Rizzo.

“Baby, I’ve been thinking; I don’t want to spend our first night together—our only night together—at our parents. Let’s go to a hotel.”

Hesitating.“We’ll talk about it when you get in, okay?”

“Yeah, honey. But it wouldn’t bother me, not one bit, if you were to make a reservation someplace in the name of…” Now he hesitated. “God! I still can’t believe it… Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky.”

October 14, 1955, to October 18, 1955

Chicago, Illinois

Nervous about seeing Mitchell; first, because she ‘was’ going to see him and secondly because of what she should have, but still hadn’t, told him.

As the plane taxied to the terminal, becoming ill Marsha rushed to the washroom.

“Hi!” Looking for her, Mitchell kissed his mother.

Not too sure if he was supposed to kiss Rhea, he kissed her anyway.

“Where’s Marsha?”

This being the first time she’d been this close to him, Rhea looked closely at her very-soon-to-be son-in-law and still wondered how it all came about.

“She’ll be right back, Mitchell. She wasn’t feeling too well.”

“Mitchie!”

Turning to the sound of his name…

Marsha was there, running to him.”

Coming together. “Oh, God, I missed you!” Embracing, “I love you!” they kissed.

Giving the two a few seconds, “Come on, kids.” Myra urged them apart. “It’s rush hour and we’ve a long drive downtown.”

“You okay, Marcie? Your mother said you weren’t feeling well.”

“No, honey. Now that you’re here, I’m just fine.”

****

“That wasn’t so bad,” Marsha asked, “was it?”

The blood test over. Heading north on Lake Shore Drive.

“No, it never is. With me it’s more the thought of the needle.”

Throughout the long drive from Midway Airport to downtown Chicago, he’d been waiting for Marsha to say something, but she hadn’t.

“So where'd you make the reservation?”

Turning from her place on the front seat. “ ‘Reservation’?” Rhea looked at her daughter.

Thinking, Oh, God! Marsha turned her eyes from her mother.

“Monday...” Mitchell said, “...after we’re married.” Glancing at Marsha, looking back at Rhea. “Marsha and me are going to take off and spend the day—and night—together. Alone!”

“Marsha, you ‘didn’t’ tell him?”

This the moment she’d been dreading for a month. Not knowing how to tell him, hadn’t.

Turning her head. Facing the window. Answering her mother. “No.”

“No, Mitchell...”

Throwing a stone into the water making a reverberating, long-lasting ripple.

“...you two are ‘not’ spending the night together ‘alone’!”

“What do you mean, ‘we’re not spending the night alone’?”

“She was supposed to tell you!” Rhea said angrily. “I ‘told’ her to ‘tell’ you!”

“Tell me ‘what’?”

“What? What I said: that the two of you are ‘not’ spending the night together alone!”

“ ‘Why’?” Sitting up in the seat. Glaring angrily at Rhea. “We ‘will’ be married!” Spoken as a statement, not as a question. “Won’t we!”

“Marsha, you tell him. ‘Now’!

“Mitchie,” Marsha said haltingly. “In the eyes of God…” looking beseechingly at her mother who…

Nodding her head emphatically, “Go ahead!”

“...Uh, on Monday...” turning her face to the window, “...in the eyes of God…” speaking as though by rote. “we won’t ‘really’ be married.”

“What in the hell do you mean, we won’t ‘really be married in the eyes of God’? Who’s that damn religious all of a sudden?”

“ ‘Calm down, Mitchell’! Monday is ‘only’ a formality and so far as we’re concerned...”

Nudging Myra with her knee, looking for support. But this had been ‘all’ Rhea’s idea and Myra drove without comment.

“…until you’re married by a rabbi so far as your mother and I are concerned...” glancing at Myra, “...you are ‘not’ married in the eyes of God! And we want you to ‘promise’ us, Mitchell, that you will not have, uh...”

Marsha had, under ‘great’ coercion, promised to take care of this and Rhea was struggling to find and say the proper words.

“…sex, uh,’ intercourse’ with my daughter.”

“Your ‘daughter’? My ‘wife’, you mean! I can’t believe this! Marsha! Is this the way you want it?”

Knowing her mother’s morals, this, coming from Rhea at any other time would be absolutely ludicrous. But for the first time in her life Marsha was enjoying her mother’s attention—to say nothing of her money. Also, for the very first time in Marsha’s life she felt loved by her mother.

Continuing to look out the window. Continuing to keep her face averted. “Yes,” she mumbled. “I guess so.”

“My daughter’s already promised us and I want you to promise us, too, Mitchell; your mother and me, that you won’t uh, do… ‘it’ until after the real wedding.”

“You know, Mrs. Goldman, I…”

“ ‘Rhea’! If you want, it’s okay to call me Rhea.”

“Okay, ‘Rhea’. I really don’t understand this!”

“I am spending a ‘lot’ of money for a white gown! Do you know why a bride wears white, Mitchell?” Not waiting for an answer. “I’ll tell you why. It’s because white is the ‘virginal’ color and if Marsha is ‘not’ a virgin when she gets married…”

“But we ‘will’ be married!”

“When she ‘really’ gets married!” Looking at her daughter in profile. “In the eyes of God, if she is ‘not’ a virgin she does ‘not’ deserve to wear the white gown!” Rhea’s dark eyes shifting, looking into Mitchell’s first, then—as she’d turned from the window—Marsha’s. “Do you ‘understand’ me, Mitchell?”

No answer.

Wondering where Marsha’s mother had come up with this ridiculous supposedly biblical concept…

Mitchell said nothing.

“Myra, you agree with me!” Nudging her again, harder, “Don’t you!”

Stopping for a traffic light. Looking over the seat at her son. Though thinking it ridiculous also, attempting to lighten the situation. “Look, you kids have all your lives to get laid. Just remember, you’re not really married…”

“Yeah, Mom, I know,” Mitchell said wearily, “ ‘in the eyes of God’.”

“…until you break the glass under the ‘huppe’.”

Looking forward, Mura accelerated away from the light.

“So, Mitchell, do I have your promise?”

“Rhea, I am ‘not’ going to rape your daughter!” he said angrily. “If she’s ‘promised’ she won’t and if she ‘doesn’t’ want me to, then it doesn’t matter whether I promise or not because I love Marsha and I would ‘never’ do anything to her that she doesn’t want me to!”

“Okay, then it’s settled.” Turning, Rhea looked forward.

****

Oh, God! Mitchell thought. You’re going to drag this on forever, aren’t you? What have you got against me ‘ever’ getting fucked… Even with my own wife?

Skokie, Illinois October 15, 1955

“Mitchell, but I ‘want’ you to do it this way!”

“But, Mom, it’s ‘so’ embarrassing! I can’t understand why you want me to do this, now.”

“Mitchie, for ‘me’. Please, do it for ‘me’!”

****

Saturday evening: Both families, including Morris and Jennie, and Roger and Brenda, were at the Lipensky's for a combination engagement and nineteenth birthday party for Marsha.

Coffee and birthday cake served.

After Marsha had blown out the candles, Myra had motioned for Mitchell to follow her into the den where she’d handed him the small, square box t—that she’d insisted Rhea give her earlier when Myra had demanded: ‘I went along with you with your ‘virgin thing’ now ‘you’ go along with me!

****

Returning to the dining room, Myra took her place at the foot of the table and Mitchell went back to his seat alongside Marsha...

Who looked at him questioningly but, looking straight ahead Mitchell said nothing.

Tapping her glass with a spoon, “ ‘Everyone’!”

Conversation stopping, all eyes turned to Myra.

“Mitchell has an announcement to make.”

“Uh,” turning to Marsha, haltingly, “Marcie, I…”

“ ‘Stand up’!” Myra commanded. “Stand up so we can ‘all’ hear you.”

Standing alongside, he looked down at Marsha. Reaching into his pocket he removed the black box. Opened the box and—surprised at the size and beauty of the ring— “ ‘ehhh-ehhh’!” Nervously clearing his throat. “Uh, Marsha…” looking at Myra — who motioned for him to go ahead — “...I love you and, ‘ehhh-ehhh’, will you marry me?”

Without waiting for Marsha to answer, lifting her hand Mitchell put the ring on her finger —the wrong finger of the wrong hand.

Looking at the ring, then up to Mitchell, Marsha felt embarrassment for both him and herself. She looked at Myra, who had a satisfied, smug look on her face and though she had come close a few times, now for the first time since meeting Myra, Marsha allowed herself the thought, I hate her!

Unwilling to prolong the embarrassment a second longer. Quickly shifting the ring to the proper hand and finger. “Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. Standing, she kissed him lightly on the lips, glanced at her mother and sat down.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Mitchell gladly followed.

“Marsha,” Myra asked, “haven’t you something for Mitchell, too?”

Refusing to be manipulated. “ ‘Something for Mitchell’?” Pretending to think, “No,” she said, “I don’t think so..”

Glaring at Marsha a moment, “Walter,” turning to her husband. “I thought you were going to take some pictures.”

“Oh, yeah!” Going to the den and returning with a camera. Posing everyone around Marsha and Mitchell, Walter took a number of pictures at the table, then in the living room…

“Marsha...” sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by Roger, a very pregnant Brenda, and Larry and Morton. “...hold your hand up so we can see the ring.”

Holding her hand forward showing the ring, “Sure...” knowing the name annoyed Myra, “… ‘Skipper’!”

Knowing his mother, aware ot the growing tension. “How’s about opening some presents!” Larry suggested.

**** 

The last birthday gift unwrapped, looked at and thanked for. “Mitchie,” Marsha whispered, “please get our coats. I’d like to go for a ride.”

“Now?”

“Yes, ‘now’!”

She’d been a little standoffish since dinner — and he knew why.

Once outside, having thought this over Marsha said, “Let’s go to where we were the last time, before you went back to New York.”

However when they got to the once-secluded spot, there was now a row of houses.

“I know where we can go.”

Driving to ‘Oakton Park’, parking at the end of the dead-end street leading into the park. Switching the motor off. “Marsha, I know why you’re mad, and I’m sorry. Believe me, I didn’t want to do it that way, but…”

Having their first argument…

“But, you just ‘had’ to listen to her, didn’t you! Is this the way it’s going to be after we’re married?”

Beyond ‘merely’ angry by Rhea’s decree. Keeping it to himself because he did not want to argue with Marsha. Now, his anger boiling over. “You’re a ‘fine’ one to talk! When did you agree that we’re ‘not’ going to get together, even ‘after’ we’re married? How in the hell did you ‘ever’ let your mother talk you into that?”

Both knowing the other was right. Both knowing that each had been caught in something that neither had any control over...

Each stared at the other angrily...

Then averting his face, Mitchell stared out the windshield.

Marsha looked at him in profile, then she, too, faced forward.

In a few long seconds—Mitchell’s anger, sometimes quick to ignite, usually quicker to quench—his hand, inching across the seat touched the outside of Marsha’s thigh and was ‘instantly’ met by hers.

“Marcie, honey...” turning to her “...I’m sorry… Believe me! I’m ‘sorry’ I let my mother talk me into doing that.”

Afraid to say what she really thought of his mother, Marsha said nothing.

After a few seconds, when Marsha did not answer, “And if you don’t want to ‘go all the way’ now, it’s okay. I understand.” He chuckled dryly.“Well, ‘no’, I don’t really. But I love you and if that’s what you want I’ll ‘probably’ go along with it. But remember, I didn’t promise nothin’!”

“Mitchie, I love you!” Her mouth finding his…

As a thank you for going along with her. Or just because she knew he wanted to. Or because she ‘wanted’ him to, as the kiss lengthened — Making the slightest movement. Reaching through her jacket, inching her blouse out of the waistband of her slacks. Pushing the bottom of her bra up, taking his hand…

Now...

This was the first time she’d allowed him to touch her bare breast since that evening on the ‘Undeen’ four months ago and — lost within the taste of their kiss. Lost within the touch and taste and feel of Marsha’s tongue, for a brief moment Mitchell was not sure he was touching what he so desperately wanted to touch, then…

His heart quickening as the warm fullness that weighed within his hand registered on his brain… Both brains.

Oh, God! Circling the suddenly not-so-smooth circumference of her nipple beneath his thumb…

“ ‘Marsha’!” he said passionately, “I love you!”

“Me, too, Mitchie! Me, too!”

Her mouth finding his again. Her tongue touching his again. Holding his hand tightly to her bare breast, sensing the tightening of her nipple, Marsha, too, wanted to ‘touch’. To ‘feel’. And she ‘certainly’ knew she could but certainly ‘knew’ that one thing would certainly lead to another. And she knew, by the erotic, suddenly slick sensation within her vagina that, for a ‘certainty’, she would ‘not’ stop him. And knowing that one thing ‘was’ certainly, ‘definitely’ about to lead to another …

“Mitchie,” she said, catching her breath, “I didn’t want to give it to you at her house, but…

Oh, God! Wanting to kiss her breast. Wanting to taste the taste of her breast. Wanting, Oh, God! to see Marsha’s breast. About to work his way down. Kissing her ear…

“I, uh...” shivering as the point of his tongue found the inside of her ear. “I have… something for you.”

Kissing the warm, lightly scented, soft flesh beneath her chin…

If she didn’t get him to stop ‘now’…

“Please, baby, let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk? Now?” He didn’t move—either his body, or his hand.

Feeling herself losing the battle. “Mitchie. ‘Please’, come on!”

“Yeah, Marcie.”

But still…

“ ‘Mitchell’!”

“Marcie, I don’t want to let go of you… ever!”

Thinking, I don’t want you to either! But…

“Come on. I’ll let you do it again.”

“This?” Gently squeezing. ‘Loving’ the soft feel of Marsha’s breast. “This? Just like this? ‘Really’?”

“Yes! I ‘promise’!” Thinking, Maybe. “Just like that.”

“Maybe even when we come back to the car?”

“Mitchell!” She laughed. “Yes! I promise I’ll let you hold my boobie! ‘Maybe’ even when we get back to the car. Come on now! I’ve got something for you.”

Although it was mid-October, the air was cold and they could see the vapor of their breath in the light of the brightly shining moon.

Motioning to a park bench beneath a street-light —the same bench Sandra had led him to in 1951—“Let’s sit here.”

Sitting closely together, his left arm about her shoulders…

Pressing a small box into his right hand. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Something for you, honey.”

Opening the box. “My God!” looking at the diamond ring, “Marcie,” he said in amazement, “you got this for me?”

“Yes.” Taking the ring from the box she slipped it on his finger. “We’ll switch hands before we put our wedding bands on.”

“Marcie...” holding his hand to the moonlight. “...this had to cost a fortune! Where’d you get the money?”

“Actually, my mother asked if I’d like to give it to you as a wedding gift and she paid for it.”

“Your ring, too?”

“Yes… Well, she added the difference to what you had... You’re not angry are you?”

Thinking: Now I know why you ‘had’ to gave in to her.

Understanding and feeling guilty at his anger towards Marsha. At the same time feeling remorse because he had absolutely ‘no’ excuse or reason for giving in to his mother.

“You like your ring?”

“My, God, Mitchie, ‘yes’! It’s the most beautiful engagement ring I’ve ever seen. I l’ove’ it!”

Exhibiting one of the unselfish traits that Marsha loved about her father. “Then I don’t care,” Mitchell said. “If it makes you happy, that’s fine.”

“I’m so glad, baby! I was worried you’d be mad.”

“Nah. The only thing I’m mad about is you.” Holding his hand forward. “Is this what she meant when my mom asked if you have ‘something’ for me?”

“Yes.” Trying to keep her voice natural. Hoping he wouldn’t notice the resentment towards his mother by the tone of her voice.

“You mother, well…” choosing her words carefully, “...sometimes she tries to, uh, run things. She came up with an idea… sort of like she asked you to do tonight a couple of months ago. I told her that you’d already proposed. And that I’d much rather you gave me the ring when we were alone.”

“And she ‘insisted’ to do it her way, anyway?”

“Yes. But you’ve got understand, Mitchie”—telling him what she’d told herself the first few months—“she’s nervous about losing a son.”

Trying not to sound as though he were rebuking her.“That’s ‘ridiculous’! It’s not like I live at home! I’ve been away for two and half years and it’s not like she’s losing me, but more like she’s gaining you. And if there’s one thing I know my mother’s ‘always’ wanted, it’s a daughter.”

She could have had me that way, Marsha thought.

Knowing this could be, to say the least, a very sensitive subject. Also knowing that it was something they ‘had’ to discuss but not wanting to argue with him again, trying to be tactful.

“Mitch, your mother… she kind of pushes a little too hard. I like her and want to be with her...” she lied, “...but she can’t ‘always’ be with me and my mother. And that’s kind of the problem: she expects me to act like her daughter and I ‘can’t’—She’s not my mother; I have my own mother.” Hesitating, Marsha wondered how much she should reveal about the relationship between her mother and herself.

“Mitchie, I don’t want to talk about it too much now. I’ll tell you why someday, but my mother and I have ‘never’ gotten along, and now, for the first time in my life she’s treating me like she’s supposed to, like a ‘real’ mother and that’s why I agreed with her about you’n’me not doing it until after we’re married in December. Now can you understand why?”

He did, but not wanting to admit that he did. “Marsha, to be honest, about that, ‘no’! But about my mother? I think you’re a smart girl and know you’ll do whatever’s right. And I think once the wedding and all the tension’s over with, you and my mother’ll get to know each other and everything’ll be...”—he hoped—“...just fine.”

“Yes, Mitchie, I’m sure you’re right.”

Unfortunately, though. Deep down, Marsha sincerely doubted it.

 Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Where There’s A Will”