A FBOW excerpt in sequence: Timing is Everything

If Marsha were my wife I wouldn’t call her! Fuck her! She left me and I’d let her stew in her own juice! Let her jump every time the phone rings! Fuck her! Let her be disappointed every time the phone rings and it’s ‘not’ you! And, Mitch, she will be disappointed! And I’ll tell you something else; I wouldn’t answer my phone till after, uh, ten or eleven o’clock. Fuck her! Let her call and wonder where ‘you’ are!”

“Yeah...” listening to his friend, “...let Marsha wonder.”

“Okay...” sitting at his machine, “...now that you’ve gotten my advice, let’s get back to work

___________________________________________________

New York, New York/Chicago, Illinois

New York, New York

August 21, 1956 … 9:50 AM

“You want to catch the phone?” Ruby yelled over ‘Ravel’s Bolero’.

“Yeah, sure,” turning the radio off. “Addressograph, Lipensky.”

Timing, so it would seem, is everything.

His wife leaving him on this day and Mitchell’s subsequent breakdown was the bad news.

Now…

“Lipensky, Commander Frohlick here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’ve information on what you wanted to know regarding dependent medical treatment.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“The directive came through this morning… It’s affirmative for prescribed outside medical treatment and, yes, coverage does include pregnancy and delivery.

Notation (LL)

As the United States Coast Guard — coming under the auspices of the ‘U.S. Treasury Department’— in times of peace was ‘not’ considered as an active member of ‘United States Military’, local medical facilities for civilian Coast Guard dependants were often locally non-existent causing dependants to travel considerable distances— sometimes into neighbouring cities to use ‘public Health’ facilities which were usually located in highly non-desirable locations causing years of extremely plausible dependent complaints.

After years of congressional haggling, in 1956 a bill was finally passed that allowed Coast Guard dependants to use private medical facilities at prescribed ‘Department of Treasury’ expense.

Chicago, Illinois… 12:57 PM

Sleeping fitfully with her head resting against the window... Hearing the sound of a soft bell while sensing a change in her equilibrium and feeling an intensified queasiness, Marsha opened her eyes.

Seeing a steeply dipped wing with nothing but gray beneath—that she did not recognise as her beloved Lake Michigan—panicking a moment, looking up, Marsha noticed the flashing “NO SMOKING—FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT” sign. Touching the steel buckle on her stomach, that hadn’t been opened since taking her seat she looked at her wristwatch, ‘Three hours’. Remembering she had set the watch back one hour before taking off, No, we’ve been up here four hours. Noting that at 12:57 they were a few minutes late.

With no cross wind, United flight 374 was cleared for a straight landing approach to Chicago’s ‘Midway Airport’.

Looking through the window, holding her breath Marsha watched as the far off, Monopoly sized houses and buildings changed to doll house sized houses and buildings and the far off ribbon of thread like runway loomed larger and larger…

Until the runway was all there was beneath the plane.

With a puff of smoke from each of its wheels, the plane bumped once then settled down.

Feeling the clatter of the wheels as the plane roared down the runway when the hangers and buildings within her field of vision began to solidify. Knowing she was safely on the ground, realising she’d been holding her breath, Marsha exhaled.

Not crowded; this Tuesday’s mid-morning flight from New York City to Chicago took no more than twelve minutes from the time the plane touched down and taxied to the United terminal where the portable staircase was rolled to the side of the plane and the hatch opened, until Marsha stepped through the hatch into the moist stifling heat of Chicago in August.

Feeling faint, holding onto both rails tightly, she took the steel steps slowly.

****

If Mitchell had appeared sallow beneath his tan, then Marsha was positively green because, besides a badly upset stomach due to a combination of air sickness and the early months of pregnancy, the kidney infection had caused a severe back pain. Also...

Worked into a state of depression because of the way she had left Mitchell, Marsha could not wait until she was able to get to a phone to talk to him, to tell him, to let him know that: ‘Yes’, baby, I ‘do’ love you! And: ‘Yes’, honey, I certainly ‘will’ be home! However she would not be able to speak to him for hours, not until that evening when he came home from work.

Stepping off the stair-case, taking her concentration from the steps, looking up Marsha saw her mother and father watching from behind the terminal window. On the ground now and firm footing, she waved and in turn received an enthusiastic wave from Eli.

Coming into the terminal…

“Marsha…”

“Hi, baby!”

“Mother! Daddy!”

“You look terrible!” Rhea said as the two women—not quite sure how to approach each other or how much emotion to display—stood awkwardly a moment. Then, each putting ‘air kisses’ to the side of the other’s cheek, the mother and daughter loosely embraced.

Standing to the side, quietly agreeing with his wife’s estimation of Marsha’s appearance, Eli waited. When his daughter turned to him, his eyes brimming, “Hi, baby.” Hugging his daughter he kissed her cheek.

“I’m ‘so’ glad you’re here, Daddy.” Returning the kiss. “I thought sure you’d be working and Roger would drive mother.”

“No, baby, he’s handling the store. I’ve missed you so much I couldn’t wait another minute.”

Feeling her amoral approach to life was the reason for ‘never’ caring about the loving affection between her husband and daughter and in the past Rhea had never felt jealousy at the display of warmth between Marsha and Eli.

“Marsha…” But now, sensing regret and an urge to somehow make up for the lost years between herself and her daughter... Softening her tone of voice, “Marcie…” Feeling left out and wanting to take command of the situation, “...we’ve an appointment with Doc Schaffer, and it ‘is’ a long ride downtown.”

****

“Laurette...” as soon as they arrived at the doctor’s office, “...do I have time to make a phone call?”

Glancing at the clock, “Sure, Marcie,” the receptionist/ assistant/nurse said, handing the phone through the sliding window. “He should be at least another ten minutes.”

“Thank you.” Opening her purse, finding the number in her phone book…

“Walter Lewis Studio.”

“Hi!” Feeling guilty about the argument and how she’d referred to her, the word slipping out, “ ‘Mom’, it’s me, Marsha. I’m here, in Chicago.”

Surprised at receiving a phone call from her daughter-in-law at ‘any’ time, especially at ‘this’ time of the day. Silent a moment digesting two facts: The kids are home! And, Marsha actually called me ‘mom’.

“Well, hello! Where are you two?”

“Mitchell’s not with me. I’ve been feeling terrible lately and came in to see Doc Schaffer by myself. I’m with mother and daddy and we just got to Doc Schaffer’s office, so I wanted to call to let you know I’m here.”

“Mitchell’s ‘not’ with you, you say?”

“No. He couldn’t get away, so I came by myself.”

Both aware, Myra and Walter did sympathise with Marsha about the quality of her Public Health medical care. Now, though, rather then minimally showing pleasure that Marsha ‘was’ in town, that she ‘had’ addressed her as ‘mom’ and ‘especially’ concern for Marsha’s health, Myra felt an irrational anger because she hadn’t been told her daughter-in-law was flying in that day and been given the opportunity to go to the airport along with Rhea and Eli to pick her up.

“Oh...” Myra said irritably, “...and why wasn’t I told you were coming in?”

Catching the tone of her mother- in-law’s voice. annoyed that Myra would ask ‘that’ rather than show concern for why she was here. Sorry now she’d even bothered to call her ‘mom’,

“We didn’t know till late last night and figured I’d call you when I got in.”

“How’s Mitchell?”

‘How’s Mitchell’? Surprised that Myra still hadn’t asked why she was here to see a doctor. Not sure if she purposely hadn’t asked to goad her, or because she was just plain stupid. Attempting to keep her voice neutral, “Mitchell’s just fine.”

“Are we going to see you later?”

Not if I have anything to say about it! “No, I don’t think so—at least not today. I ‘really’ don’t feel well and think I’m just going to go home, uh, to my parents’, and get into bed.”

“What’s wrong?” Myra finally asked. “What’s the matter with you?”

“The nausea I expected, but I’ve had terrible back aches and this awful pain under my ribs.”

“You’re peeing a lot?”

Not surprised that Myra would ask the question in that manner, “Yes. Mitchell went with me to Public Health yesterday and the doctor…”—trying to justify her reason for being here—“…would you believe he was no older than Mitchell, with pimples yet?” Waiting for a response, when none came, “Anyway, he said I have a kidney infection and…”

“That’s what it sounds like.” Myra interrupted. “I get kidney infections all the time and know how painful they can be! The baby? The baby’s okay?”

“Oh, yes! So far as I know. That’s why I’m here. I’ll just feel better when Doctor Schaffer tells me everything’s all right… Oh...” she lied, “...the doctor’s ready for me and I have to go. Look, I’ll call back later to let you know what he said.” Not waiting for a reply, “Bye!”

Handing the phone through the window.“Thanks, Laurette ”

Going to the vacant chair between her mother and father, as Marsha sat Eli took hold of her hand.

****

Knowing the right thing to do: ‘not’ wanting Mitchell to call his parents later to tell them that she was in town and then being accused of not calling her in- laws. Also, not knowing if Mitchell would mention their argument, and if he did, just how much he’d tell them and certainly not wanting to add fuel to the fire, Marsha thought it best to call Myra as soon as possible so when Mitchell did call, he would, at least, know she cared enough to call his parents.

****

“For you!” Shaking her shoulder, “It’s Max. She called a couple of hours ago and I told her to call back.”

“What time’s it?”

“Two-forty. ”

Groggy from the combination of the pain shot Doctor Schaffer had given her along with the medicine Doctor Sobecli at Public Health had given her.

Barefoot and in pajamas, coming off her old sofa bed in the living room— followed by Rhea—Marsha walked through the dining room into the kitchen. Taking the receiver off the table, “Hello, Max.”

Sitting at the table, Rhea lit a cigarette.

Knowing each inflection of her voice, catching the tone of her cousin’s voice immediately. “Jesus, Marcie, you sound like hell.”

“ ‘Thanks’. Doc Schaffer gave me one of his shots and I’ve been in ‘la-la’ land.”

“Oh! Sorry to get you up, but I was really surprised when mom told me you were in. You’re not feeling so hot, huh?”

“No, I’m really not.”

“Everything okay with you and the baby though?”

“Yes. Everything’s just fine… with the baby and me.”

Catching something in the pause, “Marcie, there’s something else! You and Mitch had a fight, didn’t you?”

Looking at her mother. Wanting her out of the room so she might talk to her cousin privately. But then again, what Marsha really wanted, what Marsha desperately wanted at that moment, was to go back to sleep. “Max, I’m getting dopey. Let me talk to you later, please.”

“Tell you what, cuz, go back to bed and give me a call when you get up and maybe, if you’re feeling up to it, we can go to Askanaz for a bite to eat. Or if you’d rather, I’ll come over and we’ll sit around and talk. Okay?”

“Yeah, Max, see you later.” Placing the receiver onto the cradle, yawning as she shuffled back to bed, Marsha fell asleep immediately.

New York, New York… 1:38 PM

The two had made a compromise: as Ruby liked classical music and Mitchell popular, they would listen to an hour of classical then, unless something of particular interest to Ruby was forthcoming, they would change stations.

Ruby did not mind ‘Benny Goodman’, ‘Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey’, ‘Harry James’ or most of the big bands, but ‘hated’ what he called ‘that rock and roll shit’ and particularly hated ‘Elvis the Pelvis’.

Being a captive audience, Mitchell was, more or less beginning to appreciate classical music, at least the louder, faster, up beat classical music.

Usually, within any two hour period, were someone to come into the Addressograph room—if anyone ever came to the Addressograph room—they might hear Ruby, ‘BA BA BA BUMM’, or Mitchell, ‘YOU AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A HOUND DOG’, singing above the clanking clatter of the Addressograph machines.

****

Trying to convince himself that Ruby was correct in his estimation of Marsha’s actions and that everything would work out okay if he did, in fact, ignore her calls and stay aloof—to make her appreciate and miss what she left behind, so now, in a show of forced— ‘very’ forced—bravado, ‘Daa-vee, Daa-vee Crockett’! he sang louder than ever, until…

“Hey, Ruby! I just remembered, I gotta get some money over to the bank before it closes. Mind if I take off early?”

“Nah...” Ruby shouted back, “...I got to drive the Chevy back anyway. Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” Finishing the last plate, he switched the machine off.

“Hey, Mitch, remember what I told you!”

“Yeah. I’m going to call my folks soon as I get in to tell them she’s there; then I’m not going to answer the phone till after eleven—maybe not at all.”

“Yeah, do it!” Ruby said. “Tell you what; I’ll check on you later and let it ring once, hang up then call right back.” Holding his fist forward, thumb upward. “Okay?”

Forcing a smile “Yeah!” Likewise, Mitchell held his hand, thumb upward, in manly acknowledgement.

Seagfate, New York/Skokie, Illinois… 3:15 PM

“Mom, hi!”

“Mitchie, hello.”

“Everyone there okay?”

“My neck’s hurting and I’m back in that damned brace; outside of that we’re all fine, but I hear your wife isn’t.”

“Oh?” Surprised, he asked, “My mother-in-law called?”

“No. Your wife, twice: from the doctor’s office then later, after he examined her.”

“She called you, huh? Twice!”

“Yes, twice.”

Thinking, Twice! Marsha called twice! Ready to read anything good into any of Marsha’s actions. Well aware of how she felt about his mother, Would she have even bothered to call once, he thought, let alone twice if she really planned on breaking up with me?

The reason for this call, basically—although he didn’t think she had—was to see if Marsha had spoken to his mother, and if she had, did she mention their argument—and the slap? And also to assure himself that once he’d spoken to his mother she would not call later when he did not plan on answering the phone.

“What did she say? What did the doctor tell her?”

“Why are you asking me...” still spitefully refusing to call Marsha by name “...instead of your wife? You two have a fight?”

So tired of this game played between his wife and mother.

Thinking she might ask this if, perchance, Marsha had spoken to her and did not tell her about their argument. Having rehearsed what he planned on saying.

“No, mom, everything’s fine, but we’re kind’a broke and I don’t want to make too many long distance calls and Marsha said she’d call me from her parents’ later, but I was anxious to hear what the doctor said and wanted to talk to you anyway. So...” he asked, “...what did Doc Schaffer say?”

Not fully buying this “What did your wife tell me? Only that she came to see ‘her’ doctor because she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t trust those ‘kuni lemmel’ (Simple Simon) doctors she has to see at Public Health. And to tell the truth, Mitchell, I don’t blame her, not one bit!”

Surprised to hear his mother agree with his wife. Very relieved that Marsha hadn’t said anything about the argument because, in his mind he could see Marsh — as she had said she would — telling ‘everyone’ they know that he ‘beat the crap out of her’.

“And her doctor… uh?”

“ ‘Schaffer’, mom.”

“Yes. Doctor Schaffer told your wife everything’s just fine with the baby, and that she has a kidney infection.”

Yeah, he thought. As though she didn’t know that already.

“So, where’s she at now...” Knowing where, but looking for something else to say, “...her mother’s?”

“Yes. When she called back, she said she was home…”

Home! She said she was ‘home’! Shit!

“…and that she was tired and going to bed.”

“Okay, Mom, thanks… I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”

“You want to say hello to your father? He should be out of the darkroom any second now.”

“No, I’ve some stuff I’ve got to do. You say hello to dad and the kids for me, okay? Bye, Mom.”

‘Home’! Marsha’s reference to ‘being home’ causing Mitchell to strengthen his resolve.

Seagate, New York… 3:46 PM

Leaving the Addressograph room, he’d driven to ‘Brighton Beach Savings and Loan’ where he withdrew fifty dollars from their… ‘his’? savings account noting that they… ‘he’? had less than a hundred left of the eight hundred they’d deposited in December.

He then went to their… ‘his’ bank and deposited the cash into their… ‘his’ checking account as…

All the while coming closer to Seagate and sooner to the moment he had been dreading all day: the moment he turned the knob and opened the door to their… ‘his’ apartment knowing that Marsha was ‘not’ going to be there.

He’d come home, of course, many times when she wasn’t there but always knew she ‘would’ be there. But now? Knowing Marsha was not home and was not going to be home soon: not today, not tomorrow—or maybe ever.

Unhappy when he entered their little home, Mitchell was overtaken by —if possible — an even deeper sense of loneliness.

Thinking what he was going to say to his mother had helped him through the door.

Seagate, New York… 3:48 PM

But now?

Putting the phone onto the cradle. Looking about the one room apartment, the one room loomed as large as ‘Grand Central Station’.

Not taking the time to make the sofa bed before leaving for the airport that morning, he saw Marsha’s pillow still indented from where her head had lain.

Going into the bathroom to urinate, he saw a piece of Kleenex with the folded imprint of Marsha’s blotted lipstick floating in the toilet. Aiming his stream around the Kleenex… Flushing the toilet he watched as the tissue swirled down the drain and out of sight.

Back in the living room…

He sat on the edge of the bed a minute or two, then laying face down on Marsha’s pillow he drew the fading fragrance of his wife’s flesh and hair deeply through his nostrils.

Fighting back tears, sitting up. “No more!”

Coming off the bed he undressed.

Opening the sliding closet door, tossing his clothes into the hamper Mitchell stared at the gaping, empty space on Marsha’s side of the closet.

Back in the bathroom…

Delaying returning to the memory-laden living room, taking a long, slow shower— as had become his habit — Mitchell shaved in the shower. Finished…

He dried himself, brushed his teeth and hair. Dabbed some ‘Old Spice’ on his face and dressed in well worn Levi’s, a yellow short-sleeved shirt and his tattered deck shoes.

Hands stuffed deeply in his pockets…

Walking slowly, passing the guard shack rather than the hardy, ‘Hi, Mister Swanson’! he usually called to the guard who had just come on for the night shift; merely nodding his head Mitchell walked through the gate and past the rows of stores on either side of Surf Avenue onto the boardwalk and feeling alone in the crowd…

Feeling alone within the throng of happy, unnoticed people that had come to Coney Island on this sultry, summer evening.

Chicago, Illinois… 4:15 PM

Hearing the phone ring, Marsha stirred in her deep, medicine induced sleep. Responding, a part of her brain hoped it was Mitchell and another part of her brain hoped it wasn’t so she could go back to sleep.

“Marsha.” Shaken gently, “Marsha!”

“Huh?” Looking at her mother through slitted eyes. “Huh?”

“Rosalie’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”

The one part of her brain feeling disappointment because it was not her husband. The other feeling relief because she didn’t have to get out of bed to talk to him. “What time’s it?”

“Four-fifteen. I wouldn’t have woken you, but I know you haven’t eaten all day, and so long as she called…”

If it was closer to five she’d force herself to stay awake to call Mitchell, but knowing he was not usually home till well after five, “Thanks, Mother...” she said, “...but I’m not hungry now. Tell Rose I’m sleeping and that I’ll talk to her later… please.”

Coney Island...5:10 PM

Mitchell bought a Coke, two lobster rolls and, so long as it was for dinner, two Nathan’s hot dogs also and — as it was vacant, sat on the bench facing the ocean that he and Marsha usually sat on.

First bite of the first lobster roll, Yesterday? His mind going back to, Yesterday? Jesus, he thought, was it only yesterday?

Because yesterday seemed like another life. Because yesterday he had ‘everything’ and now, today, slightly less than twenty-four hours later…

Eating the second — suddenly tasteless lobster roll Mitchell Lipensky felt as though everything he had, everything he wanted, everything he loved had gone from his life.

Hot and humid in the city, at the beach it was somewhat cooler.

Above, the sky was covered with wispy clouds. Off to the east, though far over the ocean, layered banks of clouds gave promise of a glorious sunset.

Staring trance like at the million pinpoints of reflected sun on the slightly rippling water, Mitchell ate the first hot dog... Then automatically began the second.

Knowing he was eating, he tasted nothing.

Unaware he was staring, he saw nothing.

His mind nine hundred miles away with a young woman that — at this time he was not sure he loved or hated. But at that moment were someone to ask he’d probably say— without too much conviction—I hate her!

His thoughts of Marsha of such intensity that he was not aware of the girl…

Sensing someone nearby, looking to the right he drew a deep breath.

Usually friendly, on this evening though not feeling like sitting with strangers.

As there were a number of vacant benches nearby, placing the two paper plates holding what was left of the hot dogs and French fries to his right, Mitchell moved slightly nearer the centre of the bench.

The girl was not sitting on the far end of the bench either, but nearer the middle with her body angled to the left, towards him.

Eighteen, maybe nineteen, the girl’s long, blond hair was streaked with modulating shades of gold; the colour Marsha termed as ‘shiksa blonde’ because those multi toned shades of golden hair could ‘never’ come from a bottle. Her face elfin cute. The girl had startlingly blue eyes and a small, slightly up-turned nose with a brace of light coloured freckles running above the bridge of her nose and beneath her eyes.

Wearing a scantily cut, two piece bathing suit, the slight, low cut top revealed sumptuous, creamy cleavage and sitting as she was, staring straight forward seemingly hypnotised by the sun flecked, rippling water, Mitchell was compelled to look down where he saw that—sitting as she was, with her left ankle laid over her right knee—the crotch of her tight fitting bathing suit had pushed upward and— taking a deep breath he could see the deep indentation of the fissure of the girl’s vulva. Also, taking another deep breath, a few long strands of golden pubic hair had strayed between the band of her bathing suit and the inner side of her milk white thigh.

Oh, God! he thought as his penis engorged with blood and his mind weighed the possibilities, and problems.

Breaking her gaze, turning from the oceanthe girl’s eyes came to Mitchell and, quickly lifting from the strands of golden pubic hair, Mitchell’s eyes came to the girl’s.

Her blue eyes and his green eyes locked for a long moment then he and she both looked to the ocean…

But his eyes, magnetically drawn back; darting back and forth from her face to her breasts to—most especially—the fissure of her crotch and the flaxen strands of hair that appeared to sparkle in the sunlight.

Mitchell Lipensky had always been a passive girl watcher. But since marrying Marsha thoughts of sex with another woman, ‘any’ woman had been no more than fleeting, till now…

Why’d she pick ‘this’ bench to sit on? he wondered.

Aware of his good looks, Mitchell remembered the many times in the past when he had noticed a girl looking at him and knew that if he could bury his shyness, find the right words and have the courage to say those words, he knew he would be able to meet the girl, so now…

****

When Mitchell had met Susan Friedman in 1951 that was exactly what had happened: he saw Susan and it was ‘love at first sight’ and out of an absolute need to meet her he ‘somehow’ found and said the right words.

As it turned out she saw him also and — so Susan later told him— fell in love with Mitchell also at first sight also.

****

So thoughts of the possibilities with this golden girl peppered Mitchell’s mind.

Should he even try to meet this girl?

After all he ‘was’ married and if he did meet her, should he tell her he was married? Then, if he did and if she agreed, should he bring the girl to the apartment? And if they did go to the apartment, how do they get past Mister Swanson at the guard shack without him seeing the girl? And once past the guard shack, how’s about the block long walk to the building with this beautiful, all but naked girl at his side—even if they waited until it became dark—without someone who knew Marsha seeing him and this girl together? And once at the apartment, if he ‘didn’t’ tell her he was married beforehand, how would he explain the feminine touches there, or the cosmetics that Marsha had left behind?

Thoughts flashing through his mind instantaneously.

It all seemed so complicated! But, he rationalised, Marsha shouldn’t have left me in the first place! But what if I do take this girl to the apartment and Marsha does find out? But, What the hell! Maybe just get her phone number and take it from there.

“Hi...” burying his shyness, finding words, some words, “...I’m Mitchell. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

Without the slightest hesitation, turning to him. “Hi, ya! Yeah! It’s kind’a pretty here now,” the girl said in a nerve grating tone of high pitched Brooklynesse. “I’m Karen. Pleased to meet’ch’ya.”

Taken back. Always surprised at ‘this’ American dialect, especially coming from such a beautiful package.

Holding his hand forward, “I’m glad to meet you too, Karen.”

Unsure a moment because Brooklyn men did not usually offer to shake hands with a girl but, because she had seen him too and wanted to... Karen let him take her hand and offered no resistance when he did not immediately release it.

The soft, warm touch of this unknown, beautiful ‘golden girl’s’ hand sending a mental jolt through him. Swallowing, Mitchell looked at their hands. Now was the first time in over two years that he’d held a girl’s hand, other than Marsha’s, and it felt so…? Strangely different.

Now though?

Because of a guilty conscious? Because of cowardice? Because of inherent honesty? Because Mitchell Lipensky truly loved his wife. “I, uh…” pulling his hand from hers. Stretching his neck looking someplace over her left shoulder. “I think I see my wife there, Karen.”

The Girl’s mouth opening, “Oh...” standing, “...nice to meet’ch’ya!” Karen hurried away.

Taking a deep breath, knowing full well what he’d thrown away, a new dimension of lust was added as he watched Karen’s jiggly... Oh, my God!...well rounded buttocks sway back and forth as she rushed from his life.

“Oh, well,” said aloud, thinking, It’s probably for the best anyway. But his badly deflated ego had been somewhat re-inflated by an unknown beautiful girl’s interest.

As Karen disappeared within the crowd Mitchell realised that on this night he was not in the mood to see a lovely sunset alone.

Dropping the two paper dishes and cup into a garbage can, Mitchell Lipensky began the walk home.

Due to this evening’s ego boosting encounter, though, he did feel a bit better.

Seagate, New York… 9:45 PM

At 9:45 the phone rang… once, then silence, then rang again.

“Yeah, hi, Ruby.”

“So, what happened? You talk to her?”

“No. Besides my mom, you’re the first person I’ve talked to tonight...” — opting not to mention his meeting with Karen, “... but I walked over to Nathan’s to get a couple’a hot dogs for dinner and I suppose it’s possible she tried calling then.”

“Yeah, that’s possible, I guess.”

The line silent a moment… “I never asked and you didn’t say and unless you’d rather not say, what was the fight about anyway?”

“Marsha, to say the least, is not too happy with the doctors at Public Health, so she wanted to go to Chicago to see her family doctor, and I didn’t think it was necessary. Also, a girlfriend of hers is getting married on Saturday and she wanted to go to the wedding and I didn’t want to spend the money for the trip. Besides, we need what she earns on her job. But I suppose, ‘really’ I didn’t want her to go and leave me alone for a week. So I said some pretty shitty things and Marsha said some shitty things and…”

“You popped her.”

Now the reason for his anger seeming utterly lame. “Yeah, Rube, I did slap her and feel pretty god-damned bad about it! But, you know, one thing kind’a led to another.”

“Yeah, it usually does.”

“Yeah, you’re right, at least with us it does.” Sighing, “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Look, pal, things’ll work out. Take it easy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

  Next FBOW excerpt in sequence” Stubbornness and Stupidity