A FBOW excerpt in sequence: A Secret Channel & Retrospective 14

Why the dislike for her daughter’s husband?

Desire subconsciously turning to hatred when the daughter had that which the mother wanted, but could ‘never’ have…

The wand of the ‘Youth God’.

Marsha... Marsha had pride and stubbornness and her mother to hold her hand.

Mitchell… Mitchell had his ever vacillating anger and distance and fear!

Afraid to speak to and certainly afraid of seeing Marsha or, most certainly his baby for fear of completely falling apart and begging for forgiveness…

Feeling deserted. Feeling abandoned…

Begging for ‘Forgiveness’?

Forgiveness for what?

Other than the slap— which at that time, under those circumstances he thought she had asked for and deserved, Mitchell had no idea what he should beg to be forgiven for.

****

Two weeks away from Marsha—though he had sent one check—he’d made no direct contact, but did have a secret channel for information.

Chicago, Illinois

June 5,1957 to June 29,1957

As soon as he got off the phone, going into Myra’s office, “She’s moved! I just got off the phone with Marty and he told me that Marsha’s given up the apartment and moved in with her parents.”

In a deep place beyond hatred and anger, as was Marsha, Mitchell too, had the pinpoint, common sense thought that, Maybe, if I had someplace to go back to, maybe…?

****

Not wanting to believe. Having to see for himself.

Driving to the building at ten that night. Getting out of the car and going into the outer lobby he looked at the row of brass mailboxes.

Oh, God! His throat tightened. His eyes became moist because there, on the name tag for ‘912’ it read ‘Goldman/Lipensky’.

Because at that time it all seemed so final, his heart sinking, Mitchell recalled the one other time in his life that he’d felt as sad, lonely and despondent as he felt at this time.

Retrospective 14: October 9, 1952

The train left Union Station at 8:05 AM.

It chugged through Chicago, out of Illinois, and across Indiana. It went through Ohio, Pennsylvania and into New York state, arriving at Grand Central Station in New York City at 9:50 PM

Mitchell, and the four young men he had met on the train that were also bound for the ‘Coast Guard Training Facility’, as per instructions, were standing on the platform waiting to be picked up by…

“Hey, you guys!” A heavy-set, dark complected man wearing dress blues with one red chevron on the sleeve approached the ‘Chicago Five’. “You the boots headin’ to ‘Cape May’?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Looking at Mitchell. “You don’t gotta ‘sir’ me! I ain’t no fuckin’ officer. I’m just ‘Yeoman Third Class Khepers’. Okay? I’m here to bring the five’a’ya in with my bunch. Gi’me your papers.”

Handing Khepers the manila envelopes, the five joined a contingent of eight others.

“The train’s been delayed an’ ain’t leavin’ for another hour, so’s we might as well get grub an’ take a shit, if you gotta.”

The thirteen boots along with Yeoman Third Class Khepers had dinner at the ‘Harvey Restaurant’ in the depot, which Khepers paid for with redeemable military script.

The train left Grand Central Station at 11:08 PM

His forehead resting on the vibrating window, with the overhead lights off the coach was bathed in a soft orange glow that did not reflect onto the window so Mitchell was able to see out.

The train sped through the dark countryside where the only visible pinpoints of light came from distant farmhouses and cars that ran on a road parallel to the train. Rushing past hamlets and sparsely populated areas, the scattered light became brighter as they came closer… Until they blurred past the window reminding him of the old radio advertisement for his ‘Captain Midnight Atomic Ring’: “Like a shower of shooting stars.” Mitchell chuckled to himself then remembered that with each rotation of the steel wheels and with each passing second he was being taken further from everything and everyone he had ever known and loved—which, ‘really’, was why he was there in the first place.

In his mind’s eye he visualized his mother, asleep, and his father—glancing at his watch, which was still on Chicago time—watching Morrie Amsterdam on television. And Larry, sleeping in what was, up until today… up until yesterday… his room.

As ‘always’ Mitchell’s thoughts came back to Susan and he philosophized: At any time you can turn a corner, or cross a street to get a hot fudge sundae and ‘bam’, your life is changed forever.

Sighing deeply an overpowering maudlin feeling came over him and becoming unbearably sad and lonely, ‘Don’t’! Willing himself not to cry, shutting his eyes tightly… The feeling passed. Opening his eyes, he looked out the window…

Becoming heavy, his eyelids drooped… closed… and within seconds were open again.

Staring, seeing nothing but the rushing black night he crossed his arms across his chest, sat back and turning his head, Mitchell Lipensky rested the side of his face against the gently vibrating window…

October 10, 1952

“Hey, ‘boot’!”

His shoulder shaken, opening his eyes. “Huh?”

Standing in the aisle, “We’ll be pullin’ into ‘Atlantic City’ in a while,” Yeoman Third Class Khepers said. “Better use the head an’ make yourself presentable. You don’t wanna go into camp lookin’ like a fuckin’ bum!”

June 5, 1957

Then, he’d joined the Coast Guard to escape the sadness. But now he was an adult and in his sadness and loneliness and anger, because he was an adult, Mitchell Lipensky did a ‘very’ adult thing…

Pressing his thumb to the doorbell he counted to seven before releasing it, then running to the car and stamping on the gas the blue Ford peeled away from the curb.

Rather than heading west to ‘McCormick Road’ then north to Skokie, he drove the long block to ‘Sheridan Road’, made a left turn and drove a few minutes before stopping the car at the curb and, getting out he raised the top.

Driving again, Mitchell twisted the knob of the radio till he—surprising himself—found a station playing classical music.

Past the far north side of Chicago. Through ‘Evanston’.

Twisting sharply in and out of hairpin turns, Sheridan Road follows the Lake Michigan shoreline through ‘Wilmette’ into ‘Winnetka’.

Knowing where he wanted to go.

Driving faster than he knew he should.

The convertible open to the starry night, the balmy air ruffling his hair… and drying his tears.

In the darkness he missed the turnoff and had to backtrack about a mile until he found the short road leading to the bluff that overlooked the lake.

Once there, although it was near eleven and a school night, still, he was surprised to find the local ‘make out’ spot deserted.

Inching forward till the bumper touched the safety rail at the edge of the cliff, he turned the lights and motor off.

Slouching in the seat he listened to the crying strands of a violin concerto— which seemed absolutely appropriate for this time, place and mood.

Staring at the star speckled sky, wondering, How’d it go this far? Mitchell again felt the bitter ball of emotion work its way into his throat.

‘Divorced’? Marsha and me divorced?

Angry at her for allowing—causing—it to go this far! Hurt because Marsha had ‘let’ it go this far! In his anger, in his hurt It’s her fault, damn-it! Mitchell forced himself to think of the one thing that possibly might make even the thought of divorce palatable…

‘Other women’! And the wisp of a remembrance came to mind. In the peripheral vision of his memory he could actually see the girl’s sun streaked, straw coloured hair… Who is she?

She was sitting next to him and both were looking at the water… Only he wasn’t. He was looking at the golden strands of pubic hair that had strayed from beneath her tanned, well rounded thighs and the tightly stretched elastic bands of her bathing suit, and…

Oblivious to the thoughts or problems of the ‘upper’ brain, the completely detached—so it had always seemed—‘lower’ brain of Mitchell Lipensky awoke and, sensing the twitch in his penis, Who the hell is she?

The eye of his mind—his lower mind—travelled upward, to the top of the two piece bathing suit, to the soft, deep valley... to the overflowing flesh of the girl’s breasts…

Mitchell’s mind—both minds—focused on the fantasy of this girl... Another twitch.

Jesus! Remembering the brief encounter with the girl he’d met on the Coney Island boardwalk on that other sad, lonely evening when he and Marsha were—as it turned out—temporary separated.

Remembering the girl’s name, “Karen!” he said aloud as sensing the flow of blood, wanting—‘needing’ a sensation other than misery! Wanting— ‘needing’ a sensory release, rubbing the palm of his hand roughly over the growing bulge within his jeans causing a hot, delicious friction on his not nearly as flaccid as it had been a minute ago penis, till…

Stopping. Considering whether he ‘really’ wanted to do this here, in the open…

The decision no doubt made by his lower brain—Why not! No one’s here! Why the hell not?

Knowing he’ll be needing it. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket unbuckling his belt and popping the top button, unzipping his pants and parting the fly of his Jockey shorts he freed his partially engorged penis.

Closing his eyes. Holding his breath he sensed the kiss of comparatively cool night air upon the sensitised flesh causing an immediate, full erection, as…

Laying his head back, staring at the dotted silver pierced sky, taking hold of ‘himself’, beginning slowly he thought of the absolutely inaccessible golden haired Karen of the long ago, far away, memory…

But that memory triggered a more recent memory — and the long ago, far away fictional Karen transformed into the real Karen. A possibly accessible Karen: ‘Karen Rosenberg’, the lovely, dark eyed, dark-haired Karen he’d met two weeks ago that by now might, just ‘might’ be looking for a replacement. A Jewish replacement for her Kenneth, her shaygets, and Mitchell fantasied what this Karen might look like naked: the size of her breasts, the texture, shade and size of her nipples, the triangle of black pubic hair, and...

Transposed once again. No longer having to imagine the ‘so’ well remembered texture, shade and size of a different dark eyed, dark-haired girl’s breasts, nipples and pubic hair—before she became pregnant. and…

Welcoming the metamorphosis! Lost within this sexual fantasy:

Marsha, naked, is above him, straddling him… The scene of the past became the illusion of now as Marsha’s breasts swayed above his face, and Marsha’s long hair and excited, elongated nipples brushed his lips, and in the throes of her passion she screwed her eyes shut, and…

The movement of his hand increasing with the rate of his breath.

“I love you!” he said to the non-hearing sky. “Oh, God, I love you!” And…

The Marsha of his memory. The Marsha of his imagination. The Marsha of his fantasy replied, ‘I love you, too, Mitchie’! And…

Mitchell again sensed the slight, all but imperceptible pulsing from within her vagina as the Marsha of his memory. The Marsha of his imagination. The Marsha of his fantasy orgasmed and as she had…

Feeling the itch that precedes the onset of his orgasm. Missing but one beat Mitchell shrouded his penis with the handkerchief, as…

More than three months of physical desire along with monumental mental tension gave erotic release to an orgasm of such breathtaking magnitude that his ejaculations bordered on near ecstatic pain, but…

As his semen flowed, slowed, then stopped so then did his passion and he was once again left with a hollow, depressed feeling that as the penile blood reversed along with he withdrawal of his penis, Mitchell Lipensky became angry.

Not the faltering anger of the past fourteen days brought about by his vacillating love for and hatred of Marsha, but cold anger.

Having the need to urinate—as always after orgasm—stepping from the car onto the gravel strewn ground and walking to the rail, Mitchell urinated over the steel barricade. As his stream went from straight to arched, in deep thought he stared at the place his water joined the darkness.

Seconds later— replacing his penis and zipping his fly— feeling an overwhelming sensation of helpless frustration, turning to the car he took three steps, stopped, turned back to the barricade and thinking a moment longer of what he was about to do...

Twisting the band of gold from about his finger, Mitchell threw it as hard as he might at the dotted, silver pierced sky.

The Secret Channel

Not everyone though was an ‘advice giver’ or a ‘flame fanner’. A few mutual friends and relatives did their best to keep their ‘two cents worth’ to themselves.

Rosalie and Marty were deeply saddened at the apparent breakup of the marriage of their friends and remained neutral, and they in essence became double agents and were the clandestine source of non harmful information to each about the other, hoping in some small way that they might be instrumental in helping effect a reconciliation.

When Marty told Mitchell—thinking the move logical—about Marsha’s move to the apartment of her parents it was meant as a means to help relive Mitchell—by no longer having to pay rent—of a bit of his concern over their overwhelming debt.

Because he truly loved Marsha, Lawrence also remained neutral… Although, really, he might have had an ulterior motive for wanting his brother and Marsha to reunite because he was not too happy about having to give up his bedroom and move back into the rear bedroom with his younger brother.

Eli, too, although loving his daughter dearly, for the sake of his grandson tried to remain a voice of calm in a sea of turmoil.

Oddly enough—and Mitchell would be shocked if he knew— his staunchest ally in ‘the enemy camp’ was Marsha’s brother, Roger, who, while ‘always’ his mother’s favourite, had secretly despised Rhea since the age of nine when he’d found her giving ‘Uncle Manny’ a blowjob, and although unaware that his mother had been the major instigator in the breakup of his sister’s marriage—Roger vehemently argued with Rhea for allowing Marsha such quick and easy sanctuary.

Besides, his mother’s mental abandonment of his sister had never registered on Roger and he’d always thought of Marsha as a spoiled brat.

Roger did not believe what he heard about Mitchell, but even if all the stories were true , knowing his sister as he thought he knew her— wondering how anyone could ever live with her, Roger thought that if Marsha did get smacked, more than likely she got exactly what she deserved.

June 14,1957

Okay, Mitchell thought, if she don’t want to be married to me, then screw it!

It took but one day of driving with his hand in direct sunshine for the sun to tan and somewhat equalise the circle of white around the fourth finger of his left hand.

If she don’t want to be married to me, then screw it!

Wearing his snazziest ‘Robert Hall’ sports jacket and coolest tie, carrying his art portfolio—so he’d look the picture of a ‘Michigan Avenue’ Ad Exec—he went into ‘Chauncey’s’, a Michigan Avenue ‘watering hole’ catering to the downtown, after work crowd of advertising and allied field ‘hotshots’.

His portfolio propped against the bar— as were the portfolios of some of the other hotshots, he stood with his elbow upon the high sheen bar, as were the elbows of some of the other hotshots.

“What’ch’ya drinking, pal?”

Drink? He hadn’t thought about that. Looking blankly at the bartender, “Uh…”

“ ‘Beefeater martini, dry’!” A hotshot two bodies down ordered.

Yeah! “ ‘Beefeater martini, dry’!” Mitchell parroted.

Within three minutes, “Here you go, pal!” The stemmed bar glass was placed before him on a white paper napkin along with a cash register receipt.

Looking at the receipt, “Ulp!” audibly swallowing, Mitchell took two of the twelve dollars he had with him out of his pocket, but as he laid the bills onto the bar a deep sense of guilt overtook him because, for the cost of this one drink, he could have bought three days formula for Mikey.

But, So long as I’m here, and so long as he’d paid for it, I might as well enjoy it! Swirling the appetisingly fat, pimento stuffed olive by its fancy toothpick, tempted to eat it he looked at the hotshot two bodies down who, sipping at his martini held the olive at bay by putting pressure on the toothpick against the rim of the glass with the tip of his finger. So, doing as the hotshot did, the olive held steady, Mitchell also lifted and tilted the glass to his mouth.

In the span of his not quite twenty-three years, Mitchell had occasion to get drunk on Scotch and ‘Southern Comfort’, and get sick on ‘Canadian Club’ bourbon and homemade ‘Dago Red’, but he’d never had gin along with a whiff of dry vermouth and— the transparent bland appearance of the martini deceiving, taking a large swig…

“Gaghht!” As none of the other hotshots appeared to be gagging on their drinks, willing himself to stop in mid-gag, holding his stomach down by sheer willpower.

At ‘Chauncey’s’ to possibly meet a woman, in spite of Marsha. Surveying the action, Mitchell’s attention was drawn to a young woman standing at the far end of the bar.

The complete opposite of what he was looking for on this early evening, the tall, thin, dark complected young woman had long, dark brown hair and…

Frowning, turning away, Mitchell Lipensky became angry at himself because the ‘one’ woman… The ‘only’ woman in this entire crowd that he was even ‘remotely’ attracted to, resembled Marsha.

Even though he was wearing his snazziest ‘Robert Hall’ jacket and coolest tie, feeling very much out of place, Mitchell left Chauncey’s without finishing his ‘Beefeater martini, dry’, or leaving the obligatory, minimal twenty-five cent tip.

He did, however, eat the appetisingly fat, pimento stuffed olive.

Next FBOW excerpt in Sequence: “Berman and Hoffman”