A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Scotch And Guns”

“They want to make up, Marcie! They really miss you!”

Slamming her fork onto the table. “Leave me alone, Mitchell!”

In his highchair, startled, Michael began to cry.

“Marsha, why?” He said angrily, “You’ve won! Why go on with this? What in the hell do you want from them?”

“What do I want from them?” Standing, going to the cabinet beneath the sink, Marsha dumped her unfinished meal into the garbage can. “I want you and your god-damned family to ‘leave me alone’!”

For once, thinking it best to just drop it, Mitchell, ‘very’ wisely, dropped it.

________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

April 22, 23, 24, 1958

It wasn’t very often that Mitchell Lipensky had the opportunity to be home alone. On this night though he was because his wife, her cousin Maxine and Rosalie had decided it was time for a girls night out, without their husbands.

In the two and a half years of their marriage they had lived in three apartments and each time they’d moved they had eliminated a few of the things that were no longer necessary to their lives.

On the move from Pratt to Winchester this included his Coast Guard uniforms, which— with Marsha’s improved cooking the pants had, somehow, magically shrunk about an inch and a half about the waist so, with the exception of the white tunics that Marsha enjoyed wearing, the uniforms were given to the Salvation Army.

One of two remnants of his days in the U.S. Coast Guard: a box of one hundred, ‘redi-wet’, ‘foil-pac prophylactics’ that he had purchased at the Floyd Bennett Field Post Exchange shortly before his discharge, sat—about eighty percent full—on the shelf in the closet; and a duty-free pinch bottle of ‘Haig & Haig Scotch’ that he had purchased aboard ship in Newfoundland on his last weather patrol.

In a reclining position in bed he had given up on the glass with ice cubes and soda about twenty minutes earlier because each time he’d taken a sip, some of the frigid contents would slop out of the glass onto his chest—so now, held on his stomach by the neck of the odd-shaped bottle that, grimacing less and less with each swig, small pulls had been taken directly from the bottle.

It’s not that Mitchell and Marsha had an argument… On this day, oh no, they had not argued on this day. To the contrary and, really, what had provoked him enough to rationalize his purposeful setting out to become soused this evening was the continuation of a three-day silence broken only by the clinking of silverware, the clatter of dishes and the movement of their jaws and teeth as they masticated their food right up till the moment Marsha made the curt announcement, “I’m going to the movies with Max and Rose, then out for a pizza.”

The last time Mitchell Lipensky had been drunk, really drunk, was when Ruby kept him company on the evening of his twenty-second birthday. But then there was someone to say, ‘Hey, pal, how’s about some coffee?’ On this night, however, with the exception of his son, who was asleep in his crib, Mitchell Lipensky was alone.

Considering himself a reasonable person…

Yeah, I’m’a kind’a guy who responds to logic, Mitchell thought as he took another, “Yaghht!” pull on the bottle...

Yeah, I’m’a kind’a guy who can see another guy’s point’a view… And another swig...

I’m’a kind’a guy that’ll go out’a my way to make another guy feel better. Jesus, ’specially if I love him… uh, ‘her’, if I can.

Mitchell had three points of drunkenness: happy, sad and sick.

Because of the running battle over—and with his parents, and the three days of Marsha’s prolonged silence, the weight of his depression was too great to consider ‘happy’, so skipping happy, going directly to ‘sad’…

Yeah, how’s come I’m the only one that’s sad ‘bout the way things are ‘round here? How’s come she’s never sad ’bout the way things are ’round here?

Another pull.

The arguments then the silence had made him lonely and terribly sad and he knew his unhappiness was, to say the least, ‘very’ apparent.

Marsha, however, had this mental mechanism that allowed her to hide ‘any’ outward show of emotion, leaving only a show of anger and disdain for her husband on continual open display.

I’m’a good guy!

Another pull.

I don’t wanna fight with her! I don’t wanna do stuff to make her mad at me. I ain’t never hurt nothin’ or nobody in my life, so’s why’s she’s always gotta make me feel like I’m always such’a kind’a stupid, som’in’a’bitchen piece’a shit?

Through his drunken ruminations on this night, strangely the thought that his parents played a major—or possibly the only roll in the unfolding drama of life with his wife on this night did not enter his besotted mind.

****

The Saturday evening after Michael’s birthday party in Skokie, completely ignoring the reason for the alienation between his wife and parents, Mitchell—very brilliantly—came up with, “I am ‘not’ going to see ‘your’ family until you start seeing ‘my’ family!”

By now knowing his wife, he should have known Marsha’s response to this rather hollow threat would be something like, well, ‘well’ actually…

“I don’t really give a damn what you do, Mitchell. To tell the truth, ‘no one’ in my family cares whether they see you or not. So you just do whatever you want, Mitchell!”

He liked Marsha’s father a great deal. What was not to like about Eli?

Matter of fact, knowing his father-in-law was a cuckold caused Mitchell to feel sorry for him and to like him all the more.

As for Rhea? Never being a person to hold a grudge, completely separating what she was from how she looked. Possibly because she was a mature, beautiful, sexual woman, Mitchell was merely fascinated with Rhea and when he looked at her, visualized what his wife might look like in the future — except for the big tits, he’d thought on more than one occasion.

Actually he did like Rhea and Eli and, with the exception of her brother, most of Marsha’s extended family and ‘was’ very sorry he’d made that stupid ultimatum.

However when it came time for his wife to leave with Michael, thinking, ‘fuck it’ Mitchell went along with his wife and son for his son’s actual ‘first birthday’ party… And in the end was very glad that he had.

****

Yeah, he thought, an’ how’s come suddenly her mom’n’dad don’t wannt’a see me no more?

Talking a pull from the bottle.

How’s come Marsha tells no one there don’t like me no more?

Becoming weepy.

I use’ta think some people there liked me! That ‘someone’, ‘somewhere’ liked me.

His flowing tears mixing with flowing snot, taking the handkerchief from his pocket he blew his nose loudly, then took another drink….

My wife say’s no one likes me, she says no one likes me all the time. She hates me! My own wife hates me an’ everyone hates me an’ no one loves me!

Blearily watching the credits for the eleven o’clock news.

Getting off the bed and bringing the bottle with him he went to the dining room.

Standing over the crib he looked at his sleeping baby.

“Yeah, seems like no one likes your daddy ’septin’ you, my baby.” He said aloud, but softly enough so as not to wake Michael.

“You love your daddy, didn’t’j’ya my little Mikey.” Swiping his arm across his eyes and nose. “But maybe that’s only ‘cause you’re too little an’ don’t know no better an’ when you grow up you’ll probably hate me, too...” adding, “...jus’ like everyone hates me.”

Leaning over the crib, alcohol-induced tears of self pity fell onto the blanket that covered his son.

It was at that time that Mitchell shifted into his third phase of drunkenness, and…

The room began to whirl. His head began to twirl and his stomach began to gyrate forcing his dinner and slightly more than one-third of the duty-free, pinch bottle of ‘Haig & Haig Scotch’ up into his esophagus and up into his throat and, “ullppp!” Running to the bathroom, Mitchell dropped his head into the toilet, as…

Timing is everything! As...

Opening the front door, Marsha came into the apartment just in time to hear…

“Gachhhttt!”

“Mitchell?” Rushing to the bathroom, seeing her husband on his knees with his head within the rim of the toilet.

“What’s wrong...” she asked, feeling concern and sympathy for her obviously ill husband…

For only a moment, though, just till she spotted the partially empty bottle of Scotch that sat on the floor alongside the toilet. “You’re ‘drunk’!” she said scornfully.

Having ‘minimal’ patience with her husband at that time anyway. Considering this as one more reason—one more excuse—to do what she had seriously been considering.

Scooping the bottle off the floor and pouring the remaining contents into the sink.

“I go out with my friends ‘one’ time and leave you here ‘once’ to watch your son and you get ‘god-damned, stinking drunk’!”

“Marcie...” lifting his head from the toilet. Wiping his mouth on the towel he’d grabbed off the shower-door bar while looking beseechingly at his wife. His words slurring, “...I’m, sorry, Marcie, but I feel ‘so’ bad about how things are with us now that I…”

Cutting him off—though knowing once he was asleep, her son usually slept through the night—“Mitchell...” she asked angrily, “...what would you have done if Michael woke up and needed something?”

“Yeah, you’re right...” he said apologetically. “...but I was only going to have one drink then things, I d’know, things began to, kind’a, pile up on my mind and I…”

“ ‘Got stinking, rotten drunk’!”

“Yeah, I… guess… Ullppp!” Turning away he again hung his head into the toilet.

Seeing him vomit. Smelling the disgusting odor, turning away Marsha, became ill.

“I do ‘not’ want you in the same bed as me, Mitchell! Do you want to spend the night in the chair, or do you want me to sleep on the chair?”

Turning from the toilet, looking at her. “Marsha...” becoming angry, “...I told you, I’m ‘sorry’! It’s not like you see me do this all the time, you know!”

“Outside of New Year’s Eve you’ve never even seen me a ‘bit’ drunk! Not ‘once’! And if you don’t care why I did it, and if it bothers you so much…”

Never expecting Mitchell to say…

“…’you’ sleep on the chair!”

April 23, 1958

Nauseous. Still tasting the sour taste of regurgitated Scotch. His throat sore from vomiting. Also feeling guilty because he ‘did’ let Marsha spend the night on the chair.

In absolute silence Mitchell shaved, got dressed and— as Marsha fed Michael, not wanting the sent of food anywhere near his nostrils, he kissed the top of his son’s head then, quietly pulling the door closed behind him, Mitchell left for work.

The all too familiar symptoms had begun the evening before.

As the front door closed…

Marsha walked into the washroom, to the medicine cabinet where she took a pill to numb the pain caused by menstrual cramps then returned to the kitchen.

Finished feeding Michael…

Hesitating...In deep thought Marsha once again considered the consequences of what she ‘thought’ she was about to do. And if she does, she’s got a ‘lot’ to coordinate’.

Deciding...

“Mother...” holding the phone so tightly her knuckles became white, “...I’ve got to ask you to do somethings for me...”

The tone of her daughter’s voice serious. “What’s wrong?”

“Mother, I’ve...” rubbing the palm of her hand over her damp eyes,”...I’ve ‘got’ to get out of here!”

“You’ve got to, ‘what’?”

“I need time to myself!” Taking the baby from his high chair. “I’ve ‘got’ to figure what I want to do!”

“ ‘What you want to do’?” Snubbing her cigarette out. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t argue with me. mother! ‘Call Morrie’!”

“ ‘Morrie Jacobson’? ‘Why’? You hate Morrie!”

Laying Michael in the crib, “I need him now mother!”

“Why?”

Standing stiffly. “Got to get out of here ‘today’!” Resolved to do it. “ ‘Now’!”

Alarmed. “ ‘Mitchell’! He do something to you? The baby?”

“No! ‘No’, mother, it’s ‘nothing’ like that?”

“Why, then? Where do you plan on going?”

“I’ve ‘got’ to have time to myself to think. Just me and Mikey and we’re going to the country.”

“ ‘Lakeside’? Now!”

“Yes, mother… Please! After you call Morrie, call the service in ‘New Buffalo’ and have them send someone out to do a quick clean up and tell them to be ‘sure’ to get the water, gas and electricity turned on ‘immediately’!”

“And Morrie…?

“I need him to get a mover to get my stuff out of here!”

Lighting another cigarette. “And your husband?”

“ I ‘don’t’ want him coming to me or writing to me or even knowing where Mikey and me are!”

“How can we keep your husband from knowing where you and his baby are?”

“Don’t tell him! Tell everyone not to tell him ‘anything’!

“And I need Roger now too, to help get what we’ll be needing for the next couple’a months to Lakeside.”

Catching the desperation in her daughter’s voice.

“Marsha, I think this is all pretty irrational but okay, if you’re sure this is what you really want, I’ll contact Morrie and call your brother right now. “

“Don’t forget the service because it’ll be cold there tonight and we’ll have to turn the heater on.”

****

Arriving sooner than she’d expected. Looking the complete opposite of what a man in his profession typically might look like, the man was thin and short: about 5' 6". He wore khaki slacks and a black T-shirt that accentuated the bulging muscles of his chest and arms. The second man, more typically big and burly, wore Lee coveralls over a sleeveless, black- and red-plaid flannel shirt.

“You Mrs, uh,” consulting the clipboard, “ ‘Lipensky’?”

“Yes.” Marsha moved aside, allowing the men entry.

Stepping past Marsha, making notations on the clipboard, the small man immediately began to appraise the sparsely furnished apartment.

On the back of his belt was a small holster that held a ‘Smith & Wesson’ snub-nosed .38. Not ‘quite’ as inconspicuous, the big man wore a U.S.Army-issue web belt with holster and a ‘Colt .45 pistol’.

Alarmed, “ ‘Guns’...” she asked, “...why guns?”

“Lady, in our kind of work...” the small man said, “...we don’t take chances with your ol’ man. This is just in case...” patting the holster, “...he comes back and objects to what we’re doin’.” Seeing the fearful look on her face. “Just to scare him ma’am, ‘just’ to scare him!”

****

When he left his home at 8:35, walking downstairs Mitchell stood at the door a minute or so wondering if he should go back upstairs and apologize to his wife for…? Getting drunk? Allowing her to sleep on the chair? For trying to mend relations between her and his mother? For even ‘wanting’ to mend relations between her and his mother?

“Christ!” Seeing, ‘knowing’ the angry, set look on Marsha’s face when he’d leaned over the highchair to kiss Michael goodbye.

Knowing ‘anything’ he would say would only add fuel to her fire and be about as effectual as pissing into the wind…

“Fuck it!” He pushed the door open and got into the car

Still feeling headachey and nauseous he drove southeast, towards downtown and the studio.

Getting as far as Lake Shore Drive then deciding he did not want to see his parents, turning north, Mitchell headed towards Evanston but unable to organize his thoughts he drove aimlessly until, realizing he was going in circles, turning southwest, he drove to a light industrial area in Skokie—where he once had a part-time job while in high school—where the streets ran straight for four blocks in each direction.

Parking the car on ‘Monticello Street’—forcing himself to—taking his presentation case he began to make cold calls.

Because his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of his once-again failing marriage and because his head and stomach were still upset, he actually hoped that the person... that whomever purchased the photography would either be out or would not want to speak to him.

Working one side of the street, then returning on the other, an unprecedented—Sure, he thought, today everyone wants to see me—four of the people that purchased the photography were in and three did see him but bumbling through all three presentations he felt less, ‘much’ less than effectual. But placating his conscience, he forced himself to work for better than two hours.

Rightfully concluding that his efforts for that day were absolutely futile, as his head and stomach had returned somewhat, to normal, deciding he was hungry and so long as he was in Skokie and didn’t know where else to go and had lots of time to kill, he went to the newly constructed, recently opened…

***

Standing in line waiting to order his hamburger, fries and a chocolate shake outside of ‘McDonald’s’ in Skokie Village, he recalled the conversation on that Sunday morning when he’d driven to Chicago to retrieve Marsha and the offer his parents friend ‘Sam Katz’ had made, and Walter’s response of…

“Four thousand dollars for a fast food place called ‘Old McDonald’s’? Nah, it doesn’t sound like such a good idea to me.”

Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Sixty-Eight Rubbers”