A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Work & Retrospective Fifteen”

“Okay...” Sheldon said dubiously. “Tell you what; today’s Thursday and you’ll only get paid for one day this week, but we’re pouring concrete tomorrow...” nodding his head over his shoulder, “...and I was going to pull some men off another job anyway...” feeling a little guilty about starting his nephew off that way, but, “...so if you want to start tomorrow…”

“Yeah, sure! That’s ‘great’! What time do you want me here?’

“Seven. And when you get here look up ‘Tony Esposito’. And, Mitch…

“Yeah, Uncle Shel?”

“Better get yourself a good pair of work gloves.”

April 24,1958

On this day, Mitchell quit his job at Walter Lewis Studio.

________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

April 25 through July 3, 1958

Arriving at the Mozart Avenue work site at 6:40 AM., approaching the group of men sitting along the curb drinking coffee out of paper cups, “Hi!” he said to the first man he made eye contact with. “Tony Esposito around?”

Not much older than Mitchell, the scruffy young man wearing oil and cement splattered blue jeans and a like decorated sleeveless sweatshirt answered, “Yeah...” jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the ‘City of Chicago’s’ newest parking facility. “...Esposito’s in there, someplace.”

“Thanks.” Mitchell walked to the edge of the cavernous, steel beam skeleton then into its maw by means of a rickety, uneven roadway made of paint and cement slopped 2x12 wooden planks that had been laim—by the most direct means, over a crisscross undergrowth of circular one-half-inch steel reinforcement bars and around a forest of vertical 4x8 plywood cement form encased steel I-beams to the far southern corner of the two story, public parking facility.

“Hi! Tony Esposito around?”

“Yeah.” A middle aged, dark haired, deeply tanned man with a light growth of white stubble on his chin, wearing spotlessly clean chino slacks and matching shirt looked away from the two men he’d been instructing. “I’m Esposito. What can I… Oh, yeah!” Tony looked at him a moment, then back at the other two. “Okay. The two’a you know what to do! ‘You’...” motioning to Mitchell, “come with me.” Going a number of steps over the plank roadway out of earshot of the other men. “Hi,” holding his hand forward, “I’m Tony.”

Shaking the offered hand, “I’m Mitch Lipensky. Good to know you.”

“Yeah?” Smiling wickedly. “Maybe ya won’t think so after today…

“Shelly tol’ me you was gonna be here an’ I shouldn’t do you or him no favors ‘bout the work, an’ I ain’t gonna. But bein’ as you’re new at this an’ it’ll cost me more in time an’ slopped concrete, I’m gonna give ya one’a the smaller ‘barrows… You got gloves?”

Reaching into his back pocket, “Yeah,” he produced a new pair of leather work gloves.

“Good, you’re gonna need ‘em… Oh, by the way, Shelly tol’ me most likely you’re only temporary an’, if I can, to kind’a keep you out’a sight when the union reps come by. So when I tell you, you go disappear. Get yourself coffee or somethin’ for twenty, twenty-five minutes, till they take off. Okay?”

“How’ll I know when they go?”

“Them pricks always drive dirty blue Chevys.”

****

In the nether-world between labour and management, Tony Esposito, the foreman of this crew, had been ‘Shop Steward’ for so long and had been so well liked that the membership had neither voted him out of the position nor found anyone they would rather have.

Originally working as a ‘Carpenter Journeyman’ under Morris Barrish—Sheldon’s father—although at different levels, Tony, along with Sheldon, had worked himself up through the ranks of Costello Construction and the two men had formed a long and lasting friendship.

At times Sheldon would give Tony and his men concessions that might normally take negotiation and compromise. This improved the loyalty and moral of the men, thus giving Costello Construction a higher quality of work from the Esposito crew.

And Tony at times would do small favours for Sheldon—like hiding his nephew from union representatives that would occasionally come on site to check for, and on the validity of union membership cards that were held by those of the work force.

****

“Hey, Tony!” one of the guys called. “Concrete’s here!”

“Okay, you guys!” Tony yelled through cupped hands. “Get on it! Let’s hustle!” He looked at Mitchell. “Move your ass!”

 ****

Standing behind and beneath, the downward angled rotating steel drum looked—by Mitchell’s perspective, as large as a house and sounded as though—rather than the thick, black grease he saw—sand had been tossed onto the cogs that turned it. The rumble that emitted from within the rotating drum had the sound of…? liquid thunder.

The sluice opened and a gray glacier of chunky glop sledged down the shoot into his smaller… smaller? wheelbarrow. When the concrete hit, the three cubic feet of splashing semi liquid rocked the steel carrier almost jerking the two wooden handles out of his hands. Tightening his fists about the handles, straining the muscles of his back, arms and legs, “uhhhh,” lifting the rear of the wheelbarrow, stepping off the side of the plank that was beneath the concrete shoot, “uhhhh,” pivoting the wheel to the right, “uhhhh,” pushing, he began the long, “oh, shit!” journey from the ‘Portland Concrete’ truck at the curb outside, into the cavernous steel beam skeleton of Chicago’s newest parking facility, and over a quarter block of springy, bouncy, uneven planking as all the while he attempted to keep up with the man before him and away from the lip of the wheelbarrow of the man behind him.

With each step the 350 pounds of sloshing weight, along with the weight of the smaller… smaller? wheelbarrow did all it could to yank the handles from his hands, and the continuous compensating strain on first one wrist then the other felt as though the multitude of small and large bones of his hands, wrists, arms and shoulders were being pulled from their joints.

Near the end of the plank path, the last number of steps were taken at a trot in order to give the men pushing the larger, two wheel wheelbarrows and his—okay, yeah—smaller one wheel wheelbarrow enough momentum so when they reached the end of the plank roadway the man could lift the rear of the wheelbarrow projecting the—in Mitchell’s case only—350 pounds of concrete out and over the steel reinforcement bars where the concrete crew, in high rubber boots stood within the widening sea of concrete spreading, evening and smoothing what within minutes began the solidifying process that would eventually become the lower deck of the parking facility.

He made one trip. Then another, then that Portland Concrete truck was empty and gone but, “Ohhh, fuck!” there were four other grinding, rotating steel drum trucks idling along the curb.

Having spent almost four years in the U. S. Coast Guard, Mitchell Lipensky had thought chipping paint, scrapping paint and repainting was hard work. But this work was work beyond all comprehension of what he’d ever thought of as work.

By the end of the first coffee break of this first day he could hardly lift himself off the curb. And, “Thank God!” by the end of the day he felt as though he’d died and gone to hell.

Skokie,Illinois

April 26, 1958

On this morning awaking, forcing himself from a lying position, “ ‘Oy, Gevalt’!” to a sitting position, Mitchell Lipensky hurt from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. He was sore from every follicle of hair on his head to every follicle of hair on his toes. Hell, he thought, even my eyelashes hurt.

Forcing himself from a sitting position, “ ‘Oy, Gevalt’!” to a standing position he had no doubt the creaking of his stiffened joints could be heard from across the room. Hell, he thought again, they can probably hear ’em creak downstairs.

As painful as he felt on this morning, though, he did know that coming home—to the home of his parents—yesterday evening he’d taken a shower and for the very first time in his life fallen into bed without eating… And that he had slept throughout the entire night without waking to think of his wife and son. Also, with a feeling of accomplishment that he had gotten through the entire first day of his new career as a shlepper. And, he thought, by shlepping all that damned concrete yesterday—thank God today’s Saturday—by Monday it’ll make everything else… ‘anything’ else they want me to do seem a hell of a lot easier.

A minute later, “ ‘Oy’!” bending over the sink, “ ‘Oy’!” washing his face and brushing his teeth became a major source of pain.

“Oh, God!” And walking—well, actually shuffling into the kitchen—he laboriously lowered himself onto a chair.

“You want juice?”

“Yeah, Mom, thanks.” Feeling he needed both hands to hold the juice glass, his trembling hands reached outward with his fingers splayed open.

“My God! ‘Everything’ hurts!”

Not showing too much sympathy. “You wanted this!” Pouring a cup of coffee and placing it before him, Myra added, “I didn’t raise my son to do ‘shvartzer’ work!”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay, Mom, this’ll be good for me. At least you and dad don’t have to worry about paying me anymore.”

“Well, my son, I just want you to remember that quitting the studio was ‘your’ idea, not your father’s or mine!”

The mother neglected to add what the son desperately wanted to hear: ‘Mitchie, Dad and I are sorry to see you go and we’ll miss you’.

Unable to bend his fingers— both due to stiffness and the six band-aids he’d wrapped around five of his ten fingers this morning…

Holding the mug between the palms of both hands. Sighing. Sipping the hot coffee, “Yeah, I know, Mom.”

****

On Thursday, when he had told his father that he was quitting the studio and going to work for Sheldon, after a quiet moment, Walter had simply said, ‘Okay, that may be for the best’.

Mitchell had, and did feel bad that the results of his efforts— that did bring a small number of accounts to Walter Lewis Stdio were so poorly received that his father would just let him go without even a ‘preteens’ of remorse, and even as badly as he felt on this day, the pain that hurt the most was the thought that not even his parents wanted him.

Chicago, Illinois

April 28, 1958

Monday Mitchell Lipensky shlepped concrete again.

It was not ‘a hell of a lot easier’.

Lakeside Michigan

April 28, 1958

After doing her best to keep the memories down for three days, Marsha Lipensky wheeled her baby along the outer edge of the Old Road.

Hidden in a hazy grey-blue sky, the warm mid-day sun did not afford Marsha the company of even her own shadow.

Trees and the undergrowth showed their brilliant spring growth while cottages and boarding hotels stared outward with their blind windows still boarded against the rigours of the recently past winter.

With the exception of an occasional car that sped by trailing dust devils, the road was deserted.

Pushing the buggy before her, memories inundated Marsha’s mind and the unbelievable fact that she was walking this old road— the ‘Old Road’ of her memory, with ‘her’ baby evoked an incredibly nostalgic poignant mood.

Her voice cracking with the stress of emotion. “Oh, Mikey...” she said softly to the sleeping baby, “...you can’t begin to know the times I’ve walked this old road.”

The memory of her childhood…

The memory of the times of this wonderful place along with the faces of her best friends…

The memories…

Wisps of the remembrance of friends that she thought had long since past her memory that had once populated those wonderfully ‘happy’ and terribly ‘sad; times of her life seemed to walk beside her.

Marsha Lipensky’s throat tightened and tears for those long gone, good and bad times of her childhood stung her eyes.

Walking the two miles from Lakeside to Union Pier, coming nearer, averting her eyes. Hesitating she tried not to see it…

But compelled Marsha’s gaze was drawn to the structure on the other side of the road.

Because the eye of a childhood memory so often saw a thing on a much larger and grander scale than the eye of the adult, Marsha found it hard to believe that the—at least in her memory—once prestigious ‘Lakeside Hotel’ now looked so small and so shabby.

Fearing the additional memories this place would bring, hesitating again, looking away, drawn again, compelled…

Marsha pushed the buggy across the Old Road and remembering, stood in the ‘exact’ place they had stood on that night.

The windows boarded over. The lawn overgrown with grass. Weeds choked the once white painted, now peeling grey rocks that bordered the denuded flower beds. No longer white-washed, a number of rails having fallen from their slots, a few sections leaning forward, a few backward, Marsha stood next to the split rail fence, where they had stood on that night, and…

“ ‘Oh, God’!” Marsha Lipensky remembered.

Marsha Goldman Lipensky remembered that night as though it were now.

Retrospective fifteen

Union Pier/Lakeside Michigan

August 3, 1949

Walking on the soft shoulder of the Old Road—within the lulls of their conversation the only sounds they heard were those of the steady buzz of cicadas and their own gravely footsteps.

Every few minutes headlights from an approaching car wavered in the distance casting long and short shadows as it traversed the dips in the road, the light becoming stronger and brighter until it fully lit the road before them for the seconds it took the car to pass.

“Here’s where I live.”

Stopping, they could see through the screened porch and open doorway.

A little boy sat at the table eating. Reading a book, a woman was reclining on the wicker sofa.

Sounding strange. “That your mother?” Marsha asked quietly.

Catching a hint of sadness in her voice. “Yeah...” looking at her, “...and the kid, that’s my brother Larry… Your mother, uh…” Not quite sure how to ask, “...she’s okay, isn’t she? She’s not…”

“Oh, ‘no’!” Understanding his concern. “My mother’s okay. She’s just…” her voice trailing off.

Sensing she wanted to change the subject, “You got any brothers or sisters, besides, uh…?”

“Roger. No, only him, and…” she said softly, under her breath as though speaking to herself, “...I think he’s all there was ever supposed to be.”

The girl sounded so sad that— without thinking as they turned from the cottage the boy took hold of her hand.

Having met slightly less than three hours earlier, other than the few seconds it took about an hour after they’d met over the ‘Captain Kidd’ pinball machine, when Marsha and her girlfriend Shelly had momentarily taken the boys by their hands and led Mitchell and his friend Norman out of the Palladium, then over to the bowling alley where they’d met Marsha’s surely brother, this was the first time the two had really touched and...

The feel of their hands warmed her as much as him and although ‘he’ seemingly held her hand, Marsha, also, imperceptibly—because he was not aware of it—held his hand.

As headlights approached from behind and their shadows became visible and lengthened, they would move further onto the soft shoulder till the car sped by, then angle back to the asphalt lip of the road.

Enjoying the warm touch of each other’s hand, neither spoke.

Approaching the stately Lakeside Hotel, by unspoken mutual consent they stopped at the whitewashed split rail fence to look and to listen.

Tiny, winking lights, looking like a million flickering fireflies had been woven through the limbs and around the trunks of the old oak trees that lined both sides of the long hotel driveway.

Dance music played by a live band on the screened hotel patio wafted over the fairyland like grounds.

The scent of pine from the towering trees mingled with the sweet odour of blooming lilac bushes.

Looking at her, “Marsha…” feeling as though his heart had missed a beat, Mitchell tentatively put his arm across her shoulders and, his breath catching in his throat, the words came without thought, “...you’re so beautiful!”

Sincerely, innocently spoken, Mitchell’s words registered in Marsha Goldman’s heart and moving closer into the hollow of his shoulder, both faces turned inward and the brushing, light touch of their lips generated a mental shock that passed from each to the other. Parting a moment, their lips touched again, warmly, devoid of passion yet lovingly as both felt the thrill of this first kiss as it transversesd body and soul…

As though on cue, their eyes opened and in the semi-darkness each looked wondrously at the flickering fireflies reflected within the dark pools of the eyes of the other.

Bewildered by the emotion that this, her first real kiss had brought about, forcing her lips from his. “God, Mitchie...” catching her breath, “...we just met! We don’t even know each other!”

Confused, “Yes...” positive she could hear his wildly thumping heart, “...I guess it’s the music and lights and all,” he said, while all the while wanting— more than anything to kiss her again.

However unaware of the depth of her desire to be kissed again, hesitating, unsure of what to do, he reluctantly moved his arm from about her shoulders. Then again taking her hand into his, they turned from the overwhelming beauty of this place and this time and began to walk again.

Until…

“What school do you go to?” Thinking she was at least fourteen, but ‘surely’ no older than fifteen. “You a freshie?”

“Uh, no...” she answered reluctantly, “...I’m not a freshie.”

Hoping Marsha was a little younger than himself. “You’re not going into your second year, too, are you?”

“Well…” knowing she had to tell him, “...Mitchie...” hoping it would not make a difference, “...I’m still, uh, in grammar school.”

“Huh?” He looked at her. “Marcie, how ‘old’ are you?”

Hesitating, “Uh, twelve. ‘Bu’t...” she added hopefully, “...I am going to be thirteen in just two months!”

Although Mitchell Lipensky would not be fifteen for another nineteen days, he considered himself as fifteen, and even if Marsha Goldman was only two months from her thirteenth birthday, that still made her ‘only’ twelve years old.

As people grow older the difference between their ages shrink; if one is fifty, two years, five years, or even ten years is not that great a difference. But the difference between fifteen and thirteen—‘almost’ fifteen, and ‘almost’ thirteen—at least in Mitchell Lipensky’s mind was the difference between a man and a child.

Dropping her hand. “You’re ‘only’ twelve years old?”

“No, I am not ‘only’ twelve years old!” Marsha snapped back. “I am ‘almost’ thirteen!”

“Yeah! And that still makes you twelve! ‘Jesus’! They sure grow girls big where you come from! What in the hell do they feed you?”

“Chopped liver and motzie!” She poked him in the chest. “The same stuff they feed you, you big jerk! Look...” she said angrily, “...I live close by here and you ‘don’t’ have to walk this baby home!”

“No, Marcie, it’s okay. I don’t mind walking the rest of the way.”

“Well I do and I ‘don’t’ want you to!” Turning, she ran up the road.

Shelly and Norman well ahead. “Tell Norman I’ll wait for him here!” he called to the rapidly disappearing figure.

“Drop dead, you big jerk!”

April 28, 1958

The images seared into their hearts, though it took six years to find each other again…

Their love was born, and…

‘Mitchie’!

Marsha remembered.

“Oh, God, Mitchie!”

 Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Hey, Lippy”