A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Night Crawlers”

Peoria, Illinois

Saturday January 10, 1959

At ‘Central Appliance’ Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky purchased a Harvest Gold ‘Philco’ refrigerator, which they hadn’t expected to buy, along with something they ‘were’ looking forward to buying: a double bed.

Because they still had a four hundred and fifty dollar balance in their ‘Skokie Federal Bank’ account and they were making more money and had far better prospects to earn even more and their rent was far less than they’d been paying…

All bills and rent for this month paid... Feeling confident enough for the immediate future, passing on ‘E-z Credit’, paying for a double mattress, box spring and bed frame and a ‘Harvest Gold’ Philco refrigerator, Marsha Lipensky wrote a check for one hundred and eighty dollars, leaving a balance of two hundred-seventy dollars in the checking account of Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky plus enough cash in her purse to re-stock the kitchen.

“Hugh...” The U-Hall tailor loaded by two Central Appliance wear- house workers, “...earlier you mentioned an ‘A&P’.”

“Yeah...” Mitchell added, “.. and once we’re unloaded, I Want to get rid of this U-Hall.”

“Okay… Mitch, ya-all take a left at the next light…. An’ a right and ya-all’s on ‘Wisconsin’ heading’ home...

“Once we’ve got your stuff unloaded, you all come on back onto Wisconsin an’ take a left an’ a couple’a miles up you’ll see a ‘Sinclair’ station that’ll take the U-hall off your hands, an’ up another half’a mile there’s an’ A&P”

***

In the kitchen: The refrigerator in it’s apparent assigned place between the oven and sink, plugged in and humming.

In a bedroom: The box spring and mattress aligned atop the metal bed frame…

“Our own bedroom!” Marsha said.

“A real bed...”

Mitchell said, wiggling his right eyebrow, which he thought was a funny kind of sexy ‘let’s do it’ thing while his wife thought he looked like ‘Grocho Marx’ and not sexy in the least.

“...you want to break it in?”

“Not now.”

“The ‘A&P’, huh?”

“Only if you want to eat.”

Pretending a deep moan, “Okayyy, let’s wake the kid and do it.”

****

The moving van did not show up until nine thirty and by the time their meagre furnishings were moved into their new home and placed where Marsha wanted them placed, completely exhausted and unbelievably happy to now be the owners of a ‘real’ bed and sleeping in their own ‘real’ bedroom, kissing each other and whispering, “I love you!”, the bed would have to wait for another time to be ‘broken in’,

Sunday January 11, 1959

Daylight filtering through the sides of the pull down window shades. Waking to the sun’s flickering light and the delirious scents of frying bacon and perking coffee that had wafted upward to the second floor and the bed… ‘their’ bed that Mitchell now found himself alone in.

Always enjoying the scent of his wife’s early morning pillow, putting his face onto it and breathing deeply, Mitchell lay a few minutes accumulating himself to the realisation that he was here! That they were here! That his family was together, and they were here in this new home, beginning the first day of their new life.

Making a quick bathroom stop, still in pyjamas. “Morning, babies!” Called as he began down the stairs.

His arms outstretched, “Daddy!” Standing in the playpen that was temporary placed into the dining area of the ‘L’ shaped living room.

“Mikey!” Swinging him from the playpen and onto the floor where he blew flubbering air below the babies chin, causing him to laugh his babies laugh.”

“Hey you two...” Still in her winter pyjamas, in the kitchen with a frying pan held within a pot holder, “...breakfast’s ready, get your blubbery butts in here.”

Hauling his son up, cradling him in two arms and carrying him into the kitchen he sat him into his high chair.

****

Dawning as one of those beautiful winter days when the air is crispy cold and the sky deeply blue with startling white clouds.

Wanting to investigate their new neighbourhood— and once again to thank Hugh Ivy for his help yesterday and to meet ‘Valerie’, his wife.

Constructed by the U.S. Government in conjunction with Caterpillar Tractor Company within the first year of World War Two to house the lower and middle tier income earners in the cities of Peoria and Metamora as the entire Caterpillar produce turned to the war effort. And to this day, managed by and sold through local real estate companies.

Outside, the clusters of ‘U’ shaped two story townhouses went from the Lipensky's corner unit for the full block, and directly across an approximate twenty yard winter stunted grass meridian was the backside mirror image of their ‘U’ shaped clusters.

Throughout both sides can be seen numerous swing sets and sandboxes.

Easily pushing the buggy across a worn path in the meridian, “Well...” Mikey won’t be lonely.”

His hand upon hers atop the buggy handle. “Sure looks like... Wonder where everyone is.”

Michael dressed in winter warm clothing, Marsha and Mitchell in jeans and jackets…

Knocking on the Ivy’s back door…

...An older man walking a small black and white dog in the meridian said, “No one’s home...”sweeping his arm in a semi circle, “...they’re ‘all’ in church!”

Actually ‘in church’ never thought of by either Marsha or Mitchell, however, looking at his wrist watch,“ ‘Eleven’...” Mitchell said, “... thought they’d be home by now.”

“Nah...” holding the straining dog on a tight leash, “...they’re all Baptist here, church don’t end till twelve or so… You new here?”

“Yes. Yesterday afternoon.”

“Good luck here.”

Not offering his hand to shake, the man and dog went on.

Wondering if the words, ‘good luck here’ were stated as an omanis warning or a simply stated greeting.

So then did Marsha, Mitchell and Micheal go on.

Monday, January 12, 1959

While waiting for the ‘Illinois Bell’ telephone man to install their phone, Marsha went through the cartons placing their contents onto and into drawers, shelves and cabinets.

Having gone through all of Transco’s local customer files and taking a number of those that he planned on stopping into and introducing himself to—and hoping for an order or two, kissing his wife and child ‘goodbye’ at eight-forty-five.

Driving to Main Street, Mitchell Lipensky began his first day of work in Peoria, Illinois.

February through March, 1959

As they were earning more money and their rent was less than they had been paying — and because commission checks coming in monthly added an extra hundred—more or less, into their check book, giving Marsha and Mitchell something they hadn’t the money to do before —go out for dinner and/or a movie, when they found a baby-sitter.

However, on a somewhat sour note…

On the night of February seventeen, a bit after Michael fell asleep when the wife had whispered in the husband’s ear: ‘You want to eat my pussy’? Which the husband most certainly did, so whispered back, ‘Do you want to suck my cock’? Which the wife most certainly did…

However, recently adding a new twist to his eating and her sucking...when the mood struck the wife...

“Fuck me! “

Which meant— Mitchell would have to extract his penis from Marsha’s mouth— which he really did ‘not’ want to do, but if ‘that’s’ what Marsha wanted — and take the time to put a ‘rubber’ on, only on that night...

“Uh, oh”!

“ ‘Uh, oh’ what?”

“We’re out of rubbers.”

“ ‘All sixty-eight’?”

“You counted ‘em when you threw ‘em on the floor?”

Silent a moment… “You want to eat my pussy?”

May 23, 1959

“God, that’s awful!”

“Jesus, ‘Pinsky, ain’t’j’ya never hooked a ‘crawler’ afore?”

“No, Hugh! Where I come from we step on ‘em.”

“Aw, look’a this fat ol’ thing.” Holding the thick, four-inch-long, brownish-gray, frantically wiggling worm a few inches from Mitchell’s face— who flinched backward—a moment, then, oozing a muddy, greenish-gray red tinged fluid, impaling it three times on the barbed hook, leaving an inch of its writhing tail (or head) dangling,

Turning from the other two men, Bobby-Joe—yes, ‘really’ — ‘Bobby Joe’ stepped to the river bank and with a flick of his wrist, the pole snapping over his head, the hissing sound of the glistening, barely-seen thread of eight-pound test mono filament fishing line, weighed with hook, worm and sinker, whipped out of the ‘Shakespeare’ reel, snaked through the air and fell with a distant sounding, barely-seen splash into the slightly rippling water of the Illinois River.

“Go on, ‘Pinsky, you can do it!”

“ ‘Yaght’!” Distastefully holding it between his thumb and index finger, poising the point of the hook beneath its underside (or topside) he touched it to the worm that, feeling the point, squirmed all the harder. Now, tightening his fingers on the slimy, squirming thing he closed his eyes, but wisely thinking he’d hook himself rather than the worm, opening his eyes, “’Oy’!” Mitchell forced the hook through.

“Yeah, ‘Pinsky, you’re a fuckin’ hero! Do it again.”

Glancing at Hugh, he poked the hook through again but, off center this time, it tore through the worm’s side. Trying again. Breathing a sigh of relief, finally hooking his worm, Mitchell stepped to the river bank and, his thumb on the reel’s trigger—as he’d practiced on the driveway—his wrist flicked, the pole snapped, but…

“Uh, oh!”

When he had practiced on the driveway there were no overhanging trees.

****

Opening the cooler, “ ‘Pinsky, here!” Tossing him a can of beer, then the ‘church-key’..

Catching one then the other. “Thanks, Hugh.”

Punching into the top of the can with the sharp pointed can opener, a mist of beer sprayed onto the front of his T-shirt but at the moment not much caring what he smelled of, or like.

Also, for the first time enjoying the company of these two men, to say nothing of the feel of the warmth of this late afternoon early spring day and the quiet, buzzing solitude of this plush-lined niche of sandy soil on the edge of the river.

Reclining on the bare ground, his back supported by his elbows, the pole propped at an upward angle by a large rock. Having absolutely nothing better to do than drink his beer—his third beer—and watch for the sharp bobbing of the tip of his pole that would signify a fish had bitten.

However truly not caring if he didn’t catch any fish because, ‘first off’, Mitchell ‘truly’ did not care. Secondly, knowing what he would have to do if he was unlucky enough to catch a fish, or, God forbid, ‘fishes’, even though he had…

…In his very best ‘American Indian Brave’s’ voice, Mitchell Lipensky had proclaimed to Marsha Lipensky: “Me go catch’em dinner!”

However, ‘never’ a fish eater, Marsha Lipensky, in her best ‘Jewish American Wife’s’ voice proclaimed to Mitchell Lipensky: “I ain’t eating ‘nothing’ you catch, unless it’s a cow!” 

But, alas…

“ ‘Pinsky!”

“Huh?” Sitting up, he looked a Bobby-Joe.

“Ya got’ch’ya a bite!”

“Oh, God!” Standing quickly, knocking the can of beer into the dirt and the pole off the rock, fumbling, Mitchell grabbed the pole.

“ ‘Pinsky!” Motioning with a sharp, upward jerking of his wrist “Set the hook!” Hugh called. 

“Yeah!” Doing as told, ‘almost’. Snapping his entire arm backward, seeing a slackening in the line, Mitchell hopefully thought he’d lost it… But suddenly, the pole arching, the clutch in the reel allowing yards of line to play out as the fish ran with the bait.

Ten or twelve feet to his right, “Ya got it!” Bobby-Joe yelled.

Thinking he was asking, “I don’t know!” Mitchell said. Then, “I got it?” he questioned.

“Yeah! Ya got it! Start reelin’ ‘er in!”

Holy shit! He thought, I caught a fish!”

Cranking the lever on the handle, expecting more resistance… One moment the thrashing catfish was seen in the murky-green water and the next was flopping on the sandy soil at water’s edge. “What do I do now?”

“Take out the fuckin’ hook!”

“How?”

“With your teeth, asshole! Use your hands!”

“My hands?”

“Yeah, your hands!” Bobby Joe said. “Use your hands!”

He reached to it... drew back then, holding the fish somewhat immobile by stepping on its tail. Hesitantly reaching to it again…

“Jesus! It bit me!” Mitchell’s palm punctured by a sharp fin, Holding his hand upward, a slight trickle of blood running from his palm..“The fucker bit me!”

Amused by this ‘city boy’s’ ineptness, giggling. “It didn’t bite’j’ya,” Bobby-Joe said informatively. “It prick’d’j’ya.”

“Oh, okay.” Feeling the pain in the palm of his hand. Watching his blood drip onto the soil, wondering, Should I ask ‘em if I ought to get a tetanus shot?

But knowing the ridicule he’d receive if he even mentioned a tetanus shot. Wrapping his hand in his handkerchief...

“So how in the hell am I supposed to do it?”

“God, ya’all Yankees are dumber’n shit!”

Walking over, stepping on it, holding the fish behind its needle-sharp fins with one hand as, grasping the shank of the hook with his other, twisting it he pulled the hook from the underside of the mouth of the 1-1/4–pound fish, then pushing his finger through, holding it through its gill, Bobby-Joe threaded the steel-tipped end of the stringer through the catfish’s mouth and gill.

“Okay, ‘Pinsky!” Weighing the end of the stringer with a large rock, he dropped the fish back into the water where it thrashed weakly.

Motioning to the white carry-out cardboard box containing squirming night crawlers. “Bait your hook!”

Looking at his catch, “That is one ugly fish.”

“Nah,” Hugh said. “It’s ‘a be-U-tiful fish’! But’j’ya need a couple’a more for dinner…

“ Bait your hook!”

Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: A L’il Abner Dinner