Bow Life Goes On #8

San Diego, California

February 28, 1974 —

1:16 p.m. Pacific Standard Time

Goodman had checked that mornings Chicago temperature.

Coming from bitterly cold Chicago, Leonard Goodman thought he would give the Lipensky’s time to adapt to balmy Southern California.

Going a bit out of the way. Driving leisurely Goodman followed the coast towards the city of San Diego.

The Pacific Ocean in open view…

Wind blowing her hair, staring out the open window with her hand atop her husband’s shoulder…

“Mitchie, everything’s so beautiful! I still can’t believe we’re going to live here.”

Knowing they were ‘hooked’ on San Diego, as he drove Leonard Goodman’s thoughts went to the progression of the ‘shit’ houses he planed on showing Marsha and Mitchell, then the two higher priced properties that — having studied the Lipensky’s information packet, considering their known financial perimeters, he would ‘have’ to sell.

“It is, isn’t it! San Diego is one of the prettiest cities in America, that’s

why I stayed after I got discharged.”

Leonard Goodman thought it was helpful in selling real estate if he let it be known that he was a U.S. veteran.

Which he was and it was.

“By the way, if I didn’t say before, I’m ‘Mitch’ and that’s ‘Marcie ‘back there.”

“Thanks, ‘Mitch’.”

“You in the Navy?”

“Nah, I’m a Marine.”

Actually Leonard Goodman was ‘Army’… After they found him and all but dragged him to boot camp.

Truly impressed. “Marines! ‘Really’! You were stationed here?”

“Nah. After ‘Nam’, they shipped me to…” flipping his thumb over his shoulder “...‘Pendleton’... Uh, Camp Pendleton’s, about twenty miles south of here…

“You? Were you in the ‘service’?”

“Yeah, Coast Guard. Stationed in New York. Got discharged in fifty-seven.”

“You in ‘Nam?”

“No. I’d had prior military service in the National Guard during ‘Korea’, but was way under age so got discharged back in nineteen-fifty, so had no reserve time when I got discharged. Besides, when Viet Nam started I had four kids and was too old so never got called up.”

“Yeah, well, you were one of lucky ones, I guess.”

Not particularly proud that he had not served during the ‘Nam’ period — although glad he’d never been called up.

Wanting to change the subject. “So, you’ve spoken to Alice?”

“ ‘Alice’?”

“Our Real Estate lady back home.”

“No, not actually. You got assigned to me through our ‘Referral Relocation Department’.”

Disappointed Leonard hadn’t spoken to Alice. “You do know what we’re looking for, though, don’t you?” Marsha asked.

Glancing over his shoulder, then quickly back to Harbor Drive. “Marcie, yes! Don’t worry, I got all your information and have five homes for you to look at that I think you’ll really like.”

“Possibly with pools?”

‘Pools’ not part of their original information packet.

“Yes, actually three do have pools.”

Three of the five properties Leonard planned on shoring after lunch did have swimming pools. However two of the three fell into his complete ‘shit’ category while the third was listed for about fifteen thousand above than their ‘top line offer.”

Turning on ‘Harbor Island Drive’.

“Here we are.” Pulling in the ‘Tom Ham’s Lighthouse’ parking lot. “This is one of my favorite places.”

“Don’t blame you...” Marsha said, “...what a neat place!”

Parking the Buick, “Yeah…” opening his door, then Marsha’s, “...it’s really beautiful here, isn’t it?”

Perched on a hill on the tip of Harbor Island, the restaurant—

located in an old lighthouse faced the San Diego skyline to the east and the ocean to the west.

Approaching the door. “Do they have ‘pissers’?”

Looking at Marsha as her husband held the door open for her, “ ‘Pissers’?”

Remembering that very day. “Yeah...” Mitchell said, “...Pissers…”

Seagate, New York

December 22, 1955

Having a major brain— top brain induced ‘erectile’ problem throughout the first week of their marriage, and anxious to try ‘anything’.

“ ‘Sheepshead Bay’!”

“What’s Sheepshead Bay?”

“A place for oysters and stuff… And besides it’s really beautiful there!”

“Oysters? Yaght! For you maybe. What do you want oysters for?”

“I like ‘em, and they say they put ‘lead in your pencil’.”

“Lead in your pencil?” She laughed. “What do they mean, ‘lead in your pencil’?”

Kissing Marsha lightly on the mouth. “They’re supposed to make guys… you know, ‘virile’. Like if you’re not horny, oysters are supposed to make you horny.” Kissing her again, this time feeling her tongue on his lips. “You know, put lead in your pencil. Give you… uh, me, a boner, a hard-on… Make me screw like a bunny.”

Extremely frustrated over this, her first week of marriage but doing her best to understand her husband’s problem… Which, of course, she did ‘not’ understand.

Sitting on his lap. “I like that idea.” Taking his hand, holding it to her breast. “Why don’t you try what the old guy said first?”

Always loving the feel of his wife’s breast held within his hand. Sensing a tightening within his crotch.

“What? Oh, take a poop?”

“Yeah! That’s what the old guy said, go poop!”

Squirming a bit. “I don’t gotta. And you know what they say.”

Having some idea what was what was happening beneath her buttocks, wiggling her butt. “No, what do they say?”

Putting his hand beneath her blouse, “If you don’t gotta, you don’t gotta.”

Lifting her left bra cup. “Seems like poopin’s easier than…” Marsha said as her breast popped out “...eating a bunch’a slimy oysters.”

His hand filled with soft, warm flesh. “Sorry, I just don’t gotta.” His erection no longer in the growing state. “And oysters ain’t slimy.”

Taking his head in her hands, kissing him, hard… Becoming serious. “You really think they’ll help?”

Sitting on the closed sofa-bed with Marsha on Mitchell’s lap kissing while his hand fondled a naked breast.

Under different conditions they would not be in a sitting position for very long.

However they had been in ‘positions’ before when he was ‘ready’ but then… suddenly he was no longer ready and by now even afraid to try.

“Umm!” The tip of his index finger making circular motions on a hardened nipple.

“First of all some oysters sure couldn’t hurt.” Kissing again… “And secondly, Sheepshead Bay is on my list of places I want to show you anyway. And if you don’t want to eat oysters…”

“Yeah! I don’t want to eat oysters?”

“Then there’s…” Lifting her blouse, looking at the breast held within his hand, Oh, God! Knowing what he wanted to do, but so afraid to start. “…lots’a other stuff for you to eat.”

Knowing what she wanted to do, but so afraid to start. “And you really think oysters’ll put lead in your pencil?”

“Like I said, they sure couldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure!” Pulling from his hand. Standing and going to the closet. “So, come on!” Taking her coat. “Let’s go!” Throwing him his coat. “What are you waiting for?”

 ***** 

On the fifth day of the Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky marriage, after mutable failed attempts to break ‘their’ virginity barrier, Mitchell and Marsha Lipensky having bundled up in coats, hats and scarves, turned the heater to ‘H’ lowered the top of their ‘52 Ford convertible and drove out of Seagate… through ‘Coney Island’, onto the Shore Parkway going east to Sheepshead Bay to ‘Lundys’.

Across he street from the popular restaurant was a barrier of sea-tossed, granite slabs, Sheepshead Bay and beyond, the Atlantic Ocean.

Now noon. A brilliant winter sun directly overhead. The bay churning with whiteheads as six- to ten-foot waves, braking on the slabs of rock, threw geysers of spray into the air.

“Mitchell...” said reverently “...it’s beautiful here.”

“Yes...” said just as reverently “...now that you’re here.”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

Taking Marsha’s hand he led her across the street to an observation platform above and away from the breaking spray. But still — a fine mist coating their faces, the tang of saltwater could be tasted upon their lips.

“See there?” pointing southwest, to a minute finger of land jutting into the ocean.

Shading her eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun. “I’m not sure.”

“On the very tip…” still pointing “...there.”

Indecisively, “I… think so.”

“At about two o’clock… See it?”

Following the line of his pointing finger… “That, that looks like a skinny pencil standing up?”

“Yeah! You got it! That’s the tower.”

Since that first evening at the ‘J’, when they became reacquainted, Mitchell had spoken of Rockaway Lifeboat Station, Captain Ewing, and ‘that damned tower’!

“That’s it, huh?”

From the moment they became engaged, Marsha had dreamt of being here—in New York—with Mitchell. And now that she was here with Mitchell, looking at the tower. Seeing it across the misty expanse of the tossing ocean, it seemed…? ‘Surreal’—almost as though she was dreaming.

Having no idea Marsha felt a surrealist sensation, as did he being here with her.

“Yeah. That’s where I spent a million hours looking here, wishing I was with someone like you.”

Remembering something he’d said.

“You told me that someday, when we knew each other better,

you’d tell me about you being the only person in the world that’s ever, uh… shit on a bird. Not that I believe it! But if it did happen...” pointing across the bay “… it had to be there. Right?”

Marsha refusing to swear, never swearing,.“ ‘Shit’!” Mitchell questioned, “Did I hear you say ‘shit’?”

“No! I’d never say that!”

“Yeah, you did! Hey...” cupping his hands, yelling to the ocean, “...Marsha Lipensky said a dirty word!” Laughing. “She shed shit!” His baby tongue-twister causing him to laugh even harder.

“Okay! Okay, already!” Poking him in the side with her elbow. “So I said shit. It only goes to show you’re teaching me lots’a really great stuff.”

“Yeah! I knew you could learn, if you ‘really’ tried.”

“Oh, yeah! Don’t forget my ‘damn it’ from the other day.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I did forget.”

“Big deal, you taught me to say another dirty word! So, did you really do it… poop on a bird?”

“Yup...” he said with pretended pride “… I sure did!”

“Oh, yeah, sure you did! I still don’t believe it.”

The wind ruffling the wisps of hair that fell across Mitchell’s forehead; “You’re so cute...” kissing his cold cheek “...I can’t stand you!”

“Yeah...” the wind also ruffling the fuzzy white ball atop her hat “...you, too...” kissing her back “… I can’t stand you, too… Say something else, Marcie. Say ‘fuck’.”

Putting her arms about his neck, kissing him warmly on the mouth… Her lips now an inch from his lips. “ ‘Fuck’.” Whispering into his mouth. “I love you so much, baby, and I just want us to fuck.”

“God, Marcie...” closing his eyes, hugging her, Please, God! thinking a silent prayer “...I will, baby. I promise you, I’ll do ‘anything’ I have to. I will, baby. We will!”

Holding each other. Happy to be in the arms of each other, Marsha and Mitchell stood amidst the symphony of breaking waves, blowing mist and the bright, sparkling day.

“Come on, baby. This air’s making me hungry.”

 *****

“Ummm, Marcie, this clam chowder’s great!” Taking another

spoonful of the thick, chunky, creamy soup then, dipping the spoon in the bowl, holding it in front of her mouth. “Come on, try some!”

A Lundy Hamburger Special on the table before her. “Clams, yaght!” She pursed her lips.

“What are you so worried about? They’re dead, see? They’re even cut into little pieces.” Moving the spoon to beneath her nose. “Come on, just try a little!”

It ‘did’ look good, and it ‘did’ smell good. Conceding. “If I don’t like it…” she said “...you’ll stop nudging me? ‘Promise’?”

“Hey, baby, this stuff’s too good and too expensive to waste. Yeah! If you don’t like it, I’ll stop nudging you. I ‘promise’!”

“Okay, just one spoonful!” Marsha opened her mouth and he carefully tilted the spoon forward.

A thin stream of chowder ran from the corner of her mouth down her chin. Taking a napkin, wiping it away, Mitchell waited for her reaction.

“Waiter...” stopping the young man as he was passing the table “...can I have a bowl of this stuff, please.”

******

She watched a thick puff of steam rise from the deep bowl as Mitchell lifted the napkin, reached under, picked one out, detached it from its shell and — holding a small, gray object by what appeared to be a tail, swished it through a bowl of clear broth, into another bowl of drawn butter then, closing his eyes in gastronomical ecstasy, put it in his mouth, bit through the attached end of the tail, chewed, and, “Aw, God!” he said. “I can feel the lead pumping into the old pencil already.” Reaching beneath the napkin, taking another ‘steamer’, repeating the process: in the broth to remove all trace of sand, then into the drawn butter and, “Here...” holding it by the tail “...try one… Just ‘one’!”

“Are you crazy? ‘No’!” She said emphatically “No! No! No!”

“Okay.” Biting through the tail, dropping it into a bowl. “Ummm...” chewing the steamed clam “...boy, is this ever ‘good’!”

Lifting the stein, drinking some of the foamy, dark beer. “Marcie, come on! I told you you’d like the chowder, and you did, didn’t you?”

“No, I hated it!”

“Don’t bullshit me. Yes, you did! … Say ‘bullshit’.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Okay, then, it’s your loss.” But selecting another clam, swishing and dipping, holding it forward. “Go on, take it!”

Shaking her head. “I’ll gag...”

“No you won’t.” Eating it. “See?” As though speaking to a child. “Yum, yum! It’s sooo goood! Just one, Marcie! Try just one.”

“Okay. But if I puke, you’re the one that’ll have to clean it!”

“Yeah, okay, if you puke, I’ll clean it.”

“You lie!”

“No!” Crossing his heart, “If you puke, I’ll clean it!”

“Bullshit!” Marsha said. “Crossing hearts don’t work on Jews.”

“ ‘Bullshit’?” He smiled, “You said bullshit … ‘So’?”

“You are such a nudnik… Okay.”

“Okay!” Reaching beneath the napkin. Selecting a plump clam. Swishing very well then dunking it in the melted butter and, holding it by the tail…

Looking at it a moment. Closing her eyes, opening her mouth Mitchell laid it upon her tongue.

Biting through the tail, chewing…

“Mmmm! Hey, these oysters ain’t too bad! Matter’a’fact...” reaching beneath the napkin, taking another “...they’re pretty good! Guess we’ll both have lead in our pencils, huh? Or does it just work on men?”

“First off, these aren’t oysters…” taking one also “...they’re clams, and they’re called ‘steamers’. And secondly, yeah, it works on women, too, but instead of giving them lead in their pencils; ‘cause women don’t have pencils, they take away pimples and gives ‘em clear complexions.”

“That’s what you said sex was supposed to do.”

“Yeah, that does it, too.” Smiling, “So does eating ‘pissers’.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, these are called that, too.” Holding one up, “See this thing I’m holding?”

“Pissers? Yes,” she said, nodding her head feebly.

“Well, this is its pisser.”

“No! That’s not what it is! … ‘Really’?”

“Yeah, ‘really’! When one of these things is buried in sand and you step on it, or a bird tries to dig it out, it squirts… ‘pisses’ water, and that’s why they’re called pissers. Marcie…” again speaking as if to a child “...can you say pisser?”

“Kockie, doodie.”

Laughing. “Come on, little girl. You can say ‘pisser’.”

“Nope!” Taking a clam, swishing, dunking and eating. “A ‘bullshit’ and a ‘fuck’ are enough for one day.

“Waiter,” Mitchell called, “a dozen blue points, please.”

“ ‘Blue points?’”

“Oysters… I’m not sure if clams are supposed to do the same thing as oysters. But to be on the safe sideI think I better have some of them, too. And seeing as you like ‘em so much...” sliding the bowl to Marsha “...you can finish these… And don’t worry, I ‘promise’ I’m not going to offer you any oysters.”

“Thank you so much!” she said sarcastically.

“Maybe we’ll come back next week and I’ll show you how to eat oysters, too.”

“Nooo, thank you!”

San Diego, California

February 28, 1974

1:47 p.m. Pacific Standard Time

Perched on a high hill on the tip of Harbor Island, the restaurant, located in an old lighthouse, faced the San Diego skyline to the north, the ocean to the south and west and lavender colored mountains to the east.

Approaching the door. “Hi. Lenny!” An extremely pretty Mexican lady held it open.

“ ‘Afternoon, Anna. Got some people here from Chicago that are starving for some San Diego seafood.”

“Standing aside… “That we sure have!”

Speaking to Marsha — motioning about the large, completely glassed circular dining room. “You want ocean or mountains?” Anna asked politely.

Glancing at her husband, who shrugged his shoulders as though to say, ‘your choice’.

“Ocean, please.”

Another, equally as pretty Mexican waitress bringing menses, “Good afternoon…” nodding to Lenny “….same for you?”

“Yes.”

Writing ‘JWBR’ on her pad. Turning to Marsha and Mitchell.

“I would ‘love’ a Harvey Wall-banger!”

“Good choice…” writing ‘HW’ on the pad “...we make a ‘great’ Wall-bangers!”

“Me…” Mitchell said “… ‘Beefeater’ and Tonic.”

Waiting for their drinks.

Gazing at the beauty out the window for a long moment, then studding the menu. “I know what I want!”

“What’s that, baby?”

“I’m ‘dying’ for a cup of that creamy clam chowder and a bowl of ‘pissers’.”

Next BOW Life goes on #9

A past review regarding my ‘retrospective’ (flashback) chapters...