BECOMING

BECOMING
by Mark Lichterman
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BECOMING Copyright 2008 by Mark Lichterman ISBN 978-0-646-49216-2

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. PUBLISHED BY METROPOLIS INK email: support@metropolisink.com This free and unabridged version of "Becoming" is exclusive to Manybooks.net, and may not be posted on any other web site, nor may it be republished in any format or resold. For further information, and to purchase the paperback version (730 pages, $24.95), go to www.kaleink.com -----------

BECOMING
Prologue Chicago, Illinois Spring, 1939 The lady and boy stood at the curb. Watching the stoplight across the wide, busy street, the lady looked forward, waiting for the light to turn to green. The five-year-old boy at her side looked to his left, watching the light across the smaller street, waiting for it to turn to red. The lights changed colors: from red to green, from green to red. Automobiles stopped on either side of the wide street. From the little boy's perspective, looking much like a red monster, its steel wheels squealing in steel tracks, a streetcar halted its rattling forward motion and seemed to be straining to begin moving again. Tightening her grip on the boy's hand, the woman and child started across the wide street. On the other side of the street a man carefully stepped off the curb to begin his journey in the opposite direction.

BECOMING Scraggly gray hair hung over his agesplotched forehead and he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane that he held tightly in his gnarled hand.

Crossing paths, the fogcast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the little boy and held for the seconds it took to pass. Passing, the little boy turned his head, watching the old man. Tripping on the curb, he hung by his mother's hand until she pulled him up onto the sidewalk and his own two feet. "Mommy, what's wrong with that man?" "What man?" Turning, the woman looked at the slowly receding figure. "Oh. Nothing, baby, he's just an old man." Watching another moment, "Will daddy be an old man someday?". "Why yes, baby. I hope so." "And will you be old someday, too, Mommy?" "Yes, Mitchie. God willing. Unless something bad happens, I'll be an old lady someday." "And me too, Mommy, I'll be old, too?" "Yes, baby, someday." His throat tightening, his eyes stinging, the boy began to cry. "What's wrong, honey?" Reaching into her purse, removing a handkerchief, she wiped away his tears. "I don't want to be old, Mommy!" Stooping, "Shhh," hugging her son to her chest, "don't worry, Mitchie. You've a whole lifetime 'till you'll be an old man." Standing, taking hold of her son's hand, the two began to walk again. The boy looked over his shoulder at him one last time, but the old man had disappeared from sight. 1 The Lone Ranger and the Mountain Rescue Winter, 1940 His sisser was big. Mitchell burrowed under the downfilled blanket. He lay at that extremely comfortable place where he was not quite awake and yet not quite asleep. When he lifted his head from beneath the warmth, he felt cold air on his sleepflushed face. His eyes opened, then closed again.

BECOMING He had to make sissy bad, but he liked it then because then his sisser got big and it got hard and he liked it then because when he held it, it felt so nice. So warm! So comfortable! So nice! Lying snug and warm, holding himself, he knew he should get out of bed and make sissy but it felt so nice. His eyes opened then closed again. He is by the toilet, looking down, aiming at the circle of water. Now! His full bladder loosened... "No!" Awakened with a start, realizing where he was. I'm in bed! he thought. I almost made siss in bed! And though he did not want to leave the warmth, he knew, Gotta go, that if he didn't get up then, right then, he'd have an accident, and Mitchell knew he was too big and too old to have an accident.

Cold air replacing the warm blanket, lowering his feet over the side of the bed, he shuffled them about the floor in a futile effort to find his house slippers that were so carelessly kicked off the evening before. Can't wait no more! Forcing his bare feet onto the frigid floor, holding his still-rigid penis that had poked through the fly of his pajamas, remembering not to run, he hurried from the bedroom, through the kitchen and hallway, and into the bathroom. A muted square of gray light came from the air-well window and, far from enough to see by, he reached to turn the light on, but remembering how the light hurt his eyes at night, changed his mind. Standing in front of the toilet, aiming down, not noticing that the toilet seat was down, Uh-oh, his stream of urine hit the ring and splattered over his feet onto the floor. Correcting his aim, he heard the reassuring sound of water tinkling into the water. Shivering, Mitchell stood with wet feet for what seemed a long time, until his bladder was empty and his penis had shrunken back to its little boy's nub. Giving himself one final shake, he flushed the toilet, then, taking his father's towel off the bar on the door, wiped his feet, the toilet seat and the floor, then refolded the towel and put it back on the bar. As heat from the coalfed furnace in the basement four stories below began to rise, the cold, castiron radiator rattled as it expanded, and as the apartment began to heat, the slight hiss of escaping steam could be heard coming from the radiator's safety valve. Back in the warmth of his bed, listening to the sounds of winter, Mitchell closed his eyes. Suddenly remembering, bolting up, he rushed to the window and lifted the shade, but the window was covered with a thick, uneven coating of milky white frost. Holding his mouth an inch from the frozen glass, feeling the radiating cold, he exhaled his warm breath onto the opaque surface. A dimesized spot melted; a nickel, a quarter, a halfdollar. He looked through the clear, transparent circle and took a sharp intake of breath. "Snow!" The wind had blown high drifts against the building across the alley and, even as he looked, his peephole became speckled with melting white flakes. "Oh, boy!" he said aloud, thinking, Today's Saturday! Ain't no school today and I got all day to play in the snow! Oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-boy! Standing barefooted on the cold floor, the soles of his feet began to feel as though they were burning. Reluctantly turning from the window, forgetting the Kaplins. Forgetting, as most usual, his parent's constant admonishments about running across the floor... About, "Mitchell!" his mother would always say, "You're making those poor people downstairs crazy!"--especially at 5:45 a.m. Running back to bed, he made a full forward leap, landing head first on the pillow then pulled the blanket to his chin. By angling his body, he was able to see the spot on the window, but condensation had already caused a thin membrane of frost to coat it.

BECOMING The boy's eyes closed. The gray shadows on the ceiling and walls begin to lighten.

His eyes opened. Remembering, he was back at the window. The spot had frosted over and steam from the radiator had caused a formation of an additional thickness of ice. Putting his hand flush against the window, wincing at the burning sensation as the pads of his fingers and the soft flesh of his palm absorbed the cold, the boy melted a handshaped opening and looked through the palmprint. Everything was covered with snow! Mitchell's world, as much of his world as he could see, was clean and white. Heavy flakes of snow were still falling, and there was a three-inch-high drift of snow on the window ledge. Unable to contain his excitement a moment longer... Below, on the second floor, sleeping in the largest of three bedrooms, the middle bedroom, waking with the rapid thudding of the boy's feet, Mrs. Kaplin glanced at the ceiling, muttered, "Momzer!" [bastard] and pulled the pillow over her head. Mitchell ran from his bedroom at the rear of the apartment, past the back door, past his parent's proudest possession--an electric refrigerator. He ran through the kitchen, past the pantry, through the hall, past the airwell, middle bedroom, and toilet, through the dining room, past the front door, and through the front room to the smallest of the three bedrooms, the current--by decree of Walter Lipensky--bedroom of his parents. The bedroom that was, because Walter liked to sleep, the farthest away from the early morning noise of the "god-damned janitor!" The bedroom that was the farthest away from the noise of the hub of his home: the kitchen. And last but not least, as far away as possible from the noise of his six-year-old son. Standing just outside the open door, speaking softly, "Mame." Whispering, so he thought. "It snowed last night an' it's still snowin' now an' I wanna go outside! Mame! Wake up, Mame!" Lifting her head from the pillow, looking at the Baby Ben alarm clock on the dresser through halfopen eyes. "Mitchell, it's not even seven," Myra Lipensky whispered. "It's too early! Go back to bed!" "Mommy, I went back to bed before, an' I can't sleep no more, an' I wanna go outside. Please, Mommy, get up!" "Mitchell, shhh! You'll wake your father!" The boy looked at the back of his father's head. A sound sleeper, facing the wall with the blanket pulled to his ears, settling lower on the pillow, "What time's it," Walter muttered. Mitchell waited a few moments, then, hearing nothing else from his father, whispered, "But, Mommy, I can't sleep no more." Sighing, "Okay, Mitchie. I might just as well get up." Slipping from under the blanket, Myra pulled the flannel nightgown down from around her hips and buttocks. Standing, she ran her fingers through her hair, stretched, sat on the bed and, reaching down, started to put her house slippers on. Feeling the motion of the bed, turning from the wall, Walter looked at his wife's back, then at his son. "Mitchell, didn't you hear your mother?" Glancing at the clock, "It's not even seven!" he said angrily. Walter

BECOMING Lipensky had been awoken, and if there was one thing that always made Walter angry, it was being awoken when he didn't have to be awake. "Myra, it's too early! Come back to bed!" "No, it's okay, Walt. You know once I'm up, I'm up. You go back to sleep. I'll fix him some breakfast and get him dressed. I'll be back after he's outside."

"You ought to send him back to bed, Myra. You really spoil that kid!" Fluffing his pillow, Walter turned back to the wall. "You really do, you know." Myra Lipensky was a tall, beautiful, heavyset woman in her latetwenties. She had straight, dark brown hair that came to a widow's peak, gray eyes, a straight nose and a small mouth. Her son's face was definitely a combination of both his parents, and his hair, widow's peak, and mouth were noticeable contributions of his mother's. Myra had gained a considerable amount of weight during her pregnancy because her doctor believed that women were better off, during a pregnancy, if they added weight and Myra had been told, within limits, to eat what she wanted, and, "Of course it's okay to drink malted milk!" Myra's favorite drink was malted milk, the thick, solid kind that supported the weight of a spoon. Prone to easy weight gain normally, Myra had always watched her diet--more or less, but she did take the doctor at his word, and six years later was still unable to shed a good part of the weight that she'd gained during her pregnancy. An extremely handsome man, Walter Lipensky had dark brown eyes and straight black hair. Six feet tall, dark complected and solidly built, though intelligent, Walter was frustrated because working as a salesman at his father's manufacturing company he had no outlet for his creative energy. A confirmed bachelor, Walter was twentyseven when he and Myra first met. Although he'd thought himself too set in his ways to ever marry, Walter and Myra fell in love and, within four months of their first meeting, married. First-generation Americans, the roots of both families went to Russia, but that was where the similarity ended. Myra's father, Morris, was a carpenter, whereas Walter's mother and father were both scholars. Walter was obstinate and opinionated, and this frequently led to bitter, extremely vocal arguments between him and his wife. In addition, though he did love his wife and son, Walter had trouble showing affection; consequently, Myra's family, while they did like Walter, felt he was unaffectionate and distant. Mitchell had a round face, a button of a nose, large green eyes and long lashes. He was a beautiful child and people would often stop his mother as she would wheel the buggy, and as he grew older, when they would walk together, "Shayner punnum!" [beautiful face] they would say, pinching a cheek or ruffling his hair. Large for his age, Mitchell had unlimited energy and would rarely sit still for more than a few seconds at a time, and he never walked when he could run, which had converted the downstairs neighbors into constantly complaining enemies. "Mitchell, walk! Stop running!" his mother would shout as he'd jump off a chair in the kitchen or the bed in his bedroom and run across the linoleum-covered floor of the kitchen and hallway and out the back door, slamming it shut behind him. "You're driving the poor Kaplins crazy! Stop running!" Bang! Bang! Bang! would come the sharp sound of a broomstick pounding the ceiling of the apartment below. "It's a wonder she hasn't poked that damned stick through the floor by now. Please, Mitchell," his mother would implore, "stop running!"

BECOMING When they would pass each other in the hall, or outside, or at Abe's Delicatessen or Sam's Grocery, Mrs. Lipensky, out of guilt, would always smile at Mrs. Kaplin and say, "Hello, Mrs. Kaplin. So, how's by you? Mr. Kaplin, he's feeling okay?" "Hurrumph!" would come the icy reply, and Mrs. Kaplin would turn her back on Mrs. Lipensky and stalk away. Now, in all truth, Mrs. Lipensky really did feel bad that these innocent downstairs neighbors had to be subjected to the merciless pounding of her son's feet across the carpetless floors of the kitchen, hall and two back bedrooms, But, she thought, Jesus! Can't they see I'm doing everything in my power to make him stop? Can't they see that? What the hell am I supposed to do with the kid? Lock him in a closet? Chain him to a bed? Whenever the embarrassment of Mrs. Kaplin's snubs became too much, things begin to fall. A bed frame dropped with a thud. A chair fell with a clatter. "My God, that twelve-quart pot just jumped out of my hands! Can you imagine that?" Mrs. Lipensky would say as, Bang, Bang, Bang, would come the pounding of the broomstick on the ceiling below. Occasionally, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, Mrs. Lipensky would imagine the Kaplin's pockmarked ceiling. When deserved, Myra would spank her son. Walter had never spanked the boy, but Mitchell was somewhat afraid of his father and would try, whenever possible, to stay out of his way. "Hi, Joe!" Squatting, looking through the lower portion of one of the kitchen windows where the heat of the radiator had melted the frost, Mitchell knocked on the glass and waved to the janitor, who glanced up, but because of the snow was running more than an hour behind schedule, although, even if he were on time, Joe would ignore the boy's greeting, just as he did then. In this neighborhood, garbage was usually collected at a predawn hour, which was why the back bedroom, though it might be larger than the front bedroom, usually housed the kids rather than their parents. Those unfortunate enough to sleep in the rear bedrooms were awakened seven days a week, summer and winter, by the garbage collection ritual when the janitor--who was also the plumber, painter, gardener and electrician, whom for some reason usually seemed to be of German descent, which may have accounted for the general neatness of the buildings--clumped up the stairs in heavysoled work shoes. In winter, if it had snowed, the sound of a metal shovel scraping snow off the stairs preceded the ritual. Then Joe or Karl, Heinz or Fritz, would tramp up the stairs with a huge, steel collection can slung across his back. The can would be dropped onto the porch with a thud and the smaller can would be slammed into the larger can with a resounding, offkey, cymbal-like clang that would jar even the soundest sleeper out of the soundest sleep.

Janitors, so it would seem, were given the contractual right, so the tenants thought, to make whatever noise was needed to be sure that if they were awake everyone should be awake, and no amount of pleading with Joe or Karl, Heinz or Fritz, or the unseen god-like landlord would lessen the din. With bad, though, often comes some good, and few rear bedroom tenants were ever late for work or school, and in future years "Reveille" would literally be as music to their ears in comparison to the noise made by the collision of the garbage can into the collection can. Coming from the bathroom, Myra looked out the window, too. "Yup! It sure snowed all right. What'd you want for breakfast, Kiddo?" Thinking a moment, "Oatmeal." "With warm honey?"

BECOMING "Yup!" "Okay. Go get washed and brush your teeth, and put your long-johns on, okay?" "Okay." He began to run, but catching him by the seat of his pajamas, "Mitchell," she said sternly, waving a finger in front of his face, "walk! Don't run! It's much too early to wake the Kaplins! Do you understand me?" Nodding, walking on tiptoes, Mitchell looked at his mother over his shoulder. "That's a boy." Myra put her finger to her pursed lips. "Shhh!" The boy loved both parents, but felt closer to his mother. All of his life, sometimes hiding in his bed or the closet, he'd listened to the arguments of his parents through closed doors and, in all instances, though he had no idea why they argued, Mitchell always mentally sided with his mother.

Deciding to try to "make," wearing only his long underwear, by the time he returned to the kitchen there was a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, and a steaming bowl of oatmeal with warm honey puddling the circumference of the bowl with a chunk of melting butter in a depression in the middle. Anxious to be outside, dropping onto the chair, lifting a spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth he stuffed it in, then pursing his lips he drew air inward to cool the heat of the molten oatmeal. "Mitchell, slow down! The snow's not going anywhere!" His mouth stuffed full of oatmeal, a thin line of it dribbled down his chin as, swallowing with a loud gulp, he took two more spoonfuls then pushed away from the table. "Oh no, young man! You just sit there and finish eating!" "Aw, gee whiz!" Smiling at his serious expression, "Don't you go geewhizzing me, young man! You finish your breakfast!" * "Mitchell," squirming, as she'd help him dress, "stand still!" A flannel shirt buttoned to the neck was stuffed between the long underwear and a pair of corduroy pants. Two pair of heavy woolen socks were pulled over the cuffs of the corduroys. Leggings, a sweater, shoes, galoshes with four metal buckles, a wool scarf, his coat, an Ace cap pulled over his ears and woolen gloves on his hands... "Uhoh... Mommy." Uh-oh? With apprehension, "Yes, Mitchell?" "Mommy, I gotta make." "You've got to make! Now? What do you have to make, Mitchell?" "Poopie. I made before but gotta again." Like a movie running in reverse: off came the gloves, hat, coat, scarf, sweater, so the leggings could be

BECOMING

lowered. Off came the shirt, so he could unbutton and lower the long underwear. Down came the leggings and corduroy pants that bunched up over the galoshes. "Okay, Mitchell," Myra sighed. "Go make poopie." Taking small, shuffling steps, dragging the leggings and pants, the boy went from the kitchen to the bathroom. Unbuttoning the underwear, dropping it too his knees, sitting on the toilet, he put his chin into his cupped hands and, turning red in the face, strained... but nothing happened. He lifted and buttoned the underwear, pulled the pants and leggings up and went back to his mother, whose patience was beginning to wear just a little thin. "Come on, Mitchell, let's get you dressed and out of here." Outside, at last! The snow had all but stopped falling, but even there on the porch it was up to the second buckle of his galoshes. Standing a minute, breathing deeply, filling his lungs with crisp, clean air, he watched as the vapor of his breath dissipated in the air. Steel runners bumping from step to step, dragging his Flexible Flyer behind him by the piece of laundryline that had been slung through the handle, he carefully, slowly, made his way down the stairs that Joe had shoveled earlier but hadn't time yet to spread furnace cinders over. More blowing snow had fallen onto the steps and, hampered by the bulk of his clothing, holding the banister with his right hand and the rope of the sled, held near the handle with his left, Mitchell struggled down the three flights of stairs. Finally, downstairs, Joe had shoveled a path from the steps to the entry of the wooden fence that separated the yard from the alley. The mounds were too much to resist. Dropping the sled, taking a running start, throwing his body onto a fluffy embankment, Mitchell rolled over the top and down the other side. Standing, covered in snow, he flung himself over the mound again, onto the shoveled sidewalk, bringing a small avalanche with him then did it again. "Hey, you! Lipensky!" Joe yelled at the boy from the basement substructure. "Shtop vit der shnow! Get the hell out vitch you! I han't shovlin' shnow from der sidevalk hall day so you kin get it full vit der shnow hagin! Get hout! Go play in der halley!" To a janitor, snow, after all, only meant three times the work, and being shorttempered anyway, Joe didn't look at the wet, heavy stuff through the eyes of a six-year-old child. "Okay, Joe!" Taking the sled, he trudged kittycorner through the unshoveled portion of the yard, out the gate and into the alley. Trucks, cars, and the horsedrawn wagons of peddlers traveling the streets and alleys made compacted furrows that, with melting and refreezing, become hard as concrete and slick as... well, ice, and vehicles were often forced to travel in unwanted directions as their wheels become captive in the deep ruts. By this time a few trucks had driven the T-shaped alley compacting the snow into twin strips on either side of the ridge. Holding the sled against his chest, Mitchell stepped onto and into the soft ridge. As he began to run, he could hear the sounds of his breathing and, as it rubbed between his well-clothed thighs, the swishing of the smooth fabric of his leggings. Taking nine or ten longs strides, he flung himself onto one of the slick strips. Momentum took the sled twenty or thirty feet. At the "T" section of the alley he was able to steer out of the rut and, aiming towards a garbage can, he waited till the last second, then rolled off letting the sled crash into the can. Standing, brushing snow from his coat, reclaiming the sled, about to repeat the feat going in the opposite

BECOMING direction with the fence as his target but, "Hi, Nick!" stopped because Nick and Erma had entered the alley.

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"Hi, Mitchie!" Nick yelled from the high seat of the wagon. "Whoa, Erma!" Thick plumes of vapor streaming from her wide nostrils, the horse stopped on command, lifted her tail, and with a "fart" that he could hear, though Mitchell was about fifteen yards away, Erma deposited a huge plop of steaming manure onto the clean, white snow. So much for sledding in that direction. "'AY, BEANS! FRESH LIMA BEANS!" Sun or snow, peddlers traveled the alleys. "CARROTS! APPLES! FIVE CENTS A POUND! BANANAS! 'AY, BEANS, FRESH PEAS!" "Nickey! Youwhooo! Nickey!" Turning, trying to locate the distant voice, spotting her, "Oh, no!" Waving at, answering... "Mrs. Lefkin!" the lady that lived at the far end of the third floor in Mitchell's L-shaped building. "What can I bring for you today, Mrs. Lefkin?" "Nickey, if you vould be so kind," calling through cupped hands, "bring for me von bunch carrots, von pound hepples." "Madonn!" Nick said to himself, looking across the snow-covered yard and up the three flights of slippery stairs. Shrugging his shoulders, glancing at Mitchell, he climbed off the wagon, went to the rear, shook open a brown paper bag, took three Jonathan apples from a bushel basket, weighed them on the Toledo scale that hung from a hook at the rear of the wagon, put them in the bag and picked a bunch of carrots out of a crate, as all the while he looked for another customer, hoping he wouldn't have to make the arduous journey for only fifteen cents. "FRESH FRUIT! VEGETABLES! PEAS!" But no one else called so, pulling his cap down and his collar up, the peddler started his trek. Watching from the window, waiting till her son had started down the stairs, thinking, That should keep him busy for a while, Myra went into the bathroom, turned the water on, and, while waiting for it to get hot, brushed her teeth. Steaming water coming from the spigot, she'd adjusted the mix, disrobed, put her shower cap on, stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain closed... Turning the water off, she'd wiped herself, then the fogged mirror... Through brushing her hair, she had taken a bottle of toilet water from the medicine cabinet, poured a generous amount into her hand and rubbed it over her chest and under her breasts. Putting the robe on, thinking, Just in case, returning to the kitchen, Myra locked the door. Exactly as she had left him, Walter still slept facing the wall with his right arm under the pillow. Taking her robe off, slipping beneath the blanket, spoon fashion, she cuddled against her husband. "Walt..." No response. "Walt!" Hearing her, feeling the warmth of her body, he put his hand on her smooth, damp hip and arching his backside, stretching his arm, Walter caressed the fleshy cheek of his wife's left buttock. "Hi, honey. Guess what?" Whispering in his ear, reaching over his hip, slipping her hand through the fly of his pajamas, holding her husband's flaccid penis. "We're alone."

BECOMING Fully awake. Oh, yeah! Walter's penis was... Oh, no. It was no longer flaccid, and... "Mommy!" Mitchell didn't know why the door was locked and, pounding on it, "Oh, Maaame!" "...Oh, shit!" "Sorry, Walt." Coming off the bed, slipping her arms into the robe, "I'll just see what he wants and be right back." Smiling at her husband, "You're not going to go anyplace now, are you?" "Myra," throwing the blanket back, "where would I go?" Walter exposed his turgid penis. "Mitchell," clutching the robe closed, "what do you want?" "I called you from downstairs and you didn't come. Can I go out front and play?" "Yes!" Relieved he doesn't have to "make" again, "But don't go on the street! You stay in the "block"! You hear me?" The block was his world. This gave him his entire world to explore. "Yes, Mommy."

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The block is absolutely square. It is bounded on the north by busy Ogden Avenue with its silver tracks and clanging streetcars, on the south by Nineteenth Street, the east by Christiana Avenue, and the west by Homan Avenue. The block is sliced in half by an east/west alley that runs from Homan to Christiana, and the southern half is halved again by yet another short alley coming off Nineteenth Street, that ended at the high, wood fence of the boy's large, concrete covered back yard. Slamming the door shut, Myra rushed back to the bedroom. His head propped against the headboard, lying on her side of the bed, Walter was smoking a cigarette. Taking a deep, final drag, he offered it to her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Myra took a light draw and handed the cigarette back. Snubbing it out in the ashtray on her nightstand, patting the bed, he moved to the side, making room for her. Pulling the blanket back, Myra saw that he'd taken his pajama bottoms off, and that he was "attentively" waiting for her. Shrugging out of the robe, not overly proud of the appearance of her nude body, she crawled under the blanket quickly. Kissing deeply, lying to the side and above her, Walter's hand on Myra's breast, and Myra's hand... exactly where he wanted it. * Snowplows clearing streets after a snowstorm make high drifts along the curb, sometimes burying cars under tons of snow. Standing at the intersection of Homan and the alley, the boy looked in both directions, and what he saw, for as far as he could see, broken only by streets and alleys, was one long mountain range of snow. Oh, boy-o-boy, he thought, I'm gonna play The Lone Ranger! Shoving the plateglass door open... Cuddling closer yet, his hand moved from the softness of his wife's breast to the warm moisture of her vagina, and as their lips met again, moving fully atop her body, positioning himself between her thighs, as Walter was about to...

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His son pushed the button under the mailbox marked Lipensky, waited a moment, pushed the button again, holding it this time as he counted: One, two, three, then ran up the five steps, pulled the inner door open and waited for his mother to... "Mitchell," she yelled from three stories up, "is that you?" Not knowing why she sounded so angry, "Yes, Mommy." he answered timidly. Calming herself, restraining herself, "Mitchell." Fighting for control, "Uh, honey, what do, uh, what do you want?" "Mommy, I wanna play Lone Ranger. Can you put my gun 'n' holster in a bag an' throw 'em out the window?" Adding, "Please!" "Yes, Mitchell," speaking with exaggerated patience, "I'll go get them. Where are they?" "In my toy box, Mommy." Upstairs, the door on the south side of the landing slammed shut. Running outside, he climbed to the top of the plowed snowdrift opposite their living room window and looked up. Passing the bathroom, she heard the sound of running water behind the closed door. In the back bedroom, Myra rummaged in Mitchell's toy box till she found his Roy Rogers cap pistol and holster, and, just to be on the safe side, put a new roll of caps in the gun. Going into the pantry, she got a brown paper bag, put the gun and holster inside, crinkled the bag for insulation, then put that bag into another bag. Back in the living room, she tried to pull the window open, but it was frozen shut, so she hit the frame with the palm of her hand. "Damnit!" bruising her palm. Straining, she pulled upward on both handles... Giving suddenly, the window banged upward, toppling a six-inch high drift of snow that had blown onto the windowsill, onto her bare legs and into her house slippers. "Mitchell," leaning out the window, losing all vestige of selfcontrol, "here's your damned gun!" The boy watched as the bag sailed down, landing safely in a cushion of snow. "Now leave me alone!" Slamming the window shut, she sat on the windowsill, breathing deeply, trying to regain the composure she had just lost. Coming from the bathroom nude, Walter was smoking a cigarette. Looking at her husband, smiling dementedly, reaching down, removing a slipper, holding it up for him to seen, Myra then upended it, spilling water and a bit of snow onto the carpet. "Where the hell'd that come from?" "Oh, I got bored waiting for you to come out of the toilet and thought I'd play in the snow awhile." Not knowing where the slush had come from, or how it got into her slipper, but more than just a smidgen anxious to get back to his previous position, shrugging his shoulders, Walter asked, "Uh, you still want to..." jerking his thumb in the direction of the bedroom.

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"Do I still want to make love?" Bouncing the tip of her forefinger up and down over her blowing lips, making a kind of "flubbering" sound, taking her robe off, dancing in a circle, swinging it madly over her head, "Do I want to make love, the man asks!" Her selfconscious modesty having kept him from seeing his wife's fully nude body very often over the past few years, watching Myra's bouncing breasts and jiggling buttocks, Walter thoroughly appreciated what he saw and his body responded. Stopping, she watched the upward progression of his penis. "Yes, Walter, I do still want to make love." "Me, too, baby," he said, excitedly. "Me, too!" "Yeah, so I see! But you'd better hurry, Walter," turning, running into the bedroom, diving onto the bed, "before the kid finds a phone and calls us." Mitchell opened the bag, took the silverplated, fifty-shot cap pistol, holster and belt out and tried to strap the belt around his waist, but due to the bulk of his clothing was barely able to fasten the belt on its last hole. "Okay, you..." looking about to see if there were any adults within hearing, "bastard, bad guys. This is the Looone Ranger!" He scrambled up a tall snow peak, where from the higher elevation he could see for miles. "Steady, big fella!" Patting "the great white stallion, Silver." "They've got Tonto an' we gotta git'em back! You wait here, big fella, an' I'll be back in a couple'a days to get'j'ya." Pulling the pistol from its holster, he looked at the cylinder to be sure it was loaded. "Yup! All loaded all right. Okay, big fella. I hates to leave ya, but I'll be back!" With a determined look on his masked, squarejawed face, the Lone Ranger slammed the pistol in the holster then ran up one mountain and down another. He scrambled over a buried car and, standing on the mountaintop, shaded his eyes from the glaring sun of this dull gray, overcast day. "I see's 'em! There they go! Gotta git 'em if I wanna save my faithful Indian companion, Tonto!" The mountains were steep and treacherous, and the Lone Ranger slipped, slid, and crawled, but eventually made it the quarter block to the corner. "Hummm," scratching his steel-hard chin, "I'm'a thinkin' ah better mosey in here for some vittles." Sliding down a dangerous, precipitous cliff, the Lone Ranger, with spurs a'jingling, strode into Abe's Delicatessen. Marlene, Abe's five-year-old daughter, was sitting at a parfait table sipping at a cup of hot chocolate with a big puff of whipped cream floating on top. The snowcovered boy walked to the counter, leaving tracks of slush where he stepped. "Abe, my mommy said that if I want I can come here an' get some candy an' that you should put it on the bill an' that she'll pay you later." "Mitchie," looking down at the boy from over the counter, "are you sure your mother said that you can have candy this early?" Mitchell knew how to get what he wanted from adults, sometimes. Looking up at Abe from below the counter, he opened his big, green eyes in wideeyed innocence. After all, would the Lone Ranger ever lie?

BECOMING "Abe, I wouldn't lie to you." "I know, Mitchie." Abe, always a soft touch for the kids in the neighborhood, looked at this beautiful, wideeyed, redcheeked little boy and, raising his eyes skyward, shrugging his shoulders, opening his hands palms up, "So, nu, Mitchie, take what you want."

14

Studying the selection of penny candy on the rack, taking his time, Mitchell choose three boxes of Snaps, a white- and red-coated tubular licorice that when cold snaps when bitten; and also two packages of Mary Janes, a chewy caramel with peanutbutter filling that comes three to a package. Going to the counter he held his hands open so Abe could see what he'd taken. "Okay, Mitchie, tell your mother she owes me a nickel." "What'ch'ya doin', Mitchie?" Marlene had a chocolate mustache and a dab of whipped cream on the tip of her nose. "They've taken Tonto, an' I gotta git'em back!" "Can I play with you?" That's silly, Mitchell thought. Would the Lone Ranger ever play with a girl? "No!" Looking at Marlene through steely, squinted eyes. "It's too dangerous to bring women along!" Turning his back on the "barmaid," the Lone Ranger strutted through the swinging barroom doors, into the heat of the desert. Struggling up a mountain, he looked at his box of Snaps/compass to find the proper bearing. Shading his eyes from the glaring sun, "There they are," spotting them in the distance, "an' they're draggin' Tonto behind one'a the horses." Cupping his hands to his mouth, "Hold on, Tonto, I'm'a'comin'!" But before starting, opening the box of Snaps, he upturned the entire contents into his mouth, relishing, as he chewed, the sharp taste of the licorice, then, leaning forward and turning his head just as he'd seen Gabby Hayes do it in a Roy Rogers movie--or was it a Gene Autry movie--he spit/dribbled a stream of tobaccy-licorice juice into the snow... and onto his scarf. "Let's go!" he yelled, and once again began the dangerous, arduous trek to save his faithful Indian companion, Tonto. Sliding on his stomach to the bottom of the hill, the Lone Ranger had worked his way to the middle of the block. Rolling over, lying on his back, he looked up. "Whew! The heat! Need water," he gasped. "Ah gotta have water! Water," he croaked. It's Sam's Grocery. "Ah better be stoppin' for more vittles." Going into Sam's Grocery, trailing sloppy puddles on the worn, linoleum floor, the Lone Ranger strode to the counter. Sam was filling a bag for a customer as Rachel, his wife, cut paperthin slices of lox from the side of a large, red, smoked fish that lay on a marble slab just to the right of the cash register. Sam and Rachel took people at face value and, until proven wrong, would keep a running bill for customers in good standing until payday when the bill would be paid in full. The register dinged and, giving the customer her change, Sam handed the bag across the counter. "Hi'ya, Mitchie," the grocer said. "Out enjoying the snow today?"

BECOMING

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"Yes, Sam." Pulling his snow-crusted gloves and cap off, Mitchell slapped them against his thigh in order to break off the particles of snow that clung to the wool fibers. "Sam, my mommy says it's okay if I get some candy and that you should put it on the bill." Finished slicing the lox, "Mitchie," Rachel put the mound onto a piece of waxed paper and placed it on the scale, "are you sure your mama said it's okay for you to have candy so early?" Eyes widening, Mitchell looked from Rachel to Sam. "Yes." "So, okay," Sam said. "Little boys need to have candy for energy. Go, Mitchie, go take what you want." "Sam, can I have a piece of halvah, please?" "Tell you what I'm going to do," handing him a chunk of the oily, sweet, drytasting Turkish confection that had broken off the threepound block that sat on a smaller marble slab to the left of the scale, "My present to you, Mitchie. We won't even charge for it." "Thank you, Sam." Taking the candy, he went to the door. Eating it slowly, he stood looking out, absently watching the swirling snow and people plodding through drifts and digging through mounds to uncover sidewalks and buried cars. "Mitchie, why don't you go back outside and play?" Walking back to the counter, "Rachel..." Sighing, "Yes, Mitchie?" "Can I have a drink of water?" "Yes, Mitchie. You know where it is." Going to the rear of the store, he parted the curtain and, passing the storage area, went into the small bathroom. Taking the jelly glass from the sink, he filled it to overflowing, took a sip, then spilled the rest down the drain. Looking at the toilet, Mitchell considered whether or not he had to make, but the thought of taking his coat off and lowering his leggings seemed like such a monumental task that he decided, Maybe I don't gotta make. "Thanks, you guys," he yelled at Sam and Rachel as he ran through the store and out the door, leaving it ajar. Outside, putting his hat back on, he opened and upended another box of Snaps, then pulled his gloves on. Back on the trail, the Lone Ranger stopped just long enough to spit another stream of tobaccy/licorice juice into the snow... and onto his scarf. Does the Lone Ranger chew tobaccy? Mitchell wondered, and if he did, Would he ever spit? Trailing the bad guys and his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the Lone Ranger followed the mountain range to the corner of Ogden and Christiana where the mountains veered to the south. Climbing and slipping he made his way to the halfway point, to where the longer alley bisected the block, when a snowball whizzed past his ear and splattered on the side of a slowly moving car. The driver, who was concentrating on driving this barely navigable street, glanced to his right, then quickly brought his attention back to the snowrutted street before him.

BECOMING "Hey, Mitch! What'ch'ya doin'" "Hey, Normie! Playin' Lone Ranger. Wanna play?"

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Norman Parminter and Mitchell had been friends since the Lipenskys moved into the apartment slightly more than three years ago. The Parminter apartment was diagonally across from the Lipenskys' and their back porches overlooked each other's yards. "Yeah! But you be the bad guy for a change!" "No! I'm the Lone Ranger, an' you're the bad guy, an' you've got Tonto an' I'm comin' to save him from you." "How's come I gotta always be the bad guy?" "Just 'cause I'm the good guy an' you're the bad guy." Considering a moment, "Okay," Norman said, "if I'm the bad guy then I get to do lots'a really bad, sneaky stuff, okay?" "Yeah, sure. That's what I said; you're the bad guy!" "Okay. Then I'm gonna hide, an' you gotta come an' find me." "Yeah, an' Tonto, too." "Yeah, an' Tonto, too! Where's Silver?" "Guess I left him tied up outside'a Abe's. Come on, go on! Hide somewhere an' I'll come an' find'ja." "Yeah, okay!" Norman ran through the long and short alleys to a hiding place somewhere on the Nineteenth Street mountain range. Waiting a minute, the Lone Ranger again began the arduous task of saving his faithful Indian companion, Tonto. But first, removing his gloves, he unwrapped one of the Mary Janes. Making his way to the Christiana and Nineteenth Street mountain range, turning westerly, he spotted an exceptionally high drift. Not knowing if the bad guy had seen him and was waiting someplace in ambush, crawling stealthily on his stomach, the Lone Ranger headed to the summit. Once there, still on his stomach, searching for the bad guy, shading his eyes from its blinding glare, the Lone Ranger squinted into that somber day's blazing sun. Unable to see him, he slithered from the high summit to the edge of the alley/valley. Having no cover, thinking it best to do it quickly, the Lone Ranger sprinted/slipped the fifteen feet to the range of mountains on the other side of the alley/valley, then, "Well," speaking loudly, in a deep, masculine voice, "he ain't no place to be seen! Guess ah better draw the varmint-bastard's fire!" Standing, the Lone Ranger pulled his trusty Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys, sixshooter from its holster. "I'm'a gonna git'j'ya," he yelled as he fired into the air, but, pftt, pftt, pftt, wet, the caps fizzled. The Lone Ranger looked at his trusty Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys, sixshooter a moment, then, "Pow! Pow!" Pointing the pistol in the air, "Pow! Pow!" As he fired verbally, a snowball thrown from some unseen place hit the Lone Ranger on the shoulder, followed by another and another hitting him on the chest and forehead. "Where are ya?" the Lone Ranger shouted. "Ya dirty varmint!" But he couldn't see the bad guy, and, "Ain't no fair, Normie!" Mitchell yelled. "The Lone Ranger's supposed to win!" Turning in a circle, he looked for him, but Norman could be anyplace and he couldn't see him...

BECOMING

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Suddenly there was the sound of rapid, snow-scrunching footprints, but before he could locate the direction they were coming from, the leaping body of the bad guy caught the Lone Ranger around the neck and dragged him off the mountain, into the soft snow where the two rolled and thrashed until each was able to break out of the grasp of the other and, standing with fists poised, they circled each other menacingly. The Lone Ranger threw a haymaker that caught the bad guy on the side of his upturned collar. The bad guy flew back in an exaggerated motion and fell on the ground. The Lone Ranger threw himself on top of the bad guy and the two wallowed in the snow, punching and grunting till, sitting on the bad guy's chest, the Lone Ranger yelled, "You dirty bastard bad guy! Where's my faithful Indian companion, Tonto?" As he yelled, a stream of saliva drooled from the Lone Ranger's mouth onto the forehead of the bad guy and Mitchell began to laugh. "Hey," easily pushing Mitchell of his chest, the positions were quickly reversed. "The Lone Ranger ain't supposed to go 'round spittin' on other guy's faces." Picking up a handful of snow, Norman let it sift through his fingers onto Mitchell's face. Twisting his head from side to side, Mitchell was laughing so hard he hadn't the strength to shove Norman off his chest, but within a few moments, infected by the contagious laughter, Norman, holding his side, gasping for air, fell off, and the two friends lay in the snowy gutter laughing until tears run down their cold, flushed cheeks. Sitting up, catching his breath, "Hey," Norman knew Mitchell, and he knew his friend was seldom without something to eat, "does the Lone Ranger got any stuff to eat?" "Yeah." Digging through his coat pocket, he came up with the last, sodden box of Snaps, and the two loose Mary Janes. "Hey, Normie, maybe it ain't too late for Let's Pretend. You wanna come to my house an' listen to the radio?" "Think your ma'll make toasted cheese sandwiches?" Norman loved Myra Lipensky's toasted cheese sandwiches. "Yeah, sure. I'm starved!" Standing, putting their arms about each other's shoulders, the two cut through the short alley. At the start of the trek, Mitchell had put his sled in the basement, now, dragged by the rope, it bounced up the steps behind the boys. "Hey," Norman asked, "what about Tonto 'n Silver?" "Ehh, we'll get 'em later." "Or tomorrow." "Yeah. Or tomorrow." 2 Chicago, Illinois Spring, 1940

BECOMING

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"Ice!" Cruising the street slowly, leaving a trail of dripping water the width of the openbed Diamond T truck, leaning through the window, the iceman called, "Iceman! Ice!" A second floor window slammed open, "Iceman!" and a head poked through. "Fifty pounds, here!" "Aye, Ma'am!" Turning into the alley, the iceman parked alongside the building, leaving a portion of the truck bed overhanging the bisecting sidewalk. Going to the rear, he uncovered a canvas-covered block of ice and, stabbing it twice with an ice pick, separating, by his near-perfect reckoning, a square, fiftypound chunk. Holding the ice by steel tongs, hefting it up onto his leather-covered shoulder, the iceman began his journey into the building and up the stairs. A half block away, content with the slow pace and their own thoughts, a little boy and an old lady walked hand in hand. Seeing the iceman enter the building, releasing the old lady's hand, the boy ran to the truck and, standing on tiptoes, grabbed hold of two shards of ice, then hurrying back to his grandmother, "here, Bubby," handed her the smaller piece. "Thank you, mein kind." [Thank you, my child.] Quickening their pace so as to avoid the iceman if he should happen to return as they passed, Jennie Barrish leaned forward so the melting ice did not drip on the front of her sweater. The boy, though, had no such worry and, as he licked the sliver of crystal-clear ice, water ran down the underside of his arm onto the front of his polo shirt. The late afternoon sun was filtered by the large leaves of overhanging catalpa trees, making shadows of lacelike patterns on the sidewalk below. Above, enticingly just out of reach, long, slender, cigarlike pods hung in green clusters as translucent, doublewinged seeds spiraled gently down, falling on soil, sidewalk, and street. The six-foot-wide sidewalk ran parallel to the brick buildings, butting to their very foundations. The far side of the walk ended at an eight-foot-wide strip of black, recently-seeded soil. A green, painted, fourteen-inch-high pipe fence bordered the soil and sidewalk and ran straight, block after block, broken only by alleys and streets. The low fence was the protective barrier between the sidewalk and soil, guarding the barely-seen tendrils of newly-sprouted rye grass. "Bubby, why do they put these fences here?" Lost in her own thoughts, shrugging her thin shoulders, saying what she usually said when asked another of her grandson's incessant questions, "I don't know, mein kind." Releasing her hand, he skipped to the fence, jumped up and, with outstretched arms, took four or five rapid, tottering steps before losing his balance and, with both arms flailing the air, fell off. "Bubby, anyone can step over it and anything can crawl under it, so why's it here?" Looking at him, "Mitchella," she said, "I don't know." Running ahead, stopping at the corner, sitting on the fence he watched his grandmother as she slowly approached. Holding the fence with his hands to either side of his body, the boy leaned backward until the back of his head rested on the warm, sweetsmelling soil. Reaching to the side, Mitchell picked up two of the doublewinged seeds. Pulling himself back to a sitting position, he flicked one of the seeds with a twisting motion of his wrist, sending it spiraling onto a thicker, more visible patch of the thin, spring grass.

BECOMING When she reached the corner, holding the second seed in the palm of his outstretched hand, "Bubby," he asked, "why's these things got wings," To herself, just under her breath, "oy, vayizmir!" [An omnibus phrase for everything from personal pain to emphatic condolences] To the boy, "Mitchell, I don't know why those things got wings!" Catching the tone of irritability in his grandmother's voice, the boy's smile turned downward. Seeing his crestfallen look, quickly attempting to make amends, "So, okay. So it's not so bad to ask questions!" Lifting his face, his smile returned. "Nu, Mitchella, if you don't ask questions, how will you learn?" Standing, he again took her warm, frail hand into his. Looking in both directions with exaggerated care for the benefit of the boy, as they started across the street, she tightened her grip on his hand. "Bubby!" Sighing, "Yes, Mitchella?" "Bubby, I want a collie." Looking down at him, "Kalleh?" she said, snickering into the linen handkerchief she held in her hand. "You want a kalleh?" He looked at her quizzically. "Bubby, mommy said..." "Mitchella, you're too young for a kalleh! Little boys like you don't need a kalleh!" "But, Bubby, mommy says if I'm a real good boy, maybe she'll get me one." "Oy, mein kind, wait! Wait! You've many, many years till you'll need a kalleh!"

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The two continued their walk on this peaceful May day: she, walking in her old lady's shuffle, and the little boy--step on a crack, break your mother's back--not wanting to break his mother's back, paced his strides so as not to step on the cracks in the sidewalk. The boy and his parents lived in an L-shaped, yellow brick building. The large, three-bedroom, corner apartment ran parallel to the alley overlooking Homan Avenue to the west and the backyard and alley to the east and south where the porch had a commanding view of the entire inner block, which proved to be of great advantage to the boy because his porch was the coveted lookout post for cops'n'robbers, cowboys'n'Indians, and soldiers. The four-foot-high banister on the two open sides of the porch had been built up with twobyfours by the boy's father, adding another foot of height for safety. Although this porch was gated and private, the porch next door was not and the people in the apartments to either side had to cross it whenever the back stairway was used. Entering his domain, Mitchell and the old lady crossed Christiana Avenue. Reaching the short alley on Nineteenth Street, they turned to the right in order to enter the building from the rear.

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Dropping his grandmother's hand, running ahead, the boy ran through the alley, through the fence and into the cracked, concrete yard. "Hi, Marlene," he called to the little girl, her of the hot chocolate and whipped-cream dabbed nose, playing in a sandbox under the last angle of stairs--then, revving his engine, "Charrrooom! Rooom! Varrrooom," he raced up all three flights of stairs and was on his porch watching his grandmother through the wooden slats as she'd entered the yard. "Mitchell!" He looked at his mother over his shoulder. Standing behind the screen door, her face was partially hidden by a wad of cotton that had been sewn into the screen to scare flies away. "You go back downstairs and help ma," she scolded. "Don't let that old lady climb all those stairs by herself." Running out the gate and down the stairs, "All right, Mommy." Reaching the steps, Jennie put her hand onto the banister, looked up and, "oy, vay," [oh, pain] muttered to herself in preparation for the long climb to the home of her daughter. "Bubby!" The old lady looked up. "Mommy says I should help you!" He put his arm around his grandmother's waist and, indeed, she did let him carry some of her weight, but Mitchell didn't care because he felt he was doing something important by helping an adult and was glad that it was his bubby that he was able to help. With one arm across her grandson's shoulder, "Thank you, mein kind," Jennie gasped, as, "oyoyoy!" [pain, lots of pain!] she laboriously pulled herself up the banister with her other hand. Her thin, totally gray hair coming in wisps from under her babushka, [scarf] at age sixty-three, Jennie Barrish looked years older. In summer or winter, Jennie always wore a babushka, and she always carried a small linen handkerchief crumpled tightly in her hand that she dabbed at her nose every few moments. Jennie had the usual ailments for a woman of her age, but she seemed to thrive on illness, and complained of "not feeling so well" so often that her family no longer knew whether she was ill or not. Jennie's parents had migrated from Russia while she was a child and, learning English at a young age, had left her with only the slightest accent, and this because her parents had spoken only Russian or Yiddish. As Jennie grew older her English seemed to regress and she spoke more and more Yiddish. Jennie was the mother of four children. Jerry, the eldest, had graduated from Herzel City College with a degree in accounting. Sheldon still attended Herzel, where he was studying to be an engineer. Beatrice and Myra, her two daughters, were housewives. Bea was the eldest of the girls, being born two years after Sheldon and three years before Myra. The two made their way up the stairs, stopping often for the old lady to catch her breath. "Come on, Bubby," the boy coaxed, "we're almost there. It's only a few more stairs." Making a supreme effort, Jennie pulled herself up the remaining steps, opened the gate to the porch, and finally came to rest on her daughter's swing. "Oy, vay." Fanning herself with her handkerchief, "Myra, why can't you live on the first floor like your sister?"

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"Ma, I'm sorry, but you know Walter doesn't want to hear someone schlepping around over our heads, like, God forbid, we should live under a family with a Mitchell," thinking of the Kaplins. "Also, who could afford such a big place like this on the first floor? Besides, the stairs are good exercise." "Good for you, maybe, but for me they're not so good." "Ma, you live on the second floor." "I know, but my stairs aren't so hard as your stairs." "I'm sorry, Ma. So, you want some pop?" "Sure," fanning her face again. "You want I should sit here and die of thirst?" She began to rise. "Ma, sit, stay!" Myra put her hand on her mother's shoulder. "I'll be back in a minute and sit with you." "Mitchie, you want some pop, too?" Sitting on the swing, next to his grandmother, "Yeah," he said. Returning with two glasses of orange soda, one full and one half full, Myra handed the full glass to her mother and the other to her son. Taking the glass, "Mommy," Mitchell asked, "can I go downstairs and play with Marlene?" "Okay. Drink your pop first, but it's almost dinner time, so stay in the yard!" "Okay!" Mitchell gulped the soda down, handed the glass to his mother, bounded off the swing, and ran across the porch. "Hey, Marlene," he shouted as he tramped down the stairs, "I'll play with you!" Sitting on the swing, Myra shook her head. "That Mitchie..." she said in awe of his energy, "Where's he get it...? So, Ma, how's by you? You enjoy the walk with your grandson?" "How's by me? Nu, by me it's the same. I'm not feeling so good, but by me that's nothing new." Jennie sipped at her soda. "And that little bummer, that Mitchie of yours. With him you don't walk. With him you run! He never stops running and he never stops talking. He runs and he talks!" Shaking her head knowingly, "Ma, believe me, I know!" "So, tell me, my daughter, what's with a kalleh?" "A kalleh?" Myra looked at her mother. "I told him, your Mitchell, that he's too young to have a kalleh, and that he'll have to wait till he's much older." She giggled. "So, nu, Myra, tell me! When are you and Walter going to get your son a kalleh?" "Kalleh... Kalleh...? Oh, collie! Ma, he saw a movie: Lassie. He doesn't want a bride, he wants a dog!" "A dog! He wants a dog! Oy, vay!" Myra and Jennie looked at each other, and both began to laugh.

BECOMING 3 A Traditional Sunday December, 1941 Tradition: A belief or custom passed from generation to generation. How does a tradition begin? Probably when someone does something that other people like to do. The tradition in Mitchell's family was to have lox and bagels for breakfast on Sunday morning.

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Morris, Mitchell's grandfather, once said, "If Jesus Christ Himself were to come to my house looking for lox and bagels on Saturday night, he'd have to wait until Sunday morning." The locations would alternate from week to week. One Sunday it would be at Walter and Myra's, the next at Al and Bea's, and the next at Morris and Jenny's. The first Sunday in December dawned beautifully. The sky was a deep, winter blue and the temperature hovered around a balmy thirtyeight degrees. "Walt, it's so beautiful out. Why don't you call Al and tell him we're walking and not to pick us up. You don't mind do you?" He put the paper down. "No, that's fine with me, Myra." Walking along Nineteenth Street, Mitchell was between his mother and father. Whenever they'd cross a street, though he was getting just a little too big for this, much to his delight, taking his hands they would swing him over the curb. Jennie and Morris lived in a choice, second-floor, three-bedroom apartment in a smaller, wellmaintained building that overlooked Sawyer Avenue to the west and a beautiful, flowered garden to the east. When eating at the Barrishes', Morris would sit at the head of the dining room table and, after everyone else had been served, Jennie would sit to his right--not to his right around the corner of the table, but directly next to him. In their home, or any they visited, Jennie always waited until all the food had been served before she'd take any for herself, and then she would take minute portions, seeming wellcontented with whatever was left over after all the others had taken their pick. But Morris, who always had first choice no matter which of their children's homes they were visiting, always took the choice morsels of food from his dish and put them onto his wife's dish. In all the years the family had been eating together, no one knew if Jennie was really all that self sacrificing, and if she really thought that as the "Mamma" she should take what was left after the others had taken their pick, or if that was but a ploy between Jennie and Morris for her to be the selfsacrificing Mamma and still have some choice morsels, but no one had ever had the nerve to ask. Jennie and Morris Barrish were absolute opposites. Jennie was small and frail, a woman who, so it seemed, was always overcoming an existing illness or was on the verge of a new illness, so as one ailment ended, another began, and no one knew if she was getting better or becoming worse. Morris, on the other hand, was a big, robust man with a full head of blackstreaked gray hair. His complexion was ruddy from working outside

BECOMING as a master carpenter. His face was gentle and warm, with deep set, gray eyes. As a young man, so the story went, Morris had escaped Czarist Russia in the dead of winter by swimming a freezing river. Mitchell hadn't the slightest doubt that this story was anything but true because love and strength emanated from Morris and the boy loved his grandfather dearly.

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Mitchell's uncles Jerry and Sheldon sat to the right of Jennie. Marvin, Mitchell's ten-year-old cousin, sat next to Sheldon. Sandra, Marvin's sister, who was Mitchell's age, sat next to her brother. Al Marcus, Sandra, and Marvin's father sat at the far end of the table and his wife, Beatrice, sat to his right. Myra sat next to Bea, then Walter, with Mitchell between his father and grandfather. Within every group of ethnic people there is always one person that has the knack of telling funny stories; in this group that was Al Marcus. Al was always the first to tell a joke, and always laughed the hardest when someone else told one. Al made his living as an outside salesman selling sporting goods. He had light brown, wavy hair and, as though he'd been in the sun too long, a bright red complexion. A big man in his late thirties, Al had an extremely pleasing personality, and he always smelled of his favorite cologne: Canadian Club. All the children loved Al, and not only because he was their father and uncle and told the funniest stories, at least the stories they were allowed to hear, but also because he was the one adult that would get down on his hands to knees to shoot marbles with them, and spend the longest time helping them get a kite up, and because he was the one that usually said, "Hey, how'd you kids like some ice cream?" The brothersinlaw, Walter and Al, had played gin rummy with each other for years. Walter always thought it took skill to win at cards, or any game. Al, on the other hand, not only played skillfully, but was also lucky... and, oh yes, he did cheat; not only at cards, but also at golf, bowling--when no one was looking--and at any game that he and Walter participated in together. Whenever the two become pennyante competitors, Al continually won and Walter invariably lost. "Al," Walter slammed his cards down, "you're cheating! God-damnit! How in the hell can you win game after game? Always!" "Walt," he said, smiling benignly, "how can I be cheating?" "I don't know. But if I knock you're always holding cards lower than mine! Why don't you ever knock when I'm holding cards lower'n'yours? There's no other answer. You've got to be cheating, Al!" "Okay, Walt, so tell me. How in the hell am I cheating?" "I don't know." He looked down. "Yeah, I do!" Sipping Canadian Club, "Yeah? So tell me already." Grinning, "You're looking at my cards, that's how!" "I'm looking at your cards! How in the hell am I looking at your cards?" Holding back laughter, "My suspenders!" Walter hooked his thumbs in the wide straps on either side of his chest. "Your suspenders?" Laughing, Al's face became even redder. "Schmuck! [has many meanings, but in this context it means the male sex organ] What in the hell's your suspenders got to do with me beating you at Gin

BECOMING Rummy?"

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"The reflection!" Walter said smugly. "You can see my cards in the reflection!" Walter was fond of wearing shiny, patent leather suspenders. And bowling... "Walt, how's about you'n'me going bowling tomorrow night?" "No, Al! I told you, I'm not bowling with you again, ever!" "Come on, Walt! Tell you what, I'll spot you fifteen pins." Holding back growing laughter, "Nope!" "How's 'bout, say... thirty pins?" "No, Al! Al, I wouldn't go bowling with you again if you tied your right arm behind your back." "Walt, you putz! [about the same as "schmuck"] Tell you what I'm gonna do! I'll spot you thirty pins, tie both arms behind my back and wear a blindfold, and you know what? I'll still beat your sorry ass!" Holding his right arm stiffly forward, Walter hit the crook of his inner elbow with his left fist, causing his forearm to spring up in the "Italian salute." "Walt," Myra scolded her husband goodnaturedly, "in front of the kids?" "Al," Bea scolded her husband goodnaturedly, "you stop picking on Walter that way! For goodness sake, it wouldn't hurt you to let the poor man win once in a while!" And golf... One of the companies Al represented had a closeout on golf clubs, and he'd talked Walter into buying a set at "below cost." Walter bought a book. Al taught Walter the basics. Walter had beaten Al once in three years, and that was only because, due to an auto accident, one of Al's legs was in a cast and whenever he took a full swing he would fall over backwards and ultimately had to forfeit the game. Eventually Walter sold the clubs to his brother Frank. Sunday morning breakfast consisted of lox, smoked fish, slices of tomato, sweet onion, cucumber, bagels, Kaiser and onion rolls, corn rye, butter, cream cheese, and a multitude of jams and jellies. Above all else, Mitchell loved being with his mother's family on Sunday mornings, and was always able to eat two bagel sandwiches consisting of a thin spread of lox, an extra thick spread of cream cheese, and cucumber, tomato and onion. When he'd bite into it, the pressure of his teeth would cause the assorted contents to ooze out the back. Somehow he would also be able to manage at least two slices of rye bread with cream cheese

BECOMING and jelly.

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"My God! Where's the kid put it?" Walter would always ask in feigned amazement. Mitchell would giggle and Al Marcus would look under the table. "Nope," he'd say. "I don't see a hollow leg." After breakfast, Marvin, Sandra, and Mitchell would shoot marbles on the living room rug. On this Sunday, Marvin, the eldest and most proficient at marbles, was on his knees on the righthand corner, taking aim at Mitchell's prize silver and black aggie. "Hey!" Leaving the table, Al came into the living room. "How'd you guys like to go to Brown's for some winners?" Distracted, much to Mitchell's relief, Marvin missed. "Good idea, Al!" Jerry pushed away from the table. "Yeah," all three kids shouted simultaneously, and began to gather their marbles, putting them into drawstring canvas bags, as Marvin smirked because his stupid sister and dumb cousin had added to his already large collection. "After such a meal, some fresh air couldn't hurt." Morris stood, followed by Sheldon. "You're not going with them, Walt?" "Nah, Myra. I'd just as soon have another cup of coffee." "Walt, the coffee'll be here when you get back!" Myra felt that he didn't spend enough time with his son. "You go with them!" "Okay," sighing, "if it's that important to you, I'll go." There was a gumball machine on the counter of every delicatessen, grocery, and candy store in the city of Chicago. In the glassdomed machine there were six-hundred gumballs of assorted colors, and maybe fifty or sixty "winners": an orange gumball with red spirals. A winner gave its owner the choice of any nickel candy bar on the rack. After a half hour and a hundred pennies, the group had 94 gumballs, along with six winners for the children. On their way back to the apartment, "Mitchie, Sandy, you want to race?" Al challenged, "I'll race you guys to the corner!" "Hey, Pop, how's 'bout me?" "You, Marvin? I could never beat you. You want to give your old man a heart attack? Tell you what! Why don't you run ahead and be the judge." He pointed to the corner, a halfblock away. "Just wave your hanky whenever you're ready. Okay?" "Yeah! Okay!" Running to the corner, Marvin stood on the joining angle of the pipe fence with his handkerchief in his hand. "You guys ready?" he called through cupped hands. Giggling, following Al's example, Sandra and Mitchell took their runner's stance, with their rumps in the air

BECOMING and their fingertips touching the expansion seam of the sidewalk. "Okay, you guys!" Waving the handkerchief over his head, "Ready... Set..." Marvin dropped his arm. "Go!" The runners start. It's Mitchell in the lead with Sandra close behind with Al taking exaggerated, high-kneed strides. At the halfway point it was still Mitchell and Sandra, with Al taking short, flouncing steps with undulating hips and fluttering hands. "Ohh! Ohh, my dearth," lisping in a highpitched, falsetto voice, "you're all juthst too fatht for lil' ol' me." Following a few steps behind, the four men were laughing.

26

Crossing the finish line, Mitchell and Sandra looked at Al, who stood with arched hips, with his elbow bent and his hand turned outward. "You thweet children, you." Speaking in the same lisping, falsetto voice, moving only his wrist and hand, "Oh, my goodneth..." Turning to the four men, who were sitting on the fence and a door stoop, holding their stomachs, laughing hysterically, "Honethtly, have you ever theen thuch thweet children?" Stamping his foot, "Honethtly, they are tho thweet!" Sitting on the fence with Morris, Walter was laughing so hard that he fell over backwards landing on the hard ground. On the stoop, Sheldon threw his head back, cracking it on the plateglass door. "Oh, my God!" Jerry cried. "I'm gonna pee in my pants." At the corner, knowing Al was doing something funny, but having no idea why their uncles, father and grandfather were laughing that hard, looking at Al, who was still standing with his face pointed skyward and his hands akimbo, the children walked back to the adults. "Daddy?" Going to Walter, Mitchell pulled on his sleeve, "Why are you guys laughing, and what's wrong with Uncle Al?" Fluttering his eyelashes, Al walked to Mitchell. "Thethh big ol' men!" Looking from man to man, pausing, licking his lips seductively, "They laugh at justh any ol' thing!" Attempting to answer his son, "Mitchie, you wouldn't under..." but unable to hold it back, Walter's laughter erupted. Usually showing a dour countenance, Mitchell did not see his father laugh very often, but his father's laughter was infectious and Mitchell began to laugh, too, and so did Marvin and Sandra. Catching their breath, the eight began to walk again. Walter walked with his hand on his son's shoulder, and the weight of his father's hand on Mitchell's shoulder felt wonderful. "You look so nice and healthy," Bea commented when the redcheeked group came into the apartment. "Looks like you had a real good time." "Yeah," Al says. "We did, didn't we, kids?" * Sandra was coloring in a coloring book at one end of the kitchen table while Marvin and Mitchell played checkers at the other end. The adults were in the dining room with the radio droning in the background.

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Absorbed with checkers and the coloring book, the children did not notice, but all sound, except for the radio, had ceased. "Mitchell," Myra had come into the kitchen, "put your coat on," she said softly. "We're going home." Following behind her sister, her eyes glassy as though she'd been crying, "Sandra, Marvin," Bea said. "We're going home, too." Mitchell looked questioningly at Marvin, who shrugged his shoulders. Tearfully hugging Jennie and Morris, Sheldon and Jerry, they said their good-byes at the front door. Walter held the back door open for Myra, Mitchell and Marvin. He sat next to Bea, with Sandra on her lap, in the front seat. The short ride home was in total silence. Slamming the door shut, "Thanks, Al. I'll give you a call later." Putting the Buick into gear, Al drove away. The walk up the three flights of stairs seemed to be hard. Walter, who usually took the steps two or three at a time, held onto the banister, pulling himself, almost wearily, upward. Walking behind, as if having to catch her breath, Myra stopped every few steps. "Mommy, Daddy," looking from one to the other, "what's wrong?" This typical Sunday was December 7, 1941. The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Who goes, who stays? Al Marcus was too old. The Army, the Navy, and certainly the Marines, did not want him. More than happy, Al was ecstatic. Walter Lipensky was too old also; the Army didn't want him either. He was happy, for the sake of his wife and child, but for Walter Lipensky, approaching thirtyseven years of age and feeling life passing with none of the esprit, the verve he'd dreamt of as a young man... Walter loved his wife and he loved his child. But unknown to anyone but himself he'd have given anything to be free of the responsibility and be part of the fray... but he wasn't. Myra's older brother, Jerry, was rejected due to a chronic back problem. Sheldon did enlist in the army and, upon completion of basic training, due to his college credits in engineering, was immediately transferred to the Corps of Army Engineers. The Grand Manufacturing Company, the Lipensky business, named "Grand" for Grand Avenue where it was located rather than its grand size, which it wasn't, went out of business because it produced a "nonessential" product using "essential" material. Walter and his three brothers went their separate ways. Jake, the eldest, had a working knowledge in the field of electronics and became a civilian instructor for the

BECOMING U.S. Navy. Walter, the second eldest, went to work in a defense plant. Frank, the third brother, attempted to salvage something from the ashes of the old company and began to manufacture a household item made of wood, a nonessential material. But, as it turned out, the item was nonessential also. Ira, the youngest of the four boys, was the only one of draftable age and he enlisted in the Army Air Corps. The War Effort Americans were asked to: Search their cabinets, drawers and boxes. Rummage through their basements. Forage their sheds. Comb their attics. Find anything--anything--that may be useful to the War Effort. They were collected by: Adults in cars, trucks, and horsedrawn carts. Children dragging factorymanufactured, or homemade orangecrate wagons. There were: Scrap steel drives. Newspaper drives. Rag drives. Milkweed drives... Milkweed? Even milkweed was collected from empty lots to make fillings for lifejackets. The came: From the country. From the cities. From neighborhood to neighborhood. From block to block.

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BECOMING From house to house. From room to room. For the country! For our country! For America! God bless America! 4 The Catalyst July 21, 1942

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On Ogden Avenue, adjacent the short side of the Lipensky's L-shaped building, there was another three-story structure. Mitchell's friend Norman lived on the west side of this building, third floor, rear. Though the white glazed brick facade of this building butts directly to the structures on either side, in all actuality there is a four-foot-wide air space on either side of the building that can be entered by the rear only, and then only by crawling under or climbing over an old, badly rusted chainlink fence. Through the years these air spaces had become the dumping grounds for junk of all kinds. The block's only "bad boys," Salvatore and Dominick Diamond, lived on the first floor, rear. "Bad boys" meaning they wore greasestained, acid-burned jeans, coated their hair with Vaseline Petroleum Jelly and combed it straight back into a "D.A."--duck's ass. Also, ration stamps permitting, they rode noxious motorbikes. Salvatore had recently married sixteen-year-old Louise Ann Richtor. Talk between the adults of the block was that Louise Ann had become pregnant and had to marry Salvatore. The newlyweds lived in the Diamonds' two-bedroom apartment, in the bedroom that the two boys had previously shared, forcing Dominick onto a cot in the living room. Before the marriage, the boys got along well enough, except twice in the two years that they'd lived in the neighborhood they had gotten into violent fights, one of which had to be broken up by the police. Since the wedding, the brothers argued constantly and Dominick would often go out of his way to annoy and antagonize his older brother. The children of the block did their best to stay out of the way of the Diamond brothers, who had their own circle of friends, all of whom combed their hair into D.A.'s and, ration stamps permitting, rode noxious motorbikes. * "'Ay, kid, com'er!"

BECOMING "Huh?" He'd been on his way to Norman's. Hoping he's talking to someone else, Mitchell looked over his shoulder. Seeing no one behind him, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb, "Me?" "Yeah, Lipensky, you!" Thinking, Why's Dom Diamond want me? Mitchell approached the older boy slowly. "How old'd'a'ya, kid?" "Eight, uh, almost. I'll be eight next month." Dominick moved his hand upward in a swift motion. Mitchell jerked his head to the side. "Ha! Got'ch'ya! Two for flinchin'!" Punching the younger boy twice on the shoulder, "Ya wanna see somethin'?" Rubbing his shoulder, "Uh, yeah, I guess. What?" he asked warily. "Ya know Lou Ann, don't'j'ya?" Having had a child's crush on Louise Ann, "Yeah, she, uh, babysat me," he said, "when I was, uh, littler." "Yeah, sure, when you was 'littler.' Ya know she married my brother." Mitchell had overheard his mother and Rachel talking about Louise Ann and Salvatore, and when Myra noticed him listening, she'd said, "Little pitchers have big ears." and sent him outside. "So, ya wanna see somethin', or not?" Although afraid of Dominick, Mitchell did not want to appear a baby or sissy in the eyes of this fifteen-year-old boy. "Yeah, sure. What do you wanna show me?" "Come on, follow me, only keep ya trap shut." Holding a finger over his lips, "Shhh!" Motioning for him to follow, going around the side of his porch, Dominick sprinted over the chain link fence. Mitchell decided to crawl under it.

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Creeping to an open window, Dominick silently moved a rusted tricycle that had been thrown from an upstairs window years ago. The shade was raised about a foot from the bottom. On tiptoe, the two boys looked into the room. Mitchell saw a naked, muscled man. His back was to the window and he was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed. Facing the window, someone else was on the bed, not at the head, but rather below the middle... His eyes opening wide in wonder. It's a lady! On her back, lying flatfooted with her legs bent and her thighs spread, the lady's moderately large breasts flattened across her chest and lay to either side of her rib cage.

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His head between her thighs, his arm stretched upward, holding a dark-brown nipple, the man was kneading it between his fingers. Hidden by her knee, the lady's face was turned to the side... Now, in the throws of orgasm, holding the man's head between her hands, arching her hips upward, "Oh, Sally," she moaned. For a moment he was not sure, then, Lou Ann!, he thought, and a sharp intake of breath caused Mitchell to cough. "Shhh!" Dominick poked his elbow hard into Mitchell's ribs, causing him to lose his balance and to fall onto the tricycle, which fell against an empty onegallon paint can, which rolled over and clattered on the rockstrewn ground. Startled by the noise, "Huh?" surprise showing on his face, looking over his shoulder, Salvatore swiped his hand across his mouth, removing the shiny wetness. "Who the fuck's there?" Dominick knew he was caught, but didn't care. "Muff diver! My brother Sal's a fuckin' muff diver," he yelled. "How's it taste, Sally?" Rising off his haunches, Salvatore rushed to the window. Mitchell knew that when he was sleeping and had to urinate, or in the morning when he awoke, sometimes his penis was engorged, but there was absolutely no way that he could equate himself to what he saw then. Although beginning to wither, that was not noticeable to the little boy staring at it. Surrounded by a forest of black, curly hair, Salvatore Diamond's penis jutted rigidly forward, and was uncircumcised--a point he noted, but had no idea what to make of, because, up until the last minute Mitchell had never seen another naked person, man, woman or child, and he stared at the seven-inch penis of Salvatore Diamond in openmouthed awe. Slamming the window fully open, Salvatore reached through in an attempt to grab hold of his brother, but by then Dominick was at the far end of the airwell, scuttling over the fence. Poking his head and shoulders through the window he screamed, "You wait!" at his brother's retreating back. "You just wait, you fuckin' bastard! I'll get'j'ya, and I'll rip ya a new asshole! I'll tear your fuckin' balls off!" Shaking his fist, "ya fuckin' son'of'a'bitchin' fuckin' asshole!" Terrified at Salvatore's rage, pressing his back against the wall, holding his breath, Mitchell stood perfectly still, as though by not moving he wouldn't be noticed... but was. Reaching through the window, "Ya little sheeny, kike, bastard!" Grabbing him, bunching the front of his shirt in his fist, pulling him upward, forcing him to stand on the tips of his toes, "What the fuck ya doin' here?" Almost dragging him through the window, into the bedroom, "Answer me, god-damn-it!" Clenching his right hand into a fist, Salvatore brought it back... Mitchell smelled Salvatore's breath and felt the spray of his spittle. Sensing a weakening of his bowels, the boy watched in terror as the balled fist was brought back and, waiting for the blow, stiffening his body, he held his hands rigidly to his sides with his fingers splayed along the outer seams of his jeans. "Sal, let him go!" Coming off the bed, standing behind Salvatore, trying to pull him back, Louise Ann's short-cut nails caused white indentations in the flesh of his shoulders. "I know this kid! He didn't do nothin'! Don't hit him!" Pleading, she held her husband's fist in both of her hands. "Mitchell wouldn't know to do this!

BECOMING It's your damn brother's fault! Don't hit him, Sal!" Mitchell looked from the poised fist to Salvatore to Louise Ann.

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Louise Ann was fully nude, but standing behind Salvatore, all Mitchell was able to see were her breasts and, though, it did not register at that time, the trauma and terror of this situation did register subconsciously, and along with it, the exotic beauty of this sixteen-year-old girl's breasts. "Sal, he's just a kid! I want you to let him go! Now!" The hand opened suddenly and Mitchell fell to his knees. "Get the hell out of here!" Salvatore bellowed. "Now!" The boy scrambled onto his feet, tripped over the tricycle, and fell again. Standing, he began to run and, not thinking about it, for if he had he certainly would not have been able to do it, rather than taking the time to crawl under it, surprising... shocking himself, Mitchell sprinted the fence, ran through that yard, through his yard, up the three flights of stairs, across the neighbor's porch, through the gate, across his porch and through the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him, across the kitchen, where his mother was at the sink peeling potatoes... "Damn it, Mitchell!" ...through the hall and into the bathroom. "Stop running!" Slamming the door... "Won't you ever learn?" ...lowering his pants to make... Uhoh! Mitchell discovered he already had. For the next three months, until Salvatore Diamond reached his eighteenth birthday and was drafted into the U.S. Army, Mitchell would walk around the block, rather than cross into the view of the Diamond apartment. 5 The Maven June 25, 1942 "Mmmfftt!" "Hold it, Myra. Be there in a minute." She looked past the light, to the ceiling. The drill bit into the cavity. "Ahh, yes." Straightening his back, Marvin Pincus, D.D.S., hung the drill onto the dental console. Taking another instrument from the console he blew a stream of water, then air, into the cavity, probed with a pick and blew water and air again. "He's still not listening, eh?"

BECOMING "Yeggh, thghtinn."

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"Hold on, almost through." Scraping cement out of a mortar, temporarily plugging the cavity, "There." Pulling the tubes of saliva-drenched cotton out of her mouth, Pincus handed her a cup of water. Taking the paper cup, Myra sloshed water around her mouth, spit it out then felt the filling with her tongue. "Your Mitchell, he never listens to you?" "No, it's not that he doesn't listen, it's that he doesn't seem to remember. And it's not me so much, but he's making Walt crazy." "And you and Walt fight about it?" "Well..." "Don't you punish him?" "Yes, of course we punish him, but it doesn't do any good because the very next minute, there he is, like we never said a word, jumping off a chair and running across the floor. God! Those poor downstairs neighbors!" "Well, punish him more!" "We do, and it doesn't do any good. No matter how we swat his behind, yell or send him to his room he keeps right on running and slamming doors, and it's driving poor Walt crazy... And, yes," she admited reluctantly, "me, too!" "I told you before and I'm telling you again: Your son is bad!" Turning away, Pincus looked out the window. "There is no excuse for a kid not to listen to his parents!" "I wish I knew what to do." His back to her, "There's something you can do, Myra." She hesitated, then asked, "Yes? What's that, Doc?" Turning from the window, "Send him away to school." "What? Send Mitchell away! No, Doc, I could never do that!" "Sure you can! Think about it. First off, a lot of the pressure's off you and Walt and the two of you will get along better." "But I couldn't, I just couldn't send Mitchell away! And the money?" "Myra, the boy needs discipline! In the long run you'd be doing him a favor. Wouldn't you?" "I suppose," she conceded. "But..." "You go to work, too! They need people at the plants and they're hiring women, and you'll make three times what it'll cost to send him to school. You've always said you wish there was some way you and Walt could save some money, so you could start a business. This is the way to do it, and make your son a mensh [a decent

BECOMING person] too." "I don't know, Doc. I couldn't just send..." "Look, I've a patient that's got a son in a military school in Wisconsin." "A military school? In Wisconsin?"

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"Yes. She told me it's only three hours from Chicago by train, and it's not all that expensive. Hold on." Pincus went into his office, made a phone call, came out a minute later and handed Myra a slip of paper. "Here's the name of the school." Taking the paper, Myra looked at it: Baylor Military School, Evansville, Wisconsin. 6 Baylor Military School, Evansville, Wisconsin January 14, 1944 Shaking the towering pines, the cold wind howled across the campus causing cones to rain down and skittle over the frozen ground. Leaves of brown and orange blew across the circular track and parade ground that encompassed the three-building complex. Mitchell sat absently staring out the window, looking at everything yet seeing nothing. He felt a soft, kind of glowing pain in the pit of his stomach; actually not so much a pain as a lonely longing. He missed his family and wondered what they are doing then, right then, at that exact minute on that Sunday morning. He looked at the clock on the wall. Eleven twenty-seven. Probably at Pa and Bubbies eating lox'n' bagels, he thought as, reaching into his shirt pocket, he took a lemon drop out of the box and put it in his mouth. As he daydreamed his fingers tapped on the desk top. Mitchell's seemingly unlimited energy was the only reason, at age nine and a half, that he was not noticeably overweight and, of course, the reason he was there, banished to Baylor Military School. Located two hundred miles from Chicago, Baylor was a bit less than three hours away by train and about four by automobile, if one had ration stamps for gasoline. The school was small, usually accommodating about twohundredfifty boys. Boys ages eight, nine and ten, the Juniors, lived in one dormitory, and boys ages eleven, twelve and thirteen, the Seniors, in another. The twostory dormitories were separated by a larger, twostory building commonly referred to as "The Whyet House" because it housed the living quarters of the school's owners, Captain and Mrs. Whyet. In addition to the Whyet's three-room living quarters, the Whyet House contained two classrooms, the gymnasium, kitchen, mess hall, and Captain Whyet's oakpaneled office. Captain Whyet taught military etiquette, drill and the eighth grade. Mrs. Whyet handled the bookkeeping and the seventh grade. Four middleaged spinsters taught the third, fourth, fifth and sixth grades. The teachers' quarters each had a bedroom, study and bathroom, and they were located next to their classrooms, on the far opposite end of a long corridor, away from the men's toilet. In addition to teaching, the teachers were responsible for the cleanliness and general conduct of their "men." There were ten "chambers" on each floor, five on either side of the corridor, each containing four, five or six beds, depending on how many children of each age and class group were in attendance that semester year.

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Bailer's cost was moderate, its academic requirements not overly stringent, and its location close enough to Milwaukee and Chicago to make it the ideal place to leave the 'kid' if Mom and Dad were both working, if he was a problem, or if they just wanted to get him out of their hair. On weekdays, reveille sounded at 6:00 a.m. The weekday dress code was a white cotton shirt open at the collar, dark blue gabardine slacks, a matching garrison cap and highly shined black oxfords. At 6:30 the men/boys fell into squads of approximately ten men each. Each squad had a sergeant, corporal, and eight or more privates. "Tenchhup... Dress right, dress!" Heels clicked together, toes angled outward at 45-degree angles. Left arms extended stiffly to the side with fingertips touching the shoulder of the man to the left. Heads snapped to the right aligning with the man to the right. There was a shuffling as the line straightened. "Tenchhup!" Arms dropped. Heads snapped forward. "Sound off!" "Private Carmody, here!" Each man called out his name. The corporal took a stride forward, saluted the sergeant and said, "Ranger Squad, Eisenhower Platoon, all present and accounted for!" He saluted. The salute was returned. The corporal did a sharp aboutface, took a stride back to his place at the head of the column, did another aboutface and stood at attention. "Riiight face! Forward harch!" The men marched forward. If they were on the second deck, as Mitchell Lipensky's quarters and squad were, they marched down the stairs and out the building. Entering the mess hall, their caps, removed while in class or eating, were looped over their web belts. As the line progressed, each man took a sectioned steel tray, silverware and a napkin, then filed through the line receiving portions of food from the civilian ladies behind the counter. Breakfast was over at 7:15; classes started at 8:00. In his second year at Baylor, in 5B, the fifth grade, the corporal in the Ranger Squad, Mitchell Lipensky's quarters were in the Dwight David Eisenhower Dormitory, deck two, chamber five. Sunday! Sundays were always the hardest for Mitchell, at least the mornings, because on Sunday all Baylor men were expected to attend church and Sunday school, with no exceptions. During one of their visits the year before, a few months after he'd enrolled, Walter and Myra had spoken to Captain Whyet about the possibility of Mitchell being allowed to miss the Sunday services. "Captain Whyet," Walter had said, "both Mrs. Lipensky and myself are more than slightly disturbed over the fact that Mitchell is made to attend your Sunday morning church services." He'd glanced at Myra, who imperceptibly nodded her head, urging him to continue. "After all, Sir, we are Jewish and what he's taught here in, uh, Sunday school and church, goes against everything he'd ever been taught in the past, and to be honest, it's confusing him terribly."

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In Captain Whyet's impressive, oppressive and more than slightly intimidating oakpaneled office, Walter and Myra were sitting, uncomfortably, on hard, straightbacked chairs. Leaning back in an overstuffed, leather wing chair smoking a pipe, Captain Whyet sat behind his large, glasstopped desk. "Mr. Lipensky," Captain Whyet looked from Walter to Myra, "and Mrs. Lipensky," appreciating a pretty woman, he'd smiled at her. "This is your son's first year here." He drew on the pipe, exhaled and tilted his head back, watching the aromatic smoke spiral above his head. "I'm glad you brought the subject up because it gives me the opportunity to let you know how we here at Baylor feel." Putting the pipe in a leather-bound ashtray, leaning forward, folding his hands on the desk, his voice taking a tone of severity, "America is a Christian country," he'd said. "This is a Christian school, and if you do not want your son to learn the true belief and teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, then it may be for the best if you remove your son from Baylor altogether, and find a..." Captain Whyet smiled, "Jewish military school." Myra looked at Walter. "Captain Whyet, no, we, uh, do not want to take Mitchell out of Baylor, it's just that his father and I feel if he didn't have to attend church and Sunday school, we'd have absolutely no problem with Baylor." Captain Whyet picked up the pipe, sucked on it noisily, struck a match and drew it back to life. "I am well aware of your, uh, Jewishness, but we will make no exceptions. As a matter of fact, we feel remiss because we're as lax as we are with the boys' religious training. If you want your son to remain here at Baylor, then he must attend church and Sunday school along with the rest of the boys." He stared at Myra a moment, then, "If there is nothing else," he said, "I have other parents to speak to." Standing, Captain Whyet extended his hand across the desk. "Good day, Mister Lipensky, Mrs. Lipensky." * "Mitchell, your mother and I have spoken to Captain Whyet about your attending his, uh, church, and he thinks it's best we don't make it look like you're any different than the rest of the guys here." Sitting on the steps in front of Mitchell's dormitory, looking across Mitchell, at his wife, "We're sure there's other kids here that don't want to go to church and Sunday school, and if he makes an exception for you then he'll have to make an exception for the others, too, and..." "But, Dad, there are no others, I'm the only Jewish kid here!" "Mitchell, don't 'but Dad' me! You've got to do what the other kids do, and that's final!" Mitchell looked from his father to his mother, who was looking at her lap, tying and untying a knot in her handkerchief. "Mom?" "Mitchie, I'm sorry, but you've got to!" Taking her son's chin in her hand, lifting his face to hers, "And for God's sake, Mitchell, don't say anything to Pa and Ma about going to, uh..." as if loath to say the word, "church, because I'm sure they wouldn't understand and it would only make them feel bad. As a matter of fact, Mitchie, it would probably be for the best if you didn't say anything to anyone back home about it. Okay... Okay?" His eyes cast downward, "Okay," he'd said, nodding his head. * Sunday mornings after breakfast the tables in the mess hall were moved to one side of the large room and the

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chairs aligned in straight rows. As each boy filed into the room he was handed a Bible and a hymnbook. After a short Bible study class, Captain Whyet, in his best oratorical voice, read from the new testament as the boys, most of the boys, followed along with silently moving lips, each--most--reading from the Bible they held in their hands. Accompanied by Mrs. Whyet on the old Steinway in the corner, the entire assembly stood as each hymn was sung, as all the while, fighting to keep his eyes open and his head from nodding onto his chest, Mitchell pretended to read and sing. It was only the frequent standing that kept him awake, until, finally, they stood for his favorite hymn, favorite because of its volume, but mainly, because it signaled the end of the session: "Onward Christian Soooldiers, Marching off to war, With the cross of humm-humm..." "Thank you, men," Captain Whyet would say. "You're excused." The boys filed out of the mess hall, and the rest of the day was theirs to do whatever they wish: to read, study, play games, work on their stamp collections. Or, once a month, the boys from each of the four decks were given the opportunity to see a movie at the local theater, if Captain Whyet approved the film. This day it was the turn of Eisenhower Dormitory, deck two, and Mitchell was looking forward to seeing that week's double feature of "Tarzan Triumphs," "Wake Island," and assorted shorts. * "...Mitch, you told me you'd trade... Hey! Gunner to pilot!" "Huh?" Forcing his mental focus back to there and then, turning from the window, Mitchell looked at Frank Rizzo, his sergeant and best friend at Baylor. "Oh, yeah." Opening the thick book lying on the desk, he turned pages till coming to Costa Rica. Removing one of two identical stamps, he handed the tricornered stamp to Frank, who gave him a New Zealand in exchange. "Whats'a'matter? You don't look so hot. You feelin' okay?" "Yeah, sure." Reaching into his pocket for another lemon drop, "I'm fine. Here, you want one?" "Yeah." Taking the box, putting the open end to his mouth, upending it, "Thanks, Mitch." Tossing the now-empty box back, "You're okay, for a Jew." Catching the box, looking inside, "You wop pig! I didn't tell you to eat 'em all!" Stooping, reaching under the desk, "Die, Jewish peeeg!" Frank said, in a bad imitation of Gilbert Roland's Cisco Kid, as, grabbing Mitchell by the ankles, he dragged him off the seat. "Italian turd!" As they scuffled on the floor in makebelieve fight: "Sheeny shit!" "Stinky dago, wop, fart!"

BECOMING "Hey, you creeps!" Rolling about the floor, they'd accidentally, on purpose, bumped into Pete Marcos. A hand reached up, grabbed Pete by the belt and, "Die, Greek peeeg!" Pete was pulled into the melee. Sitting nearby, not wanting to be left out of the ruckus, Stan Carmody jumped into the entangled mass of thrashing arms and legs.

38

"Stop it!" Hearing the scraping of steel-legged school desks and the thumping of bodies on the hardwood floor, Miss Stoldig had come into the room. "If you boys care about the movies this afternoon, you'll stop this this instant!" As if doused with cold water, arms and legs disentangled and the mass became four red-faced boys who, standing instantly, tucking their shirts into their pants, brushed themselves off. "No more horseplay!" Miss Stoldig looked from boy to boy. The boys snapped to attention. "That's better. Straighten those desks, then get ready to eat." The magic words: breakfast, lunch, dinner; eat; food. Oh, yeah! Especially on Sunday! Mitchell Lipensky always looked forward to lunch on Sunday. Lunch on Sunday usually consisted of baked chicken and roast beef, mashed potatoes with thick, dark gravy, vegetables, salad, homemade rolls, and a dessert of freshly baked cherry or apple pie with a scoop of rich chocolate or vanilla ice cream. As it was first-come first-served, the squads did not assemble for lunch on Sunday, and if you wanted a choice slice of meat or a second drumstick, you'd best be in line early. Mitchell always was. Moving forward in the chow line, as he approached each of the three civilian ladies, smiling, "Hi, Miss Trankie," he would say. "How are you today? I'll have roast beef, please." And, "Hi, Miss Dormier. How are you today?" and, "Hello, Mrs. Schmitz. How are you today?" The ladies would look at Mitchell's face and those innocent green eyes and, like Sam and Abe, Miss Trankie, Miss Dormier, and Mrs. Schmitz would give him a choice piece of roast beef or chicken, a larger portion of mashed potatoes, and a bigger scoop of ice cream, then... "Next!" The next boy moved up and got whatever was plopped onto his tray. 7 Girls Got Nothin' The Quest The vintage black and yellow school bus pulled up to the Dwight David Eisenhower dormitory at precisely twelve o'clock noon. Rushing aboard, 53 boys scrambled for the window seats.

BECOMING

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Frank and Mitchell ran to the rear of the bus where there was a pulling, shoving, pushing contest as each struggled for the seat next to the window. Stretching the material of Mitchell's sleeve until it was inches beyond his hand, Frank pulled it through the handhold of the seat across the aisle and, using it as one would a block and tackle, he was able to hold him back long enough to slip beneath him and into the seat, as all the while Mitchell tried to keep a straight face, but was laughing and couldn't stop. "No fair, you, uh..." trying to think of a name, "...schmuck!" Laughing as hard as his friend, "'Schmuck'? What's a schmuck?" Frank asked. "Something my uncle always calls my dad whenever they play gin rummy." "Schmuck, eh? You keep this up, Lipensky, an' I'll know more Jewish words than you. What's schmuck mean?" "Jeez, I d'no. Maybe somethin' like, uh, ass." "Madonn', you're dumb! Even I know the Jewish word for ass! It's tuckas." "Oh, yeah, I forgot." "You forgot! Lipensky, you're such a, a..." looking for a word, Frank smiles, "shmegegi! I can't believe it--me, a wop, teachin' you, a Jew, his own language." Watching the tree-bare, winter scene, the boys were quiet a moment. "Mitch," speaking softly, "you ever wonder about girls?" "Girls?" Lookin' at Frank. "Nah. What about 'em?" "You ever think... you ever wonder about their, uh, things?" "Things! What things?" "Mitch, don't be such a dope! You know, their things! The only things that make girls different then guys is their chests an' that they got different kinds of pissers than us. You ever wonder about 'em, about what a girl's pisser looks like?" "No." But he had. One day last summer, standing on the stairs a few steps beneath her, he was talking to Marlene. She was sitting with her knees spread and he was able to see between the gap of her shorts and the inside of her skinny thighs. For some reason she wasn't wearing panties and, maybe, knowing he was looking, "putting on a show" she had opened her knees even wider and, out of curiosity, so he could see better, he'd even stepped a step lower, but all he saw, and what he had thought was: The crack in Marlene's tushie goes all the way up the front. "Do you?" Mitchell asked. "Yeah!" Frank answered. "Once I saw Cynthia, my older sister, when she didn't think anyone was home an' she left the toilet door open."

BECOMING "Yeah? You saw her pisser then?"

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"Well, she was naked, gettin' washed at the sink, an' I saw her tuckas an' her, uh, chests in the mirror, but she didn't have any more here..." he playfully pinched Mitchell on the chest. "...than you'n'me. Matters of fact, you got more'n'her. Guess girls don't start growin' chests till they get older." "An' you didn't see her here?" pointing to his crotch. "Nah. I saw her butt, but girls'n'guys got the same kind's'a butts. I waited for her to turn around or step back from the sink so's I could see her pisser, but then she saw me in the mirror and threw the soap at me, an' when I ducked she slammed the door shut." A distant, fuzzy thought came to mind. Trying to pull it into focus, Mitchell closed his eyes... Remembering, "I saw a naked lady once." "Yeah!" Frank looked intently at Mitchell. "You saw a naked lady! How's come you never told me?" "I forgot! An' besides, this is the first time we ever talked 'bout naked ladies and girl's pissers. Remember?" "Yeah, okay! So you see her pisser? What'd it look like?" "There's this guy, Dominick Diamond--we call him Dom--an' he hated his older brother, Sal, that's short for..." "Yeah," Frank said impatiently, "Salvatore! I'm a Dago, too, remember? So? So what happened?" "Anyway, Sal got married to this real pretty girl that used to me when I was littler. Her name's Louise Ann; Lou Ann we called her. Anyway, one day Dom comes to me an' asks if I wanna see somethin', an' I say sure, so Dom takes me between the buildings an' we looked through the window, an' Lou Ann an' Sal are doin'..." "Yeah? What were they doin'?" Screwing his eyes shut, trying to remember, "They... they were... I don't know what they were doin'," he said, "but Lou Ann's layin' naked on the bed..." "All naked!?" "Yeah. They're both all naked. Lou Ann's layin' on the bed on her back an' ol' Sal's, uh, I guess kind'a kneelin' on the floor, at the end of the bed, an'..." "J'ya see 'it' then? J'ya see her pisser then?" "No, I couldn't, 'cause Sal's got his head there, between her legs, an' he's doin' somethin' with his face." "With his face? What could he be doin' with his face, there? Lookin' at her? Smellin' her? What was...? Wha'ch'ma'call'it doin'?" "Nothin'! She wasn't doin' nothin'... Well, yeah, she was doin' somethin'." Concentrating. Once again closing his eyes, "She was kind'a, uh, bumpin' up'n'down... Oh yeah! An' she was smiling'." "She was smilin'?" Not knowing what to make of this, "You saw her chests then?" Frank asked excitedly. "What'd they look like?"

BECOMING "Uh..." He tried to remember, but it had been well over two years, a long time for someone his age. "They were kind'a..." moving his hands in a fluttering motion in front of his chest, "flopped over." "'Flopped over'?" "Yeah, an' they had real big, uh, kind'a like brown bumps on em'." "Big brown bumps? Where?" "Here," touching his fingers to the left side of his chest. "Probably, when girls get older, their bumps get bigger'n a guys, too. So what happened then?" "Sal saw Dom'n'me an' he got real mad, an' he jumped up an' ran to the window..." "Yeah! J'ya see her pisser then?"

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"No, Sal was in the way." Another remembrance coming to mind. "I didn't see hers, but I sure saw his. Wow!" "'His'? 'Wow'? Wha'd'ya mean?" Holding his hands widely apart, "Sal's, uh, thing was this big!" greatly exaggerating the size of Salvatore Diamond's penis. Knowing at least this much, "He must'a had a boner," Frank said. "A 'boner'?" "Jesus, Lipensky, where've you been all your life? A boner's, uh... You ever wake up in the mornin' an' gotta pee, an' your, uh, thing's all big'n'hard?" Actually, he'd thought that "that" only happened to him and was surprised to know that it happened to his friend, too. Nodding, "Yeah," Mitchell said. "Well, when that happens it's called a boner, only with big people... uh, guys, I heard 'em talkin', an' they get boners when they're with girls, or talkin' 'bout girls, like now, when you was talkin' 'bout, uh, what's'er'name, I was gettin' a boner." Most of this incomprehensible, looking at Frank's lap, "Why? You gotta pee?" "No, I don't gotta pee!" "You think maybe Sal had'a pee?" "Shit! No, Lipensky." Not knowing if he's serious, "Sal didn't gotta pee! So what happened?" "Anyway, ol' Sal tried to catch Dom, but Dom was too fast an' Sal couldn't catch 'em, and Dom called him a, uh..." trying to remember, "Yeah! Dom called Sal a... somethin' like a 'muffin driver,' whatever that is, and he asked Sal if Lou Ann tasted good." "What the hell's a muffin driver? An' 'if she tasted good'? What was he doin' to her," beginning to giggle, "eatin' her? What's he, a... what'ch'ya call, a cannibal or somethin'?"

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Mitchell shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Anyway, when Sal couldn't catch his brother, he got hold'a me an' wanted to kill me." "Yeah? Really?" "Yeah! 'cept Lou Ann jumped off the bed and tried to grab Sal away from me." "An' you saw her pisser then!" "Nah. She was standin' behind Sal an' her, uh, chests were smooshin' all over him, an' I saw them real good, but I couldn't see nothin' else she had." "So, what happened then?" "I thought he was gonna kill me, but Lou Ann yelled at him, so he called me a bunch'a dirty names an' le'me go." "Jeez, Mitch, were you scared?" Scared, he thought. Me? Scared? Nah, I just pooped in my pants. "Nah," he said, "I wasn't too scared... Hey, Frankie, I wanna ask you somethin', but don't get mad at me, okay?" "Yeah, I won't get mad, I think. What'd'ya wanna know?" "Like Sal, when I saw him naked..." He didn't quite know how to ask the question. "When I see some'a you guys in the shower, uh," he didn't want to hurt Frank's feelings, but it had been on his mind and so long as they were talking about it, "how's come you got such ugly pissers?" he asked. "You think I got an ugly pisser?" Frank couldn't believe he'd say this. "You're the guy with the ugly pisser! Don't you know Jewish guys always get the ends of their pissers whacked off when they're babies?" He'd heard some of the older guys on the street talking about this once, too. "My pisser's just the way God made it!" He laughed, saying, "Then God sure made it ugly!" and filed a question away for future asking, if he could find anyone to ask: "Was the end of my pisser really whacked off when I was a baby, and why?" * "...Zeig, heil! Zeig, heil!" Their arms extended in the Nazi salute, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Pluto goose-stepped, their voices singing in unison: "Right in zee Fuehrer's face. "Und zee Fueh-rer says, it is "a great disgrace, to be heiled, "heiled, right in zee Fuehrer's face!" The bus was late and the boys waited, gladly, because it allowed them to watch, for a second time, the three

BECOMING cartoons, the R.K.O. Newsreel, and the fifth continuing chapter of "Terry and the Pirates."

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"Pssst!" Mister Menchens, Baylor's bus driver, groundskeeper and janitor, "Come on!" rushed the boys out of the theater because it looked as though it was going to start snowing any minute and he didn't want to be caught on the road when it became treacherous with pre-war, all-but-bald tires. The sky was dark and foreboding with the definite feel of snow in the air. The cold darkness subduing the boys, they returned to their previous seats with minimal disorder. "Go on, Mitch, you sit by the window this time." "Thanks. How's come I get to sit by the window when it's dark out?" They hadn't spoken for a few minutes when, "Mitch," Frank put his head closer to Mitchell's so Stan and Pete, sitting in the seat directly in front, would not hear their conversation. "You know what I've been thinkin' 'bout?" Having a pretty good idea, he asked anyway. "What?" "I'm still thinkin' 'bout girl's pissers." "Frankie, how's come all of a sudden you're thinkin' so much 'bout girl's pissers?" "D'know. Guess I'm just curious. But you know what I think?" "No, Frankie, what'd you think?" Giggling, "I don't think they got 'em." "Huh? You 'don't think they got 'em,' what?" "Pissers, Mitch! Girls don't got 'em. Girls got nothin' there!'' "Frankie, you're jokin' me! What'd'ya mean, 'girls got nothin' there'? Girls gotta have somethin' there!" "I tell you, Mitch, girls got nothin'!" "You stupid, dumb, wop fart! How do'ya think they pee? An' if the don't got nothin' there," he began to giggle, "then what keeps their tuckas on?" The giggle erupted into infectious, high-pitched laughter, which broke the solemn atmosphere in the bus. "Smart-ass, Jew!" Playfully grabbing Mitchell about the throat, "I'm tryin' to teach you somethin'!" Frank struggled to hold his building laughter back, but was unable to. The boys turned in their seats to look at Frank and Mitchell, who were both laughing hysterically. "I knew things were too quiet!" Mister Menchens looked in the rear-view mirror. "Hey, you guys, keep it down back there!" Ignoring him, gasping between spasms of raucous laughter, Mitchell uttered, "It's like the invisible man down there, huh? Just a big hole that you can see right through, huh?"

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Laughing, not knowing why, not caring why, the laughter of the two boys infected the entire bus, even Mister Menchens, who by then knew that he was going to beat the snow home. * "...Mitch, come on. You've got to be the one to ask!" Sunday night, shortly before taps, sitting on the edge of Mitchell's bed, the conversation more serious then earlier, the speculation regarding the difference between male and female genitalia had continued. "Frank, I can't!" Looking for some excuse, for any excuse. "Why?" "'Cause my dad said I ain't supposed to do nothin' different from the rest'a you guys, and what if Miss Stoldig tells Captain Whyet an' he tells my dad? He'll kill me!" "She won't tell on you, Mitch." Frank smiled. "Anyway, what's so terrible 'bout us askin' a question? It's school here! We're supposed to ask questions!" Oh, yeah, sure! That's all you want me to do..." the thought made him smile, "is to ask Miss Stoldig if she'll draw a picture on the blackboard showin' us what her pisser looks like. Why me? You got lots more guts'n'me. Why don't you ask her?" "Why you, Mitch? 'Cause she likes you best in the whole class." "Yeah, Frankie, that's 'cause I'm the dumbest an' she thinks she's gotta help me more." "Mitch, that ain't true! I've told you a thousand times, you ain't dumb at all; it's just that you don't concentrate. Anyway, Harley's the dumbest." Smiling again, "Yeah, that's true," Mitchell said. "No one's dumber'n ol' Harley!" "So, you gonna do it?" "No, I ain't gonna do it! All the guys'll laugh." "You kiddin'? No one'll laugh! Don't you think all the guys wanna know 'bout this stuff, too? God, they're even dumber 'bout it than you'n'me, an' if you ask her you'll be some kind'a hero." "'Some kind'a hero'!" His eyes widening, his right eyebrow went up. "You think so? You really think they won't laugh, an' Miss Stoldig won't tell Whyet?" "Of course they won't laugh, an' she won't tell Whyet. Look, tomorrow, when she asks if we got any questions," Frank smiled, "well, this is sure one humdinger of a question! So? You will!" Reluctantly, "Yeah, I guess... But only if she's wearin' a bright hankie." 8 Miss Stoldig

BECOMING January 15, 1944 In her room, at her desk, peering into a makeup mirror, A red one! she thought. Turning from the mirror, looking out the window, Oh, yes! On such a dull day, definitely a red one.

45

Inside the top drawer of her dresser there were dozens of precisely folded silk neckerchiefs of varying colors and hues. Thumbing through the stack, Miss Stoldig selected a bright cherry color with a thin white floral border. Matching the center-folded points, she folded it precisely into one-and-a-half-inch folds, put it around her neck, tied a loose square knot, then, with a jaunty flip, tossed the ends over her shoulder. Miss Eunice Stoldig was 43 years old. Born in Quebec Province, Canada, she had earned her teaching credentials at age 25. Taking advantage of an opportunity to teach French at an exclusive all-girl school, she'd migrated to Chicago ten years later. Five years later, because her career had grown stagnant and wanting a change, she had accepted a position at Baylor Military School. Eunice Stoldig had two surviving members of her family, both younger brothers. During the early days of World War Two, before America had entered the war in Europe, both of Miss Stoldig's brothers had immigrated to England where Stanley, the youngest, was billeted on a British destroyer somewhere in the North Atlantic. Lawrence was a fighter pilot with the Royal Air Force. Miss Stoldig liked to amuse the boys of her fifth grade class with stories of fictional daring and heroic deeds performed by Stan and Larry. For this reason many of the pictures drawn by her younger "men" depicted a British Spitfire, a yellow, blue, white and red bulls-eye on its fuselage, roaring through blue skies and white clouds, triumphantly firing wing-mounted machine guns at the swastika'd planes above or below. Miss Stoldig was a tall, thin, severe appearing woman who always wore high-necked dresses of somber colors. Silk neckerchiefs--pre-war silk neckerchiefs--being her only frivolity; the color of which reflecting her daily mood. The men of her class knew that how far they could go depended upon the brightness of the color around her throat. Her austere appearance, though, was not a true reflection of Miss Stoldig's personality because she had a sharp mind, a quick wit, and did become emotionally involved with the children of her class, taking the time to personally help each child with what may not be understood or absorbed. In Miss Stoldig's class the last few minutes of each day were reserved for any questions or problems the boys may have, usually pertaining, but not necessarily restricted to, that day's classes. * "...Class, you may put your books away." There was a rustle of movement and the squeak of hinges as the boys lifted the tops of their desks and put their books and papers inside. A top accidentally fell and slammed shut. "So, class, any questions today?" She looked about the room, but, as usual, without her prompting no arms went up. Glaring at Mitchell from across the aisle, Frank motioned upward with his thumb. Looking at him, Mitchell shook his head negatively. Making a fist, Frank silently mouthed, Go ahead!

BECOMING Deciding, "Uh, eh-um," nervously clearing his throat, Mitchell lifted his arm but, bent at the elbow, it was barely seen behind the head and shoulders of the boy sitting in front of him.

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Miss Stoldig searched the room, looking for the boy... Why, it's Mitchell! Surprised because he never voluntarily raised his hand, standing, she walked to the front of her desk. One of the quiet boys, he was a hard learner and she did like him. "Mitchell," she asked, "you have a question?" "Uh, yes, Ma'am... eh-um," clearing his throat again. She waited for him to go on... "Mitchell, no one's going to bite you. Why don't you stand up so we can all see you." Standing, fidgeting nervously with the pencil in the grove of his desk, he glanced at Frank, who encouragingly nodded his head, then, looking at some point behind and above his teacher's head, "Uh, Miss Stoldig..." Patiently, "Yes, Mitchell?" "Miss Stoldig, uh, eh-um... What's the difference between, uh..." "Yes, Mitchell?" she prompted. "What's the difference between...?" He looked at Frank again, brought his face forward, closed his eyes and, "What's the difference between, uh..." suddenly speaking quickly, the words jumbling together: "What'd girls use when they gott'a 'go'?" It took a moment for all to understand what he'd asked, then all slouching bodies straightened. Miss Stoldig's head jerked upward. Her pale complexion became even paler and spots approximating the color of her neckerchief suddenly appeared on both cheeks. Encouraged because he hadn't been struck by lightning, his eyes still closed, though, "Miss, Stoldig," he asked, "what is the difference between a boy and a girl?" All eyes snapped to Mitchell... Then to Miss Stoldig. There, I've said it! Opening his eyes, looking expectantly at his teacher, he sat down. Eunice Stoldig swallowed loudly, an audible gulp that could actually be heard by the boys in the front row. She had waited all of her teaching career for a child to ask this question and, thankfully, none had, until then. A spinster, with the exception of one brief, all but hands-off relationship with a man when she was 22, she had never been intimate with a man. Of course she knew her body, or the basic workings of her body, but had only the slightest idea of what a man's "private part" looked like or, truly, how it functioned. Though she did have two younger brothers, her puritanical parents had sent the young Eunice from the room whenever they'd bathed, changed or dressed the boys. But once, when he was one year old, out of curiosity, she'd lowered Stanley's diaper, looked at and even touched his strange looking penis, then feeling sinful, she'd replaced the diaper and fled the room. What do I do now? I am a teacher, after all, and this is a legitimate question! Why shouldn't they know the difference in their god-given bodies? The boys of the fifth grade strained forward in their seats, watching her, waiting to see what their teacher was

BECOMING going to say, what she was going to do. They don't know if I'm going to answer Mitchell or punish him for asking. Well, I am a teacher, after all!

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"Mitchell," she said, "that is a very good question and I am going to answer it." Crossing behind her desk, she went to the blackboard. Mitchell looked about the room. Each boy catching his eye nodded at him, a few even gave him the thumbs-up sign. Trying to regain her composure, Miss Stoldig took three deep breaths, picked up the chalk and turned back to the class. "Class, I will illustrate the difference between a man and a woman." Turning back to the blackboard she took another deep breath and drew a snowman-like stick figure with breasts that appeared to sag with little dots on the bottoms for nipples, a dot for the navel and a small upward line between the snowman-like stick figure's legs... then quickly erased it and redrew the snowman-like stick figure with two small circles on either side of the snowman-like stick figure's chest with a dot within each of the circles, a dot for a navel and, once again, a small upward line between the snowman-like stick figure's legs. She then drew another snowman-like stick figure with three dots upon its snowman-like abdomen representing a man's nipples and navel with a small, very small, downward line between the snowman-like stick figure's legs. "Well, class," turning from the blackboard, she faced the boys, "this is the difference between a man and a woman." Facing the board again, using the stick of chalk as a marker, "Women have..." pointing to the dot within a circle, "breasts, and this..." swallowing, pointing to the small upward line between the snowman-like, female stick figure's legs, taking another deep breath, the flesh on her throat moving up and down, "...is called the, umm, vulva." "What'd she say?" Frank whispered to the boy in front of him who shrugged his shoulders who whispered to the boy in front of him, "What'd she say?" Who said, "I d'know." "And this, class," tapping the stick of chalk on the small, very small downward line between the snowman-like, male stick figures legs so hard that it broke in half, "is called..." She stopped, looked at the clock on the wall, Oh, God! then checked it with her wristwatch. "This is called the, uh," all but whispering, "penis. And that is the difference between a man and a..." The bell rang. Thank you, Jesus! "...woman. Class dismissed!" The boys did not move. Her back to the room again, "Class dismissed!" she repeated as, wiping the blackboard with an eraser in one hand, Eunice Stoldig wiped her moist forehead with the tails of her neckerchief with the other. Rising hesitantly, the boys file out of the room. "See," Frank said, "like I told'j'ya, girls got nothin'!" "Yeah," Mitchell agreed. "That's for sure!" The Education His hands moving in angry gestures, "I can't believe she did that! She think we're a bunch'a stupid kids or somethin'?" "I d'know, Fr..."

BECOMING "An' when'j'ya ever, ever hear her mumble?" 'Never! I nev..." "An' what the hell'd she call 'it' anyway?" "I don't..." "Mitch, I wanna know what a girl's pisser looks like!" "Yeah, me..." "Know what I've a mind t'do?" Without waiting for Mitchell to ask, "I've a mind to talk to Skorp." "Oh, no! You don't wanna do that, Frankie!" "I know, he's a, uh, schmuck, but he's the oldest guy here." "Yeah! The schmuck's been put back twice."

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"Mitch, who gives a shit how many times the schmuck's been put back? An' what's the difference anyhow? If anyone here knows 'bout girls an' girls pissers it'll be Scorp... the schmuck." "Yeah, but he's so big'n'ugly, an' I know he hates me." "Listen," squeezing his shoulder, "if you're that 'fraid'a Scorp, guess I'll just have to go alone." Catching the challenge, "No, I'll go! But I think there's gotta be a better way than talkin' to that Polack turd." "Knew you'd do it." Rising from his cot, heading out the door, "Come on, let's go!" "Huh? Now? You mean now? Okay, hold up!" Hunching his head in his collar, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, Mitchell reluctantly followed Frank out of the junior dormitory, past The Whyet House and through the door of the senior dormitory. "Hey, who let you little shits in?" "Hey, Corbitt," Frank snapped back. "Why don't you take a long walk on a short pier! Where's Skorp's place?" "Smart-ass, wop!" Corbitt said good-naturedly. "Right past the stairs," jerking his thumb upward, "on the left." "Yeah, thanks, Corbitt." Poking Mitchell in the ribs with his elbow, "Come on." The door was closed. Chamber doors were never supposed to be closed, but William "Skorp" Skorupski, at age fifteen, was the oldest student officer at Baylor, and rank and age apparently had their privilege. Looking at Mitchell, Frank knocked on the door. Coming from within, "Oh, shit!" there was a rustle of bedding then, "Yeah?"

BECOMING "Skorp, it's Frank Rizzo an' Mitch Lipensky, an' we wanna talk to you 'bout somethin'." "Shit! What the hell ya want? Okay, hol' it a minute." The boys head the squeak of bedsprings. They felt the vibration of heavy footsteps, the sound of a dresser drawer being slammed shut, more footsteps, then the door was yanked open. "Well, well, well! If it ain't two little dicks from the Baby Corps."

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Big for his age, looking closer to eighteen than fifteen, William Skorupski had limpid blue eyes and straight, longer than regulation, light blonde hair. The pale flesh of his squat face was covered with angry pimples and flat red scars where the pimples had been squeezed and ruptured. He was wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and white boxer shorts. Caught in the act of masturbation, there was a pronounced, cylindrical bulge along the fly of his shorts and a noticeable yellow stain under the fly. "So, Rizzo, I see you're still hangin' 'round with the Jew." Pinching Mitchell's cheek, "How'ya doin', kikie?" Slapping the older boy's hand away before Mitchell could react, "Listen, Scorp," Frank said, "we didn't come here to get your permission for Mitch'n'me to be pals! An' I don't like no one callin' my pal a Jew or kike, or anything like that." Smiling at Mitchell, "Only I can do that! Ain't that right, Mitch?" Seizing Frank by the shirt, Skorupski pulled him to within an inch of his face. "Ya smart-ass dago, son-of'a..." Grabbing hold of the younger boy's hand, "...bitch!" Skorupski's voice rose two octaves because, hanging loosely within his boxer shorts, making them easy to grab, "'ey, Frankie, le'go my balls!" Of average size for his age, Frank Rizzo had tightly curled black hair, an immaculate dark complexion and pleasing features. Coming from a tough, south-side neighborhood in Chicago, he'd learned to defend himself, usually by putting up a tough front, and when that didn't work, as he'd once told Mitchell: "I'd kick 'em here," pointing to his crotch, "an' run like hell." Here, at Baylor, most of the older boys admired his guts and left him alone. Six months older than Mitchell, Frank had a genuine fondness for the younger boy. Besides being his best friend here, Frank had also become his defender and mentor, often forcing him to put extra effort into his schoolwork. It was due to Frank's prompting that Mitchell made the extra effort that resulted in his promotion to corporal. Releasing Skorupski's testicles, backing up a foot, Frank held both fists at the ready, just in case. Backing away, too, sitting on the edge of his bed, taking a deep breath, Skorupski closed his eyes for the moments it took for the wave of nausea to pass. "Okay," he said crossly, "wha'd'ya little shits want?" "Look, Skorp, we didn't come 'ere, to fight with you." "Yeah?" Rubbing his crotch, "I'd'a never guessed. So what the hell you want, Rizzo?" "Mitch'n'me want to talk to you 'cause you're older an' we figured you'd know more 'bout it then the other guys." "Yeah," Mitchell cut in, "we wann'a know 'bout girls an', uh, their pissers an' stuff."

BECOMING Flattered, "You guys came so's I can learn ya 'bout girls, eh?" Leaning forward, putting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands, resting his chin on the balls of his thumbs, "Close the door." Closing the door, about to sit... "No, not on Ed's bed." He pointed, "There!" Their backs resting on Ed's bed, they sat on the floor.

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"I wann'a tell ya guys that ya came to the right guy to learn ya 'bout girls 'cause I know all 'bout 'em! Wha'd'ya wanna know?" "Their pissers," Frank said anxiously. "Tell us 'bout girl's pissers." "Yeah," Skorupski said reverently, "girl's pissers." Girl's pissers being a subject he had obviously thought about... a lot! "Only on girls it ain't called a pisser," he said. "On girls, what they pee out'a's called a cunt." Cunt? Mitchell thought. What an ugly word. "What's it look like?" he asked. Using his childhood word, "like a sisser, only smaller?" "Sometimes that's what he calls his pisser, a sisser." "Sisser?" Skorupski looked at Frank. "Jesus Christ! Sisser? Sisser! Jesus, the two'a'ya are a couple'a babies an' the two'a'ya stupid shits make me sick! It's..." pointing to his crotch, "called a prick! What guys piss out'a's called a prick, an' what girls piss out'a's called a cunt! Jesus, how the hell ya two stupid shits 'spect to know what it's all about if ya don't even know what a prick'n'cunt's called? Jesus H. K-rist!" "Okay, Scorp, what's a... cunt, look like?" "What's it look like, Rizzo? A cunt looks like, uh...." Really, having little more of an idea than they, "Tell ya what," he said, "I'll show ya. Only ya gotta promise not t'tell no-one 'bout nothin', an' ya gotta cross your hearts an' hope t'die." "Yeah, sure!" Frank said. Making the sign of the cross above their hearts, "I promise not to tell nothin' to no-one, an' hope to die if I do," both said--though Mitchell knew that, being Jewish, crossing his heart didn't count on him. Looking from boy to boy, "Okay," assured that they'll say 'nothin' t'no-one', Skorupski went to his dresser, reached beneath his stacked, but not so well-folded underwear, slammed the drawer shut, as he had done when the boys had knocked on his door, and returned to his bed. Handing something to Frank, "Okay, you guys, here." Two sets of eyes opened wide. The frayed, yellowing, French postcard showed the frontal view of a nude man and woman. She was holding the man's erect penis in the palm of her hand. The man's penis and pubic hair were easily visible; so were the woman's large breasts and dark nipples, which both boys stared at, but the woman had a shaved vulva, which on the now-crinkled postcard, with years of handling, had faded... showing nothing. The sight of the woman's breasts reminded Mitchell of Lou Ann and Sal. He remembered how startled he'd been when he had seen them together, naked, and now, as he looked at the picture, Mitchell felt an unknown emotion... an emotion that was making his penis grow--and he didn't have to urinate.

BECOMING "I still can't see it, her, uh, what'ch'ya call, cunt," Frank commented, "but she sure has big chests."

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"'Chests'?" He looked from boy to boy. "Pissers an' now chests? I really thought j'ya was smartet'n the Jew-boy here, Rizzo," glancing at Mitchell. "They're called 'tits,' an' titties is what guys like best 'bout girls." "Yeah," Frank said. "Why?" "Why? 'Cause guys like to look at titties an' touch 'em an'..." making an obscene sucking sound, "...suck on 'em." Disbelieving, having at least this much knowledge, "A baby, okay," Frank said, "but why would a guy, a big guy, ever wanna suck on a, uh, tittie? You ever do it, Scorp? You ever suck on a tittie? What's it taste like?" Not quite sure that he wanted to be put into the same category as a baby, but committed to teaching these two, "Yeah, sure I sucked on a tittie, lot's'a times! An' I'll tell ya what it tastes like." Knowing... thinking everyone knew that milk came from titties, "If you're a white guy with a white girl it kind'a tastes like, uh, vanilla." It made sense to him. "An' if you're a nigger guy with a nigger girl, it kind'a tastes like chocolate." "Come on, Scorp!" Frank looked at Mitchell, then back to Skorupski. "We're kids, but we ain't all that stupid!" "Yeah, Rizzo, it's the truth!" Speaking with truthful authority, "Guys is always suckin' on titties 'cause they taste so good!" Skorupski's vanilla and chocolate statement was extremely problematic, but conceding the point, at least here and now, "Yeah, sure," Frank said. "But what about their...?" pointing to his crotch. "Ah, yeah! That's the best part'a girls, too. What'ch'ya do is, ya put your prick into it there an jack-off, an' that's what's called fuckin'." The thought of it disgusting, "Why?" Mitchell asked incredulously. "Why would you ever do that?" "Jesus, I can't believe the two'a you are so dumb! Ya do it 'cause it feels real good! Ya do it till you, uh, kind'a..." the word "ejaculate" not in his vocabulary, having no other word for it, Skorupski said, "pee in her. Only it's not really pee, it's called..." "'Pee in her'? Pee in a girl! That's terrible! I wouldn't ever pee in a girl! Would you, Frank?" Looking at him. "You wouldn't ever wanna pee in a girl!" "You nuts? Course I wouldn't!" "Rizzo, you dumb shit! That's what ya do when ya fuck! Ya stick your prick in a girl's cunt an' ya jack-off till ya kind'a pee." Skorupski's interpretation of fucking just about as plausible as chocolate and vanilla breast milk, "Okay, if you say so, Scorp," Frank said, "but I still wanna know what a girl's, uh, you know, cunt looks like." "Yeah," Mitchell added, "an' what's 'jack-off' mean?" Not wanting Skorupski to think him any stupider then he already did, Frank said nothing. "Ya know how ya do 'it,' don't'j'ya, Rizzo?" Not waiting for an answer, he looked at Mitchell. "It's when ya get a boner..."

BECOMING But wanting Skorupski to know he knew something, Frank interjected, "Remember, on the bus yesterday, I told you 'bout gettin' a boner?" "Yeah," nodding his head, "it's when..." bringing his hand forward, Mitchell's index finger sprung upward. "Sure I remember."

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"Okay." Skorupski continued, "When ya get a boner an' wanna jack-off, ya gotta think 'bout somethin' dirty." Dirty? "Like pigs 'n'mud 'n'slimy stuff?" "Huh? Jesus! Is he really that stupid? He can't be that stupid! He's gotta be makin' fun'a'me! You makin' fun'a'me, ya little sheeny cock-sucker?" Cock-sucker? "He ain't makin' fun'a'you, Skorp! He really don't know nothin'!" "He better not be!" Partially placated, glaring at Mitchell, "No! Ya don't think'a stuff 'like pigs 'n'mud 'n'slimy stuff'," he said sarcastically. "Ya think'a stuff like this here picture!" Reaching for the postcard, taking it from Frank, he studied it a moment, then, to the complete amazement of both boys, reaching through the fly of his shorts, pulled his albeit flaccid but adult-sized penis through, closed his fist around it, and ... A few months back, Skorupski and one of his roommates, as immature young men may occasionally do, dared and double-dared the other to be the first to "whip it out" so they might match the size of their "pricks," then, as more than occasionally happens, one thing led to another and the two ended up masturbating, ostensibly to see who could shoot his "jizim" the furthest, but really, though neither boy touched the other, the thrill of knowing the other was watching added a new dimension of prurience to what, up until then, had been a solitary endeavor. Now, sensing the excitement of knowing he was being watched, his penis reacted and, "There," Skorupski said proudly, "now that's a real boner! An' here's what'j'ya do when ya jack-off." Leaning back on the bed, so they'll better be able to see and appreciate the size of his fully erect penis, holding the postcard in one hand, his penis in the other, the sense of eroticism coming from being watched rather than the image on the postcard, Skorupski began to masturbate. Indeed the two boys did watch. Mitchell stared at Skorupski's penis because with each downward stroke of his hand the glans popped out of the foreskin reminding him... of the twitching nose of a rabbit. Not quite the reaction Skorupski had hoped for. As for Frank: Watching Skorupski masturbate repulsed him, and yet, strangely, watching caused a stretching in the crotch of his underpants that made him squirm. He wanted the boys to see him "come," wanted them to see that it's not really pee but some other stuff called jizim, but, wisely thinking better of it, forcing an unseen show of willpower, stopping just short of ejaculation, his eyes closed, the older boy concentrated a moment, then reluctantly shoved his penis back in his shorts, where, as a tent pole in a tent, it jutted upward. "When ya get a boner," he said almost breathlessly, "like this," proudly, grabbing his erect penis around the material of his shorts, "then ya stick it in a girl's cunt an' ya jack-off, only then it's called..."

BECOMING "A girl's big enough there so's you can put your hand in it, too?" "Oh, Jesus!" Skorupski sighed. "No! Ya don't 'put your hand in it,' ya stupid prick! Ya move your ass up'n'down." Sharply raising and lowering his pelvis three times for emphasis. "An ya do like that till it feels real good, till it feels kind'a like you're peein'. An' that's what's called fuckin'." Taking the postcard from Skorupski, turning it to the light, studying it carefully, "But," Frank said, "I still don't know what it looks like."

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"Ya dumb dago!" Skorupski yelled, jabbing his finger towards the card. "That there's what a cunt looks like," Shaking his head, "Sorry, Skorp," he said emphatically. "But I still don't see nothin' there! How's 'bout you, Mitch?" Taking the card from his friend, looking at it for a full three seconds, "Nah. Her, uh, titties, yeah, but nothin' else." Becoming frustrated because they did not see what his imagination did see, whatever that might be, and also, stopped short of ejaculation twice within the last twenty minutes, having an urge to get back to the task at hand, "Ya asked me to teach ya 'bout girls and I taught'j'ya! Only ya two dumb shits don't wanna learn nothin'!" Glancing downward to be sure his penis was safely ensconced in his shorts, bounding off the bed, rushing to the door, yanking it open, "Get outta here ya stupid, dago shit an' take that dumb sheeny prick wi'ch'ya!" * Walking slowly back to their dormitory, "See, it's like I told you, Mitch, girls got nothin'" "Yeah. Well least-ways now we know what everything's called." "Yeah!" Punching him on the shoulder, Frank ducked as Mitchell swung back. "Ya sheeny prick, ya!" "Yeah," swinging again, "Ya dago, uh, tittie!" He missed again. Day is done "Nine o'clock! Lights out!" Stamp books closed, all trading stopped. Letters to mom and dad held off, to be written the next day. Checkerboards folded. Red and black checkers and black and white chessmen put into their boxes and the boxes put onto the game shelf. Hands and face scrubbed. Teeth brushed. Squeaking of bedsprings. Rustle of bedding. A whisper: "Shhh!" A giggle: "Quiet!" A burst of laughter: "Settle down!"

BECOMING "Quiet in there! Squad leaders making rounds." "Floor two, west section all accounted for!" "Thank you, Frankie. Good night." "You're welcome, Miss Stoldig. Good night." Two hundred and fifty-two boys lay in warm, clean beds. Eyes closed or looking at the dimly iridescent ceiling, or through the window at the slivered, silver moon. Waiting... Waiting. It started. The bugle. Muted, as though coming from a great distance... Soft. Sad. Crying. Taps: Day is done. Gone the sun. From the lake. From the hills, from the sky. Day is done. For the boys lying awake, it was their time of personal reflection. Sadly thinking of a loved and missed mother, father, brother, sister... home.

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Remembering for all the make-believe, even though it was remote and far away from this small, peaceful place in southern Wisconsin, there was a war being fought, and those that had remembered that their father or big brother was "there"... wherever "there" was. Children. American children. John Wayne. Randolph Scott. The Lone Ranger and Captain Midnight. Pictures in pencil or crayon: A B-17 Flying Fortress with its bomb bay open. "Bombs away!" Bombs falling on the "bad guys": on Germany, on Japan. A Lockheed Lightening with its white- and blue-winged star. "Off we go, into the wild blue yonder,

BECOMING flying high into the sky!" Children. American children. For them the war was far away, a distant, romantic montage of movie shadows and radio sounds. RATATATATATAT! The staccato burst of machine guns. "Tail gunner to pilot!" "Yeah, Joe?" "Hey, Cap, there goes another good Nip!" The Japanese Mitsubishi Zero, fire and smoke spewing from its engine, spiraled madly towards earth. "Yeah, good shootin', Joe!" "Say hello to Tojo, Nip!" "Squad leader to squad! Hiennies coming in at two o'clock!" RATATATATATAT! "I say, Captain. There goes another 'good Hiennie'!"

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The German Mercedes Messerschmitt, fire and smoke spewing from its engine, spiraled madly towards earth. "Good show!" "Say hello to Hitler, Hiennie!" They lay in their warm, clean beds, sleeping, dozing, or talking softly. They talk of this and that: of parents, of brothers, of sisters, of pets, of friends... of home. Burrowing a little deeper in their blankets, soon all are asleep. Thin, wispy clouds scuttled across the sky. The wind blew, rustling dead and dried leaves. All was quiet... Day was done. Mitchell was on an extremely comfortable plateau. He felt the cool breeze that came from beneath the parted window and heard the soft, even breathing of the other three boys. Pulling the blanket over his head, he felt the warm vapor of his breath, and his comfort, both physical and mental, was complete. The well of sleep deepened. There was a bright form in the tunnel's dark, vaporous distance. Mitchell moved towards it. As he came closer

BECOMING the figure dwindled. As he began to run the figure receded into nothingness, leaving the tunnel in total blackness. The light! He ran to find it. Running. Running, but he remained in blackness... Suddenly the figure was back and it was closer but still too far away and he could not see what it is, but he must see what it is and he ran to it. The light remained stationary, yet as he came to it, it came no closer so he ran faster, faster. Closer... The light is her! Waving his arms, "Wait!" Running, "Wait," he called. "It's me, the little kid!" The light's away motion suddenly stopped. "Wait, Lou Ann, wait! It's me, the little kid!" Stationary now, she opened her arms to him. Louise Ann was as he remembered, then... naked. He could see her so clearly: her face; her long, braided hair... her breasts.

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"Lou Ann," he said, "I want to touch your titties! I want to taste your vanilla!" He reached to her, but she was just out of reach. "Lou Ann, I want to see your cunt!" He looked "there"... but there was nothing there. Nothing but a perfectly symmetrical, one-dimensional hole that he was able to see through, to the blackness behind Louise Ann. "Lou Ann, I want jack-off in your cunt, only then it's called fuckin'." "But," pointing her finger at him, "you're just a little kid!" Looking down, he realized he was naked, and that he had an erection. But it was not his penis, it was Salvatore Diamond's penis. Holding it tightly, he moved his hand down, forcing the dangle of foreskin to glide over the glans... then up again, and down again, and each time he did the head of a rabbit popped through, and it looked so funny.... And it felt so nice. "Lou Ann!" Lifting his/Sal's penis in his hand, "I am not a kid!" Proud of it, showing it to Louise Ann, "See? I'm not a kid 'cause I got a boner!" It felt so nice holding his/Sal's penis. "Here!" Pointing it upward so Louise Ann could see it better, "See?" Moving his hand upward, and downward. And it felt sooo nice.

BECOMING Up and down. Holding himself through the opening of his pajamas, unaware of the movement, the sensual feeling relaxed him even further and Mitchell dropped deeper into his tunnel... deeper. Throughout his nine and a half years he had fondled himself hundreds of times, always at night or in the morning when the need to urinate had caused an involuntary erection. Now it was different. Now the sensation was more pronounced. Up and down. More urgent. Up, down.

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Normally a boy his age will not have had this need, but his conversation with Frank on Sunday had brought the picture of Salvatore Diamond and Louise Ann Richtor vividly back to mind, then, being pressured by Frank to ask Miss Stoldig the difference question on this day had created a high degree of nervousness, then the session with Skorupski, and his dream now had caused an erotic, sensory overload. Harder, faster. More friction was created along the hard, thin shaft of the nine-and-a-half-year-old boy's penis. Harder, faster. Up, down. Up-down. His body jerking with the powerfully wrenching spasms, Mitchell moaned aloud from his deep place as he sensed the warmth that began in the area of his rectum, testicles and groin then spread throughout his entire body that, even in his sleep, caused him to shudder at the convulsing sensations of a child's first orgasm... Finished, it's immediate end was deeply relaxing, as though having relieved himself of a very full bladder after holding off for a long time--a very long time. His eyes opened. Becoming aware, he stared into the darkness for a number of seconds, then, Oh, no. Appalled, No! he thought, it can't be! I've made in bed! Throwing the blanket off, he rushed from the room through the deserted, dimly lit hall into the bathroom. Standing before the urinal, expecting his pajamas to be wet he looked down, but they weren't, his pajamas were dry, absolutely dry! Was I dreaming? Yeah, it had to be a dream! Or maybe I was hangin' out and only got the bed wet. He shuddered. The bed, wet! What'll the guy's say when they find out I've pee'd in bed? Rushing back to the room, he felt the sheet and blanket. Dry! The bed was dry! Was I dreaming? Mitchell wondered again. Trying to remember, he crawled back into bed, but could not sleep and soon, Now I do gotta go. Hungry, feeling his stomach growl as he stood in front of the urinal, Mitchell tried to remember if he had any

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of the cache of candy left that he'd bought at the theater yesterday. Nope! His stomach growling again, he remembered that he'd finished the last box of Juju Beads after lunch and, though he had no idea of the time, he did know it was hours until reveille and breakfast. Bending over the sink, cupping his hand he scooped an ounce of water into his mouth, then again. Straightening his body his eyes came in line with the community shelf that ran above the sinks the entire length of the bathroom wall. Stepping two sinks over, taking his can of Dr. West's Tooth Powder off the shelf, Mitchell looked at the strip of adhesive tape marked "Lipensky, M." in indelible black ink then, shrugging his shoulders, he removed the cap, looked at the oval opening a moment, shrugged his shoulders once again and up-ended the can directly into his mouth. "Hmmm!" Liking the taste of peppermint on his tongue, thinking, Not too bad, standing back, he studied the shelf. It's a virtual candy counter. Peppermint... Spearmint... Wintergreen... Cinnamon! Colgate... Pepsodent... Ipana... Teel... Dr. West's! White... Blue... Green... Red! Paste... Powder... Liquid! He could pour, squeeze and shake, and if he didn't take too much of any tube, can or bottle, who'd miss it? Starting at the window, working his way to the door, Mitchell sampled from each can, tube and bottle, and when he finished he went back to one of the three bottles of Teel and, careful not to touch it there, shook a few drops of the thick, red fluid directly onto his tongue. Yup! Without a doubt, the cinnamony taste of Teel was his favorite. Mitchell Lipensky's sweet tooth satisfied, going back to bed, he promptly fell asleep. 9 The Toothpaste Thief January 19, 1944, to June 14, 1944 His thoughts troubled and confused him. Why then, after all that time, why then did he continually think of Salvatore and Louise Ann and try to bring each minute detail of those few moments of looking through their bedroom window into such a mentally-sharp focus? Also, and even more disturbing, now his penis seemed to have a mind of its own, and now, for no apparent reason, even if he did not have to urinate, he might have an erection at any time, even, embarrassingly, in class. Three days earlier he knew nothing of masturbation. Though no one had told him "You'll go blind!" That, "Thou shalt not cast thy seed upon the ground." Or even that "You'll grow hair on the palm of your hand," Mitchell somehow felt that "jacking-off" was wrong. Three days earlier, when he watched Skorupski masturbate he'd thought the older boy looked ridiculous. Yet, seventy-two hours since his first, unknown, nocturnal emission... After two nights of fighting the inevitable, an hour after taps, Mitchell could no longer restrain himself and he allowed his mind to go to

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where his mind wanted to go, and it wanted to go to Louise Ann's breasts, and he allowed his hand to go where his hand wanted to go and it wanted to go to his engorged penis and, though he had no idea of what the outcome might be, he felt a compulsion to do what he seemed compelled to do... Holding himself, he thought about Louise Ann's breasts--Something dirty?--and moved his hand, and the more he moved his hand the more he was compelled to move it because the approaching juggernaut of heretofore unknown sensations registered in his brain as something that simply must reach its conclusion.... "Mmmm!" The involuntary moan broke simultaneously with the first spasm and Mitchell bit his lip in order to keep from being heard as the incredibly warm, sweet sensations started from between his rectum and testicles and fanned their way upward as, one after the other, the chain of penile contractions pounded deliciously throughout his body. Catching his breath, the boy's mind could not comprehend the impossibly sweet miracle that he'd brought onto himself, by his own hand: his first conscious orgasm... But as the erotic heat drained his psyche, Uh, oh! Mitchell suddenly realized the prolonged sensation was a highly intensified feeling of the very first moment of relief when the pressure is released in a very, very full bladder after holding off urinating for a very, very long time. Bolting from his bed, rushing to the bathroom, Mitchell, once again felt as though he'd urinated, but standing in front of the urinal he discovered that his pajamas were, as before, perfectly dry. Left with a drained feeling and a slight ache in his testicles, back in bed, lying with his hands crossed behind his head staring at the muted ceiling, That's what it was! He thought he knew what had awoken him three nights earlier. Maybe I didn't dream I pee'd in bed. Maybe I did "that" in my sleep and just thought I'd pee'd in bed... Well, okay, he thought, I did it once, maybe two times. Also left with an illogical feeling of guilt, But I ain't gonna do it again, he promised himself, ever! "Ever" lasted until two nights later. By then, rather sure that he would not urinate, still, though, having the feeling that, Maybe I might, because at the time of orgasm, to him, it felt as though he had urinated, and not wanting to take the chance, and also, truly not wanting to admit to himself that the reason he was getting out of bed and going to the bathroom, the real reason--only, though, after he was sure that everyone else was asleep--was to do it, Mitchell told himself that he was hungry and the reason he was going to the bathroom was to nosh' on toothpaste, which he did, before, then after he went into the last of the four stalls, closed the door, dropped his pajama bottoms, sat on the toilet and thought of Louise Ann. Mitchell, of course, still hadn't the slightest idea, and couldn't even begin to imagine, what a girl looks like there, so, as he had before, thought of what he did see and put himself in the place of Salvatore Diamond. He enjoyed seeing his penis stir, jerk upward and, swelled to a rock-hard four and a half inches, finally stand straight up in his lap, and he was always amazed by the fact that he was able to perform this miraculous feat simply by thinking about "something dirty." He would then take himself in hand and pump. Mitchell didn't like the term jack-off and the word masturbation was unknown to him so he referred to it as pumping. Well into his third week of toothpaste raids and pumping, in anticipation of his approaching orgasm, spreading his thighs, Mitchell arched his pelvis upward, closed his eyes tightly and... This time the contractions were stronger than usual and the sweet, pulsing phenomenon suddenly gave way to a sharp pain and, looking downward, Mitchell became frightened because, "Oh, my God!" stuff was squirting

BECOMING out of his boner.

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Pain and fear momentarily overcome by absolute amazement, he watched the trajectory of the stuff as seven bursts of creamy semen arched into the air and splattered onto the toilet door and his thighs and, "Oh, my God," he said aloud for the second time, adding, "I've broken something!" Thinking, I gotta tell someone! Tearing a wad of toilet paper off the roll, he wiped his thighs and the door, pulled his pajamas up, rushed out of the bathroom and down the hall to Miss Stoldig's room, where, fist poised, about to pound on her door, stopping, What am I going to tell her? Uh, that I was sittin' on the toilet pumpin' myself when all of a sudden this gooey white stuff came shootin' ou'a my boner an' shot all over the toilet door? His arm dropped. It don't hurt no more, so I think that maybe I'd better just go back to bed an' see how I feel in the morning. An' God, he thought emphatically, if it's okay then I really promise that I ain't never gonna do it again! The next morning he had a dull ache in his testicles, but by the time the boys lined up to march to the mess hall for breakfast even that was gone, so he'd decided that, Maybe I won't say nothin to no one 'bout breakin' somethin' there, and, Okay, God, thanks for not makin' me sick there, an' I promise I ain't gonna do it again... not ever, never! On the third night of his solemn resolution, awaking with an erection, No I ain't gonna do it, he vowed, but even as he thought this, Okay--his disobedient hand taking hold of his penis--so I'll just hold it for a couple'a seconds. Just holdin' it can't hurt nothin', he asked God, can it? Gosh, he thought a few seconds later, I'm sooo hungry! As on those other nights, just in case he should run into one of the other boys, tucking his boner between his thighs, getting out of bed with his thighs held tightly together, walking somewhat like a penguin, Mitchell went into the bathroom, sampled from the shelf, then, looking longingly at the end stall, Maybe I ought'a try to poop. He went into the stall, closed and locked the door, dropped his pajamas, sat on the toilet, and... There it was! He looked at it, and it looked at him, and Mitchell Lipensky's auxiliary brain, his newly developed brain, the brain between his thighs said, Go on! Do it! It ain't gonna hurt nothin' if you do it! Well, he rationalized, maybe that gooey stuff was just a one-time, kind'a freaky thing, an', he thought hopefully, it won't happen again. Besides, everything's workin' okay, ain't it? Besides, how would he know if it was broken if he didn't try it out? So, taking hold, softly at first, lightly at first... then, as though in a frenzy, his hand pistoned, till... Oh, God! The good pain was back, the Oh, God! so sweet, ecstatic pain was back, but... It did happen again! The ejaculation, but without the bad pain this time and, due to the way he was sitting, the semen shot straight into the air and fell, splattering, in a dozen or more heavy drops onto his thighs. Sitting back, Mitchell looked at the wet spots and, Maybe, he thought, wishing there was someone, anyone, he could speak to about this, maybe this is somethin' I'm just goin' through. Remembering something that Skorupski had said,--Pee in a girl--the wisp of a thought formulated in his brain, his upper brain, And maybe, he further thought, this squirtin' stuff is somethin' that's supposed to happen. But, as so often happens with the wisp of a thought, the wisp scattered to the wind because... Thinking he saw something, lowering his head, looking closely, "I can't believe it," he said aloud, because there, in the fold of flesh between his pelvis and penis, were the tendrils of three barely-seen, black hairs.

BECOMING * The toothpaste raids continued, and shortly parents began to receive more frequent requests for their son's tooth cleaning substance. "What in the hell's that kid doing with it," they'd ask. "Eating it?"

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Of all the boys at Baylor Military School, Mitchell Lipensky always had the sweetest smelling breath, and he never suffered from constipation. 10 The Homecoming June 15, 1944 The train crammed with military personal, the "men" of Baylor, on their way home for summer vacation, had been forced to split into smaller groups that were scattered throughout the long train. Frank Rizzo and Mitchell Lipensky were together in the middle section of the second from last car, which for some reason was not quite as crowded as the other cars. "Hey," returning from the toilet, Frank dropped onto the seat, "don't stand up or look like you're lookin' or nothin', but the lady across the aisle's," motioning with his head, "feedin' her baby." "Yeah? Big deal!" "With 'er tittie, Mitch. With 'er tittie!" "Yeah?" Standing, he looked about. Pulling him down, "I tol'j'ya not to stand!" Leaning back so Mitchell might see beyond him, both boys looked across the aisle. In her mid-twenties, the moderately attractive lady had dishwater blonde hair and was minimally twenty pounds overweight. Stretched at the seams, the top three buttons of the cotton housedress she wore were open, revealing the white mound of her left breast. Nestled in her arms, the baby was partially wrapped in a blue receiving blanket. One of the baby's small hands clutched the lapel of her dress, while its other hand squeezed the flesh of her breast making five small indentions in the soft flesh. Having no idea that the blanket covering her chest had slipped revealing her breast, nor that she was being watched by the two boys across the aisle, lost in a daydream, her forehead resting on the vibrating window, the lady gazed absently at the passing scenery. Her eyes closed, opened... and closed again. Pretending to look out the window, as though something of interest was passing on the other side of the train, every few seconds the boys looked across the aisle. "Frankie," Mitchell whispered, "I think she's sleeping." "Yeah."

BECOMING Dropping all pretense, Frank and Mitchell watched the lady intently.

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This was the first time that Frank had ever seen a "real live tittie," and so long since Mitchell had that, for him, this, too, was a first. Besides, by then he'd grown tired of the memory of Louise Ann's titties and considered the possibility of using what he saw then--minus the baby, of course--as possibly the focal point of his future masturbatory daydreams. The opening and squeezing of the baby's fingers on the pliable flesh was beginning to affect both boys, and neither wanting the other to see what each suddenly had, first one then the other crossed his legs. Unconsciously shifting the weight of her baby, the lady's nipple pulled from its mouth. "Huuh!" Both boys inhaled sharply as their mental cameras clicked the picture they saw: large normally, milk-swollen then, lines of blue veins ran beneath the translucent flesh ending at the lady's turgid, dark pink nipple. In her sleep, out of habit, lifting her breast from beneath, the lady put the nipple back into the baby's mouth. Latching on instantly, a foamy circle of thin milk formed around the baby's puckered lips. "Greedy little kid's kind'a making me thirsty." "Yeah, me, too." Thinking, Maybe I'll go into the toilet when this is over. Mitchell said. Oddly, Frank coincidentally had the same thought. Pitching around a bend, the lady's head bounced against the window, waking her. Looking at her baby, she saw that the blanket had slipped and that her breast was fully exposed. Embarrassed, instantly pulling the blanket over the baby's head, glancing about to see if anyone had seen her, she saw the two boys gaping at her from across the aisle and, her anger apparent, the lady stared back. Averting their eyes, sitting back, both boys looked straight ahead. Waiting till "things" subsided, Mitchell went into the toilet. When he returned a few minutes later, Frank made the same trip. "How's 'bout us callin' each other on the phone sometime?" "Yeah, and maybe we can come to visit, on the streetcar." "Yeah, why not?" * Twenty minutes later the train pulled into Union Station in downtown Chicago and many of the servicemen aboard rushed into the arms of their loved ones, and the men of Baylor into the arms of Ma and Pa, Mom and Dad, or Mommy and Daddy. Impulsively running to his father first, feeling a pang of disappointment, the hug quick and perfunctory, Walter dropped his arms even as his son's arms were still about him, but Mitchell's disappointment was quickly dispelled by his mother's welcoming enthusiasm.

BECOMING "Mitchie, we've missed you so much!" Kissing his cheek, she held him at arm's length. "My God, Walt, it's only been... what? two months since we've seen him last and, good God, look how he's grown!"

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Occasionally he would see women with protruding stomachs and he'd never really thought too much about it but, standing at arm's length, Mitchell was able to see his mother also. "You've grown, too! How's come your belly's so big?" "Mitchie, I, uh... I'm..." He knows! Thinking, he surely knows! Thinking he'd go along with it, Walter, who very rarely joked said, "Your mother swallowed a watermelon seed." Looking at his father, thinking, A watermelon seed? "Mom swallowed a watermelon seed," he asked, "an' that's the reason she's so fat?" Continuing the joke, "Sure, Mitchie, what else?" Shooting an angry glance at her husband, Myra was about to respond when Walter picked up Mitchell's suitcase and began to walk away. Thinking, This isn't the place to go into it, taking hold of her son's hand, they followed. Finding the watermelon seed story more than a bit hard to believe, but never known as a kidder--he is his father, after all, and fathers do not lie to their kids! So supposing it was possible, Mitchell told himself, I'd better be real careful whenever I eat watermelon. "...Hello!" "Normie! Hi, it's me!" "Mitch! Hi! When'j'ya get home?" My mom'n'dad picked me up at the train a little while ago, and I'm home for the summer now... What'j'ya doin'?" "Nothin', listenin' to the radio. You wanna play or somethin'?" "Yeah! How's 'bout marbles?" "Nah, don't feel like shootin' marbles." "Wanna go to the park an' fly kites?" Thinking a moment, "Nah, don't feel like flyin' a kite." "Normie, what'd'ya wanna do?" "Go to a movie! It's okay with your mom if you go to a movie?" Turning his head, but not moving his mouth from the phone, "Hey, Mom," he yelled to Myra, who was in the kitchen while, on the other side of the phone, Norman winced from the volume of his friend's voice, "it's okay if me'n'Normie go to a movie?"

BECOMING "If Normie and 'I' go to a movie!" "You wanna go to a movie with Normie, Mom?" Knowing he was playing with her, "No, I don't want to go to a movie with Normie! Yes, you can go to a movie... Ask Norman if he'd like to come over for lunch." "Normie, yeah, it's okay. An' my mom want's'a know if you wanna come here for lunch." "She makin' toasted cheese sandwiches?"

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Causing Norman to wince again, "Mom, Normie want's'a know if you're makin' toasted cheese sandwiches." "If that's what you two want, yes." "Yeah, Normie, toasted cheese sandwiches... Come on over an' we'll see what's playin'." "Yeah, be right there! See'ya in a minute!" Dropping the phone on the cradle, Norman looked at the Baby Ben on the doily on the center of the table: 10:42. Plenty'a time to eat an' get to the movie, he thought as he scooped the two quarters off the doily that his mother had left for him. * Ida Parminter was a diminutive woman who yielded absolute power over Norman, his baby brother, and her husband. Standing on their third floor porch, calling for Norman, Ida's voice would resound throughout the entire block and Mitchell had often wondered how such a small lady could have such a big voice. Standing well under six feet tall, Frank Parminter was a burly man that in his younger years had been a professional wrestler for a short time. Frank now earned his living by working at a defense plant during the week and vending beer or peanuts at the Chicago Stadium on weekends. Four months older than Mitchell, Norman was taller than either of his parents. He had straight, dark-blonde hair, gray eyes and a pleasant face. Myopic, he wore clear-framed glasses that accentuated a long, straight nose. * Searching under the table, Norman retrieved one tattered gym shoe. Looking about, "Where's the other?" he said aloud as he walked to the living room where a quick search revealed one end of the frayed shoelace of his other shoe beneath the sofa. Going into the bedroom he shared with his two-year-old brother, removing his pajamas, Norman put on boxer shorts, corduroy pants, and a striped polo shirt. Checking to be sure that he had the key and his "four bits," pulling the door shut behind him, swinging himself by the banister post over the first four steps of each landing, bounding down the three flights of stairs, Norman ran through his yard, then Mitchell's, up the three flights of stairs, and through the gate onto the Lipenskys' porch, where Mitchell stood just inside the screen door waiting for him. The friends hadn't seen each other since spring vacation, over two months before, and, embarrassed by the utter joy of being in the company of the other again, the two stood on either side of the door looking at each other through the screen. Too old to hug and too young to shake hands, the emotion of being together again was clearly seen on each of their faces. "Hi, Mitchie."

BECOMING "Hi'ya, Normie." "For goodness sake," Myra scolded, "let him in!" "Oh, yeah." Pushing the door open, Mitchell stepped aside. The odors of melted butter and frying cheese filled the kitchen as Myra pressed the second batch of four pieces of butter-browned white bread together with a spatula, causing the melted American cheese to ooze from between the slices of bread onto the hot griddle. Looking at her, "Hello, Mrs. Lipensky." Norman stared a moment at the size of Myra's stomach beneath the apron she wore. "Hello, Norman... You two go wash your hands. Lunch'll be ready in a minute." * Through with lunch, sitting on the downstairs stoop, the movie section of the Chicago Sun on his lap, "So, Mitch," Norman asked, "you happy to be home again?"

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"You kiddin'?" Feeling the vibrations of the traffic. Hearing the rattle and clang of a streetcar. Smelling the mix of cooking odors coming from the open windows. Remembering just how badly he'd missed the sounds, sights and smells of his neighborhood, of his world, caused Mitchell to feel as though he were on the verge of crying. "Yeah, Normie, I sure am! So," he asked, changing the subject, "what's around?" A virtual cornucopia of movie theaters to choose from: on Ogden Avenue, two blocks to the west was the Lindy; on Kedzie Avenue, four blocks east was the White Palace; on Cermak Road, four blocks to the south was the Douglas; and about a mile east on Cermak was the Marshall Square. In the opposite direction, going north to Roosevelt Road there was the Gold, Twentieth Century, and Central Park theaters. On Saturday afternoons, all the neighborhood movie theaters catered to the kids, showing two movies, newsreels, weekly serials, three to four cartoons and, more often then not, a comedic short. Some of the theaters even gave gifts with the price of admission, and most had weekly raffles for anyone buying at least one ten-cent war stamp that came along with a raffle ticket. For the price of a quarter for admission and a quarter for candy and popcorn, parents felt that the movies were, indeed, a baby-sitting value beyond comparison, giving them at least three and a half hours of peace and quiet and, "So, nu, you want to stay a second time? So, okay! So stay a second time." Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Red Ryder, Wild Bill Elliot, Lash LaRue. The "good guys" wore white hats and the "bad guys" wore black hats, with the exception of "Hoppy," Hopalong Cassidy, who always wore black. Tarzan, Boston Blackie, the Thin Man, Charlie Chan, Sherlock Holmes... "Elementary, my dear Watson." Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, Abbot and Costello, the Three Stooges... "My girl Nellie wore a brand new dress, it was really might thin.

BECOMING When she asked me how I liked it, I answered with a grin. Wait till the sun shines, Nellie!"

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Superman... "Up, up, and away!" Captain Midnight, Don Winslow of the Navy, Terry and the Pirates, Rocket Man, Captain Marvel... "Shazam!" Popeye, Woody Woodpecker, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig... "Th-th-that's all folks!" Previews of coming attractions and the newsreel. "Hey, Mitchie, let's go to the Douglas!" "'s'okay with me!" Running upstairs, he threw the newspaper onto the dining room table. "Hey, Mom, me'n'Normie's goin' to the Douglas! Okay to take money?" "Straw's cheaper than hey! And Normie and 'I'!" Speaking through the bathroom door, "My purse is on the dresser. Take fifty cents and..." knowing her son, "stop running!" Running to the bedroom, he took two quarters from her purse, closed it, opened it again and took another dime. "Thanks, Mom," he called on the way out. "I took another dime!" Without waiting for an answer, slamming it behind him, running out the door, he thumped down the stairs. Below, "Oh, God!" Mrs. Kaplin looked at her ceiling. "He's home again! Manny, the little mumser's home again!" Feeling the warm, mid-June sun on his back, Mitchell blinked his eyes a number of times to be sure that he was really there: once again walking to the movies with his very best pal, Normie. Neither boy could think of anyplace they would rather be or anything they would rather be doing and, relishing the moment, both walked in silence until, "Normie," Mitchell looked to his side, "you ever think 'bout girls?" "Huh?" The question was so far from his field of thought that Norman was not quite sure that he'd heard right. "What do you mean, 'think 'bout girls'?" "Girls! Girls! You ever think 'bout them?" "No, course not! Why'd I ever wanna think 'bout girls?" "You'n'me don't have sisters, so we can't see 'em, an'... You ever wonder 'bout their, uh, pissers?" "No! Why'd I ever wanna wonder 'bout girl's pissers?" "Why? 'Cause they don't got 'em! Girls are different'n guys. They got... I d'know... somethin' else." Looking at his friend to see if he was serious, "Mitch," Norman said, "I never thought 'bout it before, but if

BECOMING girls don't got pissers, what'd they pee out'a?" "Yeah! That's what I'm sayin'! That's what me'n'Frankie... Remember my pal, Frankie?" Sensing a pang of jealousy, "Yeah," Norman nodded his head. "That's what him'n'me wanted to know, so I asked our teacher..." "What girls pee out'a?" Norman could not believe that anyone, especially Mitchell, would have courage enough to... "I can't believe it! You asked your teacher how girls pee?"

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"Not how girls pee, what they pee out'a! An' yeah, me," he said proudly. "An' would you believe she never told us? She pretended to tell us, but really didn't tell us nothin'. So me'n'Frankie asked this older guy we know, Skorupski, an' he told us what girls got there is really what's called a... uh, cunt. An' sometimes, if they wanna, guys go 'round puttin' their pissers--only on guys pissers are really what's called a prick--an' sometimes, if they wanna, guys put 'em--their pricks into girls--an' then they, uh, kind'a pee in 'em." Too much to comprehend, stopping, looking at Mitchell, "First off," Norman asked, "how could'j'ya do it? How'd you ever be able to get 'it' in 'there'? An' then, even if a guy could get it in there, why, why would any guy ever wanna put his pisser, or whatever you wanna call it, into a girl's pisser, or whatever you wanna call it, an' then do that, what'j'ya said, pee!? That's the most disgusting thing I ever heard!" "I didn't say guys pee in 'em, I said they kind'a pee in em. An, yeah, Normie," Mitchell said, beginning to walk again, "that's what me'n'Frankie thought, too, but it's the truth!" Holding his right hand up, "Swear on my mom!" Everyone knows that if a guy swears on his mom it's got to be the truth. "Okay!" Asking the universally asked question, "But why would a guy do that? Tell me that if you know so much. Why would a guy ever wanna do that?" "Okay," Mitchell answered belligerently, "I'll tell you if you really wanna know!" Girls... Girls are... Girls are just there! Although the thought had never entered Norman's mind before then, then, as though the question had become some sort of basic knowledge that was absolutely necessary for him to gain, immediately, Norman then felt an urgent need to know, and besides, by then his curiosity had been piqued, so... "Yeah, Mitch, I do wanna know! So tell me already!" Adding sarcastically, "P-lease!" Crossing Twenty-first and Christiana, plenty of time to teach him... "Okay," Mitchell said. "When guys get boners... You do know what a boner is, don't'j'ya?" Sure, Norman knew, but didn't want to admit that he knew so, "No," he said. "Normie, are you ever dumb! A boner's like when you get up in the mornin' an' you gotta pee, an' it's like, uh, you know," popping his index finger upward, "big." "Okay! Okay already! Yeah, I know!" "Well, when guys get 'em... Only then when they get 'em, they ain't been sleepin', and when they get 'em they put it into a girl's, uh, cunt and jack-off, only then it's called..." Of course by that time Norman had first-hand knowledge of what jack-off meant, but enjoying seeing his

BECOMING friend become red-faced, asked anyway.

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Jesus! Mitchell thought, was I ever that dumb? "It's when you, uh..." holding his well-used, index finger stiffly extended, "'J'ya ever..." inserting the finger into his cupped hand, moving the hand up and down, "uh, do it to yourself?" Norman, like most ten-year-old boys, was pleasantly familiar with a "pee boner," and that it felt nice, really nice, when held and--so he'd very pleasantly discovered--that by creating tight-handed friction along the shaft of his pee boner he'd been able to achieve a fantastic sensation. But--not about to admit this to Mitchell--before he could formulate the words to respond... "Well, anyways," embarrassed that he'd asked, not waiting for an answer, "that's what's called jacking-off. Only then, when a guy puts it... his, uh..." wanting to say prick, but not wanting to try to teach Norman too much too fast, "boner into a girl, it's called..." glancing about to be sure that no one was within hearing, "fuckin'. Understand?" "Okay! Yeah! But what I still wanna know is why'd a guy wanna do somethin' that disgusting?" "'Cause it feels nice! Uh, well, it's supposed to feel real nice when a guy does it." Mitchell did not want to talk too much about the... "climatic sensation," because if he went into too much detail Norman might have asked, "How come you know so much?" And, even though he'd asked Norman if he did it, Mitchell wasn't quite ready to admit to his very best pal that he did... "it." "Anyways, that's what this older guy, Skorupski, told me'n'Frankie. He said that when you put your... boner into a girl's, uh... cunt an', you know, fuck, it feels real good, an' then you..." At that moment Mitchell had two clear-cut revelations: Maybe it ain't pee, but that other stuff that guys make into girls. Also, until that very moment he had never considered that, If it feels so nice when I do it to myself, maybe it's gotta feel even more wonderful when you do it with a girl, 'cause if it didn't, why'd a guy ever wanna go to the bother of doin' it with a girl? "...Uh," pulling his thoughts together, finishing his sentence, "you, uh, kind'a, like, pee in her." Not having time enough to fully assimilate what Mitchell had told him, Norman then had his own unbelievable thought: Mom'n'dad always sleep with their door open, 'cept sometimes, then they close it, an' lock it, an' maybe that's what they're doin' there then! Walking on, contemplative, both boys pondered their thoughts, and the silence, though lasting only seconds, became pronounced "So," Mitchell asked after about a minute of complete silence, "you understand now?" "Well, yeah, I guess." Wanting to change the subject until he'd had more time to think about it, Norman asked the unanswerable question: "But what's it look like? You know, a girls... thing?" "This older guy, Skorupski, didn't tell us, but you know what I think, Normie? I think it looks kind'a like a guy's looks, only on girls it's littler an' fatter and kind'a like has a big hole in it." Envisioning somewhat the same picture, agreeing knowingly, "Yeah, an' it's gotta be kind'a like all crinkly'n'ugly."

BECOMING Laughing, "Yeah," Mitchell said, "s'no wonder girls are always catchin' colds all the time." "Yeah," Norman added, "with the wind blowin' through it all the time."

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Approaching the theater, going to the end of the line of children waiting for the doors to open, "Wanna know somethin' I've just been thinkin' 'bout?" "Yeah, sure, Normie." Standing back from the two girls before them, speaking softly, "I heard my Mom'n'dad talkin', an' they said somethin' 'bout your ma bein'..." When he'd heard the word, Norman had made a mental notation and now searched his memory... "p... pr... preg... I can't remember, only I'm pretty sure your ma's gonna have a baby." "A baby? No!" The two girls standing in front looked over their shoulders. "Yeah, she is! I'm sure she is! That's why she's so fat." "No! She's fat, 'cause... Uh, she..." Stopping, thinking, the statement became a question, "swallowed a watermelon seed?" The ridiculousness of his father's statement suddenly apparent, "My dad said my mom swallowed a watermelon seed," he said softly, as if not wanting anyone else to be witness to his stupidity, "an' he said that's why she's so fat." "Don't be such a dummy! You ever eat watermelon without swallowing a seed... a whole bunch'a seeds?" Looking away, Mitchell didn't answer. But persisting, "You believe everything your dad says?" "Yeah, sure, why not? Kid's dads don't lie... do they?" "Maybe he was only kiddin'. I don't know 'bout that, but I do know..." whispering directly into Mitchell's ear, "your ma's got a baby in her stomach." "Yeah? How? What makes you so smart? How'd you know?" "'How'd I know'? "'Cause she looks like Lou Ann before her'n'Sal had their baby, that's how!" "A baby?" Mitchell said in wonder. "I'm gonna have a baby brother?" "Or a sister. Maybe it ain't a boy but a girl baby. And if it is," whispering directly into Mitchell's ear again, "you'll let me see... it? Her, uh, whatchamacallit?" "Yeah, sure." Distracted, still finding it all but impossible to believe. "But if she's really gonna have a baby, Normie, how'd it... How'd the baby get there?" "You know," saying it out loud somehow giving his conjecturing a bit more credence. "I think that maybe," speaking softly again, "havin' a baby has somethin' to do with what we was just talkin' 'bout." "You mean 'bout guys," cupping his hand over Norman's ear, "fuckin' with girls?"

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"Yeah. I think that's got somethin' to do with..." cupping his hand over Mitchell's ear, "how babies get made." Thinking a moment, "Nah!" Mitchell said loudly. "It can't be!" The two girls looked at him again. Waiting till the girls faced forward again, "It just can't be!" he repeated. "Yeah! Why? Why can't it? How do you know?" "Why? 'Cause, Normie, my mom'n'dad would never do stuff like that!" Walter and Myra June 15, 1944 The Daily News alongside his dish, bringing the fork to his mouth with one hand, Walter patted the crease of the newspaper with his other. "You know, Walt, you shouldn't have said that to Mitchell. You should have told him... Walter! Are you listening to me?" "Huh?" Looking up from the paper. "What?" "That's what I thought!" She stared at him angrily. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, I don't want the paper at the table when we're eating!" Folding the paper wearily, laying it on the chair next to him with exaggerated motions, "There, Myra, the paper's not on the table anymore." Folding his hands in front of him, staring back at his wife, "So tell me, Myra, what's so god-damned important?" She stared back, then dropped her eyes. "Walt, today, at the train station, you should have told Mitchell about the baby." "Oh, yes, Myra," he said sarcastically, "you think the train station's the proper place to tell your son about the birds and bees, do you?" "No, Walt, maybe not... But a watermelon seed?" "Come on, Myra! Jesus Christ! The kid didn't believe that! He's got to have some idea! Doesn't he?" "I don't know, Walt. You've never talked to him about... things." "Yeah, you're right, Myra, I never have talked to him about sex... So when, tell me, was I supposed to talk to him about sex? When he was three, or maybe four?" "Walter, we're having a second child, and it really bothers me that you've never taken the time to get to know the one we already have." Laying her hand on his arm, Myra's tone softened. "You never do anything with him alone, just you and your son. Don't you think it would be a good idea for Mitchell to know he has a father?" "God-damn-it!" Pushing away from the table so fast that, falling over, the chair clattered on the

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linoleum-covered floor. "That old chestnut again, eh, Myra?" Righting the chair, taking the paper, he stalked out of the kitchen. "Walter, come back here and finish your dinner!" "I'm not hungry!" Going to the living room, he dropped into the easy chair, opened the paper and angrily folded it back to the page he'd been reading. Following him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, "Walt," Myra said, "I don't want to nag, but you've got to spend more time with him!" "Myra," lowering the paper, "we have nothing in common, the kid and me. I don't have time to make small talk with him, and, to be honest, I don't want to make small talk with him. He's only been home one day... shit, one afternoon, and already Manny Kaplin stopped me on the stairs to tell me he's been running and if we don't make him stop they'll call the damned landlord--again! Jesus Christ! What in the hell do we have to do to keep him quiet? Beat the crap out of him?" "Walt, you and me, we've as much in common with our kid as most parents have with their kids. But sometimes you've got to make an extra effort; sometimes you've got to go out of your way. You? You never do! You work, you eat, you sleep, and you read your damned newspaper. It really wouldn't kill you to spend some time with your son... He's your son, Walter; you're supposed to love him. If someone were to ask Mitchell if his father loves him, he'd probably say, 'I don't even think he likes me'." "Like him? God-damn-it!" Throwing the paper onto the floor where it scattered into loose pages and sections, "I'm always here for him, aren't I? I worked my ass off so you could send him to that fancy military school! Didn't I?" "Oh, yes!" Myra said angrily, "So I could send him to that fancy military school! And, Walter, oh, God, I feel so guilty about that!" Leaning forward, Walter brought his body closer to Myra, who leaned forward also. Their faces scant inches apart, their glaring eyes boring into each other's, each feeling the fine spray of the other's spittle as they screamed at each other. "You feel guilty about what? That we sent the kid to Baylor?" "Yes, damn it! About sending my son away from his home because of you--his father!" "That's a bunch of crap! Remember, he was the 'bad kid!' You sure told me so every day! Hell, the second I'd walk through the door that's all I'd hear: Mitchell did this!" In a high pitched, falsetto voice, "Mitchell did that! You told me everyone said he was bad! Even our god-damned dentist! And besides, didn't you want to make some extra money, too? And what should we have done with your son, while his mother went to work? So don't blame me for everything!" Sitting back in the chair, Walter reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Holding her hand forward, Myra motioned for a cigarette, too. Handing her one, Walter lit both. "My God, Walt, you've a way of always twisting everything! First off, what's so bad about Mitchell? He runs? He makes noise? Jesus, all kids run and make noise, Walter!" Taking a deep drag, she exhaled furious streams of smoke through both nostrils. "God-damn-it! Just because those shtonks [stinkers] downstairs banged on

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their ceiling and that maven dentist, who doesn't even have a kid of his own, said Mitchell was bad, is not the reason I sent my son away! Oh, no, Walter! I would never send my son away from his home because of them or because of anything any of them would say!" "So tell me, Myra! Why'd we do it then? Seems to me, if I remember right, sending him away was your idea!" "Oh, yes, Walter, you're right! It was my idea! But all kids run and all kids make noise," she repeated, "and maybe Mitchell ran a little more and made a little more noise, but I would never send my son away from his home because of that!" Taking a deep draw on the cigarette, she pointed it at her husband. "It is because of you, Walter! I sent my son away because of his father and only because of his father!" "So you say, huh? Because of me!" "Yes, my dear, sweet husband," she said sarcastically, "because of you! You wanted to read your newspaper in peace!" Making jabbing motions with the cigarette, "You wanted to come home and not have the bother of a little boy climbing on your lap! So tell me, Walter, when's the last time that little boy climbed on your lap? You wanted to sleep as late as you like on Sunday! Well, Walter, you have been able to sleep as late as you want on Sunday, haven't you?" She waited for him to respond, but Walter said nothing. "And most of all..." mimicking the falsetto voice he'd used a few minutes before, "you don't want to worry about taking the time to find something in common with 'the kid'!" Her voice returning to normal, "And now you say to me," mimicking again, "'I don't even want to take the time to make small talk with him'! Jesus, Walter!" Angrily stabbing the cigarette out in the ashtray, "Now you don't even want to talk to your son!" The truth in his wife's words stinging, no longer able to hold onto his anger, Walter's eyes dropped. "Walt, we're getting older, you and me," she said kindly. "You're thirty-eight now, and someday, believe me, Walt, a day will come, sooner than you think, when you'll wonder where all the years went and then you'll give anything, anything, to have your son sit on your lap. To have 'something in common' with your son," tears forming in her eyes, "to just talk to your son! Walt, to have your son love you." Leaning back on the sofa, Myra pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes. "And, yes, I was wrong, too. Other mothers work and find a way to do it without sending their children away. Somehow they work things out. Walt, look..." She waited for him to look into her eyes. "We're about two months away from having another child and Mitchell doesn't even know that he's going to be a big brother." She reached for his hand. "It's not fair to him. Dammit, Walt, it's not fair! This evening, when he comes home from the movies, I want you to sit down with him and tell him about the baby. And maybe even," she smiled, "about the facts of life." Thoughtful, Walter snuffed his cigarette out, then, easing his pose, sat back and crossed his legs. "Okay, Myra, you're right. I will tell him about the baby, and, about 'the birds and bees' and maybe even..." Looking at the strewn newspaper, "Hold on." He got up, gathered the scattered sheets, returned to the chair and thumbed through the disarrayed pages till he found the entertainment section. "Yeah! Here it is!" Looking at his wife, Walter smiled. "Tell you what! What if tomorrow Mitchell and me, just the two of us, go to the circus." Holding the paper up, he showed her the full-page advertisement for Ringing Brothers, Barnum and Bailey. "How's that?" "Walt, he'll love it!" Coming off the sofa, she sat on his lap. "Just tell me one thing. Do you remember the facts of life?" "Yeah, I know 'em well enough to..." moving his hand from her enlarged abdomen, unbuttoning the top three buttons of her housedress... "tell 'em to a nine-year-old, emm..." holding a brassiere-encased breast, he

BECOMING nuzzled Myra's neck. "But a little practice sure couldn't hurt, to, uh, kind of refresh my memory." "Uh, this is only for educational purposes, huh?"

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Her brassiere popped above her pregnancy-enlarged breasts, Walter's lips found their way to a swollen nipple. "Yeah, baby, for education... Mmmm." "Walt, what you say, uh..." Closing her eyes, more due to the discomfort of the pressure on her enlarged and ultra-sensitive nipple then an enjoyable sensation, but not wanting to stop him. "...will stay with him forever, so..." Knowing what he wanted, shifting her body, attempting to unbutton his fly, "use 'the book'." "Yeah, the book..." Lifting Myra's buttocks so she was then sitting more on the padded arm of the chair then on his lap, Walter was able to unbutton his pants, part the fly of his shorts and extract his penis. "...The, uh..." Feeling her hand encircle him, "'Joy of Sex.'" "Yes, Walt, The, uh..." Their mouths came together and their hands, one higher and one lower, explored the soft and the hard. "...'Joy of Sex'." Distracted, the running footsteps clumping up the stairs were not heard, nor the key in the lock, nor the turning of the knob. "Hi!" Standing just inside the dining room, Mitchell saw the weird sight of his fat mother on his father's lap, almost on his father's lap. They had their arms about each other--at least the arms he was able to see... In the past he'd seen an occasional kiss or a pat on the tush, but rarely an outright show of affection. As a matter of fact, what he usually saw was just the opposite of affection. What he usually saw was more a kind of an armed truce, and often no truce at all. "Uh, hi!" Standing quickly, as Walter crossed his legs and grabbed a sheet of the newspaper that he'd dropped on the floor alongside his chair, Myra pulled the front of her dress closed and, "Mitchie, get washed," she said over her shoulder as she all but ran the few steps to the bedroom. "Your dinner's ready." The one sheet of newspaper pressed onto his lap, "Yeah, kiddo," Walter asked with unusual interest, "how were the movies?" Usually keeping the paper in as neat a form as possible, Mitchell noted the disarrayed sheets and wondered if they'd had an argument, but their arguments never ended, so far as he knew, with the show of affection that he'd just seen, and also, his father's cheery greeting was totally out of character. A bit bewildered, "Fine, Dad. The movie was just fine," he answered, adding, "It's great to be home again." "Yeah, Mitchie, me, too. I'm glad you're home again, too." Huh? the boy thought. What's wrong? The Joy of Sex "Mitchell," he called, "come in here, will you. I want to talk to you." Lying on the floor listening to the radio, "Dad," going into the kitchen, "I'm listening to 'The Shadow' an' it's almost over."

BECOMING Wanting to get it over with, sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette, in front of Walter was a book, a pad of paper, a pencil and an ashtray. "This is more important." Motioning to the chair to his left, "Sit down." Wondering, What'd I do? "I do somethin' wrong, Dad?" "No, Mitchell." Taking a drag on the cigarette, he put it on the ashtray. "It's just that your mother... Your mother and I think it's time I had a talk with you about... uh, 'things.'" Things? "What things?"

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"Sit down!" Walter motioned to the chair again, then waited till he was seated. "Mitchell," he said, "I want to talk to you about what's called, uh, sex." Looking at his son, "Do you know what I'm talking about?" Seeing him shake his head negatively, going on, "Sex, uh... sexual intercourse is what a man and woman do when they, uh... among other things, and most importantly, I guess, sexual intercourse is what a man and woman do when they want to have a baby." Having no idea where this was going, he'd been slouching, but his father's words, bringing Norman's theory about fucking to mind, straightening his body, the father then had all of the son's attention. "In order for us--for you and me--to talk intelligently..." Looking at Mitchell, Walter wondered if his son could talk intelligently. "I've got to make sure that you know the difference between men and women..." "Would the difference be the same for boys and girls?" "Yes, Mitchell. Of course it would." Oh, God. Thinking, A kid that's almost ten must have some idea! Was I ever that stupid? Answering himself, I don't know, maybe I was. Walter's attitude softened, slightly. "Look, to make it easier, we won't call them men or women, girls or boys. We'll call them male and female. Boys are male and girls female. Understand?" "Yeah," nodding his head, "I guess so." Opening the book to a pre-marked page, "Okay, then," Walter said dubiously, "here's the difference." Mitchell stared at a black and white line drawing of a man and woman with lines pointing to various parts of their bodies at one end and to a list of words on the other. The stomachs on both were cut away showing what looked to him like coils of rope. Using the eraser end of the pencil as a pointer, taking a deep breath, "Mitchell," Walter said, "this is called the penis." He certainly knew what that was. "Yeah, that's a p..." but catching himself, he stopped short. "What?" "Nothin', Dad. Sorry." "No one's talked to you about this before, right?" Thinking it best not to mention Skorupski, "Yeah, Dad. No one's talked to me 'bout this stuff before." Hesitating a moment, looking at his son closely, "Okay." Continuing, "This is the penis, and besides using it

BECOMING to urinate from..." "Urinate?" "Urinate is when you have to go, to pee. It's really called urinating, okay?" "Yes."

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"Besides using your penis to urinate from, when a man and, uh, when a male and female are together, in bed together, it--the penis--gets bigger and harder and when that happens that's what's called an erection..." I know 'bout boners. But, "Like in the mornin'" he asked, "when I've got to... uh, what you said." "Yes, like in the morning when you have to urinate, only then, when you're... when a male and female are in bed together only then the male doesn't have to urinate... Now, this is the female and she's different from the male in many ways." Pointing the eraser to the upper portion of her body, "These two, uh, things, are called breasts, and when a female is young her chest looks like yours, but as she gets older, oh, maybe when she's fourteen of fifteen, they start to grow and begin to look like," tapping the eraser, "this." I know 'bout titties. But, "Why do they grow?" he asked. "What are they for?" "For one thing," Walter smiled, "they sure look nice, but God really made 'em for feeding babies." Thinking about the lady on the train that morning, knowing she was feeding her baby, not knowing how, though, but thinking it best to play dumb here, in any case, "How?" "Through these," pointing to the small circles drawn on each breast. "These are called nipples..." "Like a nipple on a bottle?" "Well, yeah, kind of. When a lady has a baby they--the nipples--get a little opening in them and the baby is able to suck milk through." "Milk comes from cows. How's the lady get milk in her?" "That's another lesson, Mitchie, and we'll talk about that some other time." "Think it hurts the lady?" "No. Matter of fact, the lady usually likes it. At least till the kid starts to grow teeth." "Yeah," smiling, "I guess so." "Besides breasts, this," touching the eraser to the female's "V," then to the man's penis, "is the main difference between a male and a female. Males have their sex organs on the outside..." This may be it! "Sex organs?" "Yes. The penis is the man's sex organ and you can see it, but the woman's sex organs are on the inside..." Disappointed. "An' you can't see 'em?"

BECOMING "Well, no... uh, not unless..." "Never? You can't see 'em, never!" "Well, yes, but only if she's, uh, she'd have to be in the right position." "What's it look like, then, the, uh, female, uh, sex organ?"

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Stalling, lighting a fresh cigarette, When in doubt, Walter thought, avoid the situation. "That's not important now. When you get older you'll just have to find out for yourself, but for now," he said a bit impatiently, "do you mind if we just go on?" Mitchell nodded his head. "Okay, then. The female sex organ is called..." inhaling deeply, he pointed to the V of the females thighs, "at least what you can see, is called..." his eyes following the line to the side, "the vulva." Mitchell giggled. Looking up from the book, the impatience back in his voice, "Did I say something funny?" "No. It's just that that, what you called it, is a funny word." Taking another drag, "Anyway, when the man, uh, when the male has an erection, he puts it in the female's... You remember about erections, right?" "Yeah." Looking closely at his son, satisfied that the boy was taking his lecture seriously, going on with what he considered the most difficult part, "When the male has an erection... a not having-to-urinate erection, he'll--if the female lets him--the male will put his erection, his penis, in the female's, uh, vulva, only now, inside the vulva it's called..." looking at the glossary, "it's called the vagina," pointing to the cutaway, "and when the man's penis is in the woman's vagina, they have what's called intercourse." Fucking is... "'Intercourse'?" Mitchell asked. "Yes." Taking another puff, Walter put the cigarette onto the ashtray, and with his right elbow on the table, crooking his arm, covering his brow with his hand, speaking without looking up, "When a male and a female come together, uh, sexually, it's called intercourse, and the male, kind of, lays on top of the female and puts his penis in the female's, uh, vagina, and they both, uh, kind of, move up and down till the male has what's called..." stopping, stalling, he pretended to look for another pre-marked page. As Walter thumbed through the book Mitchell saw that a number of the pages had drawings depicting people, men and women, female and male people in various positions fucking and, I'd like to find where they keep this book, and look at it, all by myself. "Yes." Glancing at Mitchell, Walter went on. "When the male is, uh, laying on top of the female and has his, uh, when he has his penis, uh, inside the female's, uh, vagina and the two of them are..." taking a deep breath, "moving up and down together, pretty soon the male has what's called an..." reading directly from the book, "'ejaculation: A sudden ejection of fluid...'" "'Ejection of fluid'?"

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"Yes, it'll, uh, he'll, uh, it'll come... Mitchell, when a man has intercourse with a woman, he'll, uh, pretty soon a, uh, kind of a liquid... You know what liquid is?" "Like the stuff uncle Al drinks?" "No," smiling for the first time since this conversation started, "that's liquor. Liquid is... water is a liquid. Only the liquid that comes out of a man's penis when he's having intercourse, when he, uh..." glancing at the book again, "ejaculates, is much, much thicker and it's called..." looking at the book once again, "semen, and when the semen goes into a woman's vagina..." Semen! That's the white stuff that squirts outta me! Back-paging a few pages... "When the semen goes into the woman's vagina it mixes with an egg, here." Walter pointed to the cutaway of the fallopian tubes. "Egg!" Attempting to hold back laughter because he was relieved in knowing that his ejaculations were normal, and also because, "Girls got eggs in 'em? Like a chicken?" but he couldn't and began to laugh. "Yes, eggs! No, not like a chicken, like a female! Stop!" Walter held his hand up, palm forward. "Don't ask any more questions! Just listen!" "But, Dad, it's so funny!" "No! Shhh!" Holding his forefinger in front of his lips, Walter silenced his son. "The male has... When the male ejaculates his liquid, his semen has what's called sperm, and they, the sperm, look like this..." Turning to another page, he showed Mitchell what looked to the boy like little fish with long, curvy tails. "...and when the sperm reaches the female's egg it fertilizes it, and..." "Like when Joe puts stuff on the grass to make it grow?" "Well, I suppose it's like that, in a way." Waiting for another question, getting none, Walter went on. "Anyway, after the male's sperm fertilizes the female's egg, it, the egg, stays in the female's..." looking at the book again, "'womb' for nine months..." "Room?" "No." Looking up, sighing, "womb, not room. The womb is where the female's egg, the fertilized egg, stays for nine months while it grows into a baby, and..." "Huh?" He couldn't believe it. Norman was right! "A baby?" "Mitchell, that's something else I want to talk to you about now... Your mother, uh, your mother and me, we're going to have another baby." Thinking a moment, absolutely unable to envision his mother and father fucking, yet, "Dad, that's great!" he said sincerely, excitedly. "I'm gonna be a big brother! Can I help mom with him? You think maybe I can watch when she gives him her milk?" Relieved that it was out, and accepted, "Slow down, it could be a sister. Least ways that's what your mother's praying for, and I'm sure that she'll be only too happy to let you help, but as for watching her nurse... uh, feed the baby? Knowing your mother I'm not too sure she'll want you to do that... Oh, and one thing more," Walter said as almost an afterthought. "Because of the baby, she had to quit her job last week so we can't afford to

BECOMING send you back to Baylor. That okay with you?" "Sure! That's great! I always miss you'n'mom so much anyway." Surprise showing in his voice, "Me? You miss me, too?" "Yeah, Dad, sure! Why wouldn't I miss you? You're my dad," Mitchell said, "I'm supposed to miss you!" Deeply touched, Walter considered hugging his son, but unable to bring forth the needed show of emotion, "Mitchie," he asked instead, "how'd you like to go to the circus tomorrow? Just you and me." "The circus! Yeah, Yeah! I'd love to!" "Okay, kiddo." Reaching for his cigarettes, "Tomorrow it's just you and me." "I wanna ask you, Dad, why'd a guy wanna do it? Put his, uh, penis in a lady's, uh, what'ch'ma'call'it?" "First off," lighting a cigarette, "it's God's way of creating life and making sure that there's always people here, and also, because God made it feel so nice, people always want to do it."

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His thought of 'how nice it's got to feel' confirmed, the thought of intercourse still repugnant, though, "Well, not me!" "Oh, yeah? Just you wait. You just wait!" * "...Hi! This the Rizzo home?" "Yes," in a thick, Italian accent, "this Mrs. Rizzo." "Mrs. Rizzo, hi! This is Mitch Lipensky, a friend of Frankie's from Baylor... Is Frankie there?" "Yes. I call him for you." "...Mitchie! Hi! How'ya, pal?" "Fine. How'ya doin'?" "Great! Went to the movies this afternoon with a couple'a guys I know, an' we met these two girls an..." "Yeah, me, too," cutting him off. "I went with Norman." Whispering, "Frankie, I can't talk no louder 'cause my mom'n'dad are in the next room an' they'll hear, but tonight, after we ate, my dad called me in the kitchen an' told me all 'bout... it." "'It'?" "Yeah! 'It'! You know! 'It'! What you'n'me's been talkin' 'bout." Speaking even softer, "'bout girls'n'stuff!" "Oh! Yeah? No kiddin'!" "Yeah! An' he even showed me pictures..."

BECOMING "Pictures! No shit! An' you were able to see it?"

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"Kind'a. In a way. But they were drawings an' you couldn't really see... you know, it. But he explained lots'a stuff to me, an' you know what?" "No, what?" "Ol' Skorp's a dick! He don't know shit 'bout girls! You know all that stuff he told us 'bout the names of, uh, girl's things?" "Yeah." "Well, none of it's true. A girl's pisser ain't really called..." the pitch of his voice dropping even lower, "...a cunt." "What's it called, then?" His mind suddenly blank, the words vulva, vagina, womb, penis all forgotten, but... Room. Remembering the word he'd mispronounced, "A girls pisser's really called a room." "A 'room'?" "Yeah." Well, Frank Rizzo thought, if guys wanna put their pricks into a room, why not? It kind of made sense to him. "Mitchell, who are you talking to?" Her voice, coming from behind, startled him. "Frankie, Mom. I'm telling Frankie 'bout our new baby, an' stuff." "Say hello to him for me." "Frankie, my mom says hello." "Yeah," impatient to hear more, "tell her hello for me, too... What baby?" "One'a the things my dad told me is that him'n'my mom's gonna have a baby. An' that's why he wanted to explain 'bout girls'n'stuff'n'where babies come from. An' 'cause my mom's gonna have a baby, she ain't goin' back to work, so I can't go back to Baylor next year." "Mitchie, I was gonna call an' tell you that, too." "No shit! Your mom's gonna have a baby, too?" "No, dopey! That I ain't goin' back either. My pa's bought a little store over on 63rd, an' they'll need the extra money, an' also, they need me to help out there." "Boy, Frankie, I'm really glad that I ain't goin' back, then. Wow! It sure would be tough bein' there without my ol' dago pal."

BECOMING "Mitch, I been thinkin' it'll be real easy for you to come an' visit. You know where Western Avenue is?" "Yeah, it's on the other side of the park."

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"Well, all's you gotta do is take the streetcar south on Western to 63rd an' I'd meet you there, an' I know you'd have a real good time 'cause I told this girl that I met at the movies today all 'bout'j'ya an' she--her name's Gina--an' she let me touch her titties in the movie an' she want's'a meet my good lookin' Jew pal." "No! Really? Come on! This girl you only met today let you..." whispering, "touch her titties?" "Yeah, really! An' guess what else." Not waiting for him to guess, "She lets guys see her, uh, room," whispering, "if the guy'll show her his prick, an' she knows Jewish guys got different kind's'a pricks then us Italian guys and she don't know no Jewish guys so she's never seen a Jewish prick. So guess what?" "Uh..." "Seein' as you're the only Jewish prick I know, I told her 'bout'j'ya an' she want's'a see yours an' she'll show you her's." Disbelieving, "Nah!" "Yeah! Really!" "Really, Frankie!" Mitchell shouted, then looked over his shoulder to see if his parents had heard, then, lowering his voice once again, "She said she'll really show me her's if I show her mine?" "Yeah." "Maybe she was kiddin' you." "Yeah, that's what I thought, too... Then, when I was walkin' her home after the movies, she said I should come into her hallway with her so we did, and I did..." "You did, what?" Mitchell asked. "She asked to see it..." "No! Really?" "Yeah, really, so..." "So?" "I showed it to her." "You did?" Mitchell laughs. "You whipped it out an' showed it to her?" "Yeah! Of course! Sure! An' she did, too." "No shit! She showed hers to you? You saw it? Wow! An' you really think she'll do it with me, too?" "Yeah, Mitch, like I told you, Gina really want's'a meet you! An' I'll tell you somethin' else: If she likes you,

BECOMING most likely she'll even fuck with you." "Jesus, Frankie..." Even if the girl/female had to, as his father had said, "be in the right position"--whatever that meant--still, the thought of actually seeing a girl's--whatever it was called--was unbelievably exciting. The thought of actual intercourse, however, to Mitchell, was still yucky. "You, uh, going to do it with her, uh..." whispering again, "fuck with her?" "Yeah, Mitch," he said without hesitation, "I will! Soon's I can!"

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Thinking a second, "Yes," Mitchell said, "guess I would, too." Though, truly, he wasn't really sure he would. "How's, uh, whats'er name look? She pretty? You'll call me an' let me know all 'bout it after you do it?" "Pretty? Gina's okay, I guess... Yeah, sure I'll call you, Mitchie. An' remember, anytime you wanna come here you just let me know, an' probably you'll be able to be fucked, too. But certainly, least ways, you'll get to see what a c... room looks like." Knowing they were nearing the end of their conversation, "Yeah," Mitchell said rather quietly. "I'll call you an' let you know when..." Their common denominator had been Baylor, but with Baylor no longer a factor in their lives, both boys, one from a Catholic culture and one from a Hebrew culture, sensed this as a wide fork in the road of their friendship. "Well... guess I'll be seein' you then, Mitchie." "Yeah, Frankie... take it easy." Forcing a chuckle, "I'll take it any way I can get it." "Yeah, me, too..." 11 The Greatest Show in Earth June 14, 1944 The sun shined warmly through light, wispy clouds and a gentle westerly breeze blew over Lake Michigan cooling the city. The man and boy stood on the safety island waiting for the eastbound streetcar that would take them to the Chicago Stadium and the Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Baily Circus. Looking at the two, anyone passing by could easily see that they were father and son. Both were dark complected with straight, dark brown hair and their faces--giving for their twenty-nine year difference--were noticeably alike, except the man had dark brown eyes while the boy's were light green. The man is six feet tall and, with the exception of a slight bulge around his waist signifying the beginning of a paunch, Walter was well built, handsome and, for his age, youthful. Inches taller than any of his friends, looking older than his actual age, at almost five-eight he was about four inches short of his lifetime maximum height. Though near fifteen pounds overweight, Mitchell's bone structure carried the weight well, giving him a robust appearance.

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Women, both younger and older, turned their heads discreetly (or sometimes not so discreetly) to look at both, father and son. Dressed in white cotton slacks and a dark blue blazer, the man's white sport shirt was open at the neck revealing an abundance of chest hair. Mitchell was wearing dark blue cotton slacks and a light blue, short-sleeved polo shirt. Well aware of his appearance, Walter basked in the glances he knew he was receiving. He was not aware, though, that the looks of passersby were as much for his son as himself--maybe even more so, because the boy radiated not only beauty, but the healthful glow of youth. Looking upon his son as a noisy, in his opinion, "not too smart kid," the argument with Myra the night before over his attitude towards Mitchell had left him feeling, for the first time in his life, older, and, Maybe she's right, he'd thought. It won't hurt to spend some time with the kid, to try to get to know him better. When Mitchell was younger he did feel love for him, but then, try as hard as he might, rather than the warmth one would think a father would feel for his son, Walter felt a void. This day was the first time in their lives that they'd been together without the company of others, and Walter, quite honestly, would rather have been home reading the Sunday newspaper. As for Mitchell, there was no place in the world that he'd rather have been than right there, at the side of his father. The streetcar's steel wheels squealed to a stop. Taking Walter's two dimes, the conductor handed him four cents in change, pulled the rope to the counting device twice, and stamped on the steel button beneath his foot twice--and the streetcar lurched forward. As it traveled northeast, the streetcar filled with people. When it reached Madison Street, Walter discovered that they were not the only ones going to the circus, as better than half of the car emptied and the adults and children began the two-block walk west to the Chicago Stadium. Standing in line to buy tickets, Walter was amazed to see that this many adults would spend a Sunday afternoon here, waiting in line to buy tickets to the circus, with their children, at two dollars for adults and a dollar, twenty-five for... "How old's the kid?" the man behind the window asked. "Not even ten," Walter replied. "Yeah, sure!" Looking from Walter to Mitchell, "How old are ya, kid?" "Almost ten." "Yeah, sure. When's your birthday, kid?" "In August." "The year, kid. The year!" "Uh, '34. 1934."

BECOMING "Okay, mister." Looking at Walter, "You sure feed that kid good... That'll be $3.25."

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Entering the building, consulting the tickets, "J-F-17, J-F-18." They walked up three flights of concrete steps, turned right to section J, went down a half flight of steps to aisle F, then midway through the row to seats 17 and 18 and sat down with fifteen minutes left to show time. Motes of dust reflecting from within seemingly semi-solid gelatinous beams, the three rings were lit with dozens of spotlights that shined from around the circumference of the stadium. Clowns sauntered about the sawdust-strewn floor. In the center ring a clown was dressed in a brown, overly spangled uniform bedecked with medals. He was white-faced and had the telltale features of Adolph Hitler: a triangle of black hair over his left eye and a short, stubby mustache beneath his nose. As he goose-stepped to the accompaniment of boos and hisses from the audience, he about-faced, showing a huge behind over which was the word "HINNIE." Another white-faced clown ran behind him and swatted him on the HINNIE with a large paddle, causing a flash of light, a puff of smoke, and a loud explosion that made Hitler jump three feet into the air, do a somersault and run away. Mitchell laughed hysterically. Walter watched with a look of near boredom on his face. Vendors in white jackets carrying trays of peanuts, cotton-candy, soda pop, balloons on sticks and circus souvenirs walked up and down the steps calling their wares, then, when purchased, sending the peanuts, cotton-candy, soda pop, balloons on sticks or circus souvenirs down the aisle, passing the quarter or dollar bill as it traveled from hand to hand back to him. Pointing to a vendor at the head of their aisle waving a package of peanuts in the air, "Hey, Dad, look. There's Mister Parminter!" Not recognizing him, "Who's Mister Parminter?" "You know, Normie's dad... Mister Parminter." Mitchell yelled, "Mister Parminter!" Looking, Frank Parminter searched for the voice calling his name. Spotting him, "Hi, Mitchell!" he called. "Here, pass these down, please," sending two packages of peanuts down the aisle. "For you and your dad!" Standing, Walter started to dig into his pocket. "No, it's on me! Have a good time!" Frank turned to a young girl sitting in the aisle seat on the opposite side that was tugging on his sleeve. The spotlights lowered, then darkened completely leaving only the embedded stair-lights glowing. A loud drum roll... One brilliant light knifed through the darkness shining on the center ring where the ringmaster stood resplendent in red jacket, white jodhpurs, shining patent-leather boots and a black top hat. "Boys and girls of all ages!" His voice booming over a hundred loudspeakers, "Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey are proud to present their year 1944 edition of The Greatest Show on Earth!" A dozen lights dancing across the three sawdust-covered rings; the parade began. Lions and tigers growled as their trainers walked alongside the rolling cages snapping their whips in the dust. Acrobats on elephants. Clowns tumbled and fell. Beautiful women in glimmering, scanty costumes danced upon the backs of snow-white or pitch-black horses. "Boy and girls! Clyde Beatty and friends!" Three sharp reports of a pistol and the cracking of a whip that

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sounded as sharp as the pistol, and Clyde Beatty stepped into the cage, along with four snarling lions and two white tigers. "Dad, can I have some popcorn?" The midget car sputtered, backfired and belched clouds of black smoke. As it puttered around the ring it lost all four fenders, and when it came to a stop the small car collapsed onto its axles. The passenger door fell off and a red-faced clown tumbled out, followed impossibly by eleven more clowns. "Dad, I'm thirsty. Can I have some pop?" Waving to a vender, Walter passed another quarter along. Elephants danced in a circle, each tail held in the trunk of the elephant behind. Standing with all four legs on a small box, as the trainer signaled, the elephant raised one leg and the trainer, to the fearful "Ohhhh's!" of the vast audience, laid his head beneath. "Boys and girls, the Great Gambinos on the high wire of death!" The stadium went dark... A spotlight pointed high in the air to two men and one woman on a suspended platform. The men, so handsome, the woman, so beautiful--at least from that distance. The knife thrower rapidly flinging needle-pointed knives and sharp-bladed axes at a lady spinning on a wheel. "Dad, can I have some cotton candy?" He looked at his son, but the boy was so enthralled that he didn't notice the dark look on his father's face as he signaled the vendor, removed a dollar from his pocket, passed it along and waited for his change. More clowns. More acts... until The Greatest Show on Earth ended and the thousands of people made their way down the flights of steps into the tightly packed vestibules where they squeezed through the doors, and onto the sidewalk to scatter in all directions going to whatever transportation would take them home. Walking along Madison Street, going to Ogden Avenue where they'd catch the south-bound streetcar, "The show was really great, wasn't it, Dad!?" Walter didn't answer. Thinking he hadn't heard, "It was really great," Mitchell repeated. "Wasn't it, Dad?" After a long moment, "Yeah," looking straight ahead, not looking at his son, "it was just great!" Noticing the sarcastic inflection in his father's voice, but passing it off, "Wow, that guy they shot out of the canon! J'see how torn and dirty his clothes were? An' all the smoke that came outta his mouth!" Mitchell looked up, but, staring straight ahead, once again Walter did not respond. "Dad," trying again, "what's wrong? Did I do something wrong?" And was met with stone-cold silence. They waited for the streetcar in silence, and the ride home was in silence.

BECOMING *

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"Hi, guys! You have a good time? Dinner's almost...?" Myra had been waiting, hoping that this day would bring a new-found understanding between Walter and his son, and she'd prepared one of their favorite meals, spaghetti and meatballs, but her husband marched through the door stone-faced, and her son followed with tears running down his cheeks. Muttering a weak, "Hello," Mitchell went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Following Walter to their bedroom, "What's wrong?" Myra asked. Hanging his jacket onto a hanger, "Nothing! Nothing's wrong!" "Oh, yes, something is wrong!" Grasping her husband by the shoulder, turning him so he's facing her, "Tell me!" "That kid of yours! He didn't stop asking for things!" "What things did 'my kid' ask for, Walter?" Shrugging her hand off, "Peanuts, popcorn, cotton candy, pop... You name it, he wanted it! He was more interested in what he could shove in his mouth than in the damn circus!" "Walter," trying to... desperately wanting to salvage the day, speaking softly, "he's just a kid. Those are things all kids want when they go to the circus..." Receiving no reply, "Walt, please!" "The last time!" "Huh?" Fighting to hold her anger down, "What did you say?" "This is the last time I'll ever take your son anyplace!" * Knocking softly, "Mitchie," Myra opened his door. He'd been lying face down on the pillow. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and running nose with the back of his hand. Going to his dresser, opening the top drawer, taking a handkerchief, "Here, blow," Myra handed it to him. Taking the handkerchief, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, "I didn't do nothin', Mom!" His words coming from between sobs. "I d'know why dad's so mad at me. I asked him why an' he wouldn't tell me." Sitting on the bed next to the sobbing boy, "Shh," rubbing his back. "Your father's, uh..." Trying to find an excuse for her husband, "Your father's feelings were hurt because he thinks all you were interested in were peanuts and popcorn and all the other things you asked for," unknowingly turning Walter's irrational behavior into her son's guilt. Thinking that he'd hurt his father's feelings, "Mommy," the word he thought only babies used slipped out, "No! I loved it! Normie's dad was there an' he gave dad'n'me bags of peanuts, an' all else I asked for was popcorn'n'cotton candy'n'pop! I'm really sorry if I made dad think I didn't like it, 'cause I did! I loved it!"

BECOMING Thinking, He was so nice to take me to the circus! a deep sense of remorse overtook the boy and he further thought, An' now Dad feels bad 'cause he thinks I didn't like it. His tears coming again, "Mom, tell dad I'm real sorry if I made him think I didn't like it. Please, tell him I loved it!"

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Realizing what she'd done, wishing she had a way to retract her words, "Okay, sweetie, I'll tell him. You get washed now. It's almost time for dinner, and I made spaghetti." Standing, ruffling his hair, closing the door behind her, Myra left the room. Sitting in the living room, smoking a cigarette, reading the Sunday paper, not looking up, "Dinner almost ready?" Walter asked coldly. "Walt," sitting on the edge of the sofa, "Mitchell's in his room crying because he thinks you think he didn't like it today because he asked for those things. Please, baby, go to your son and tell him everything's okay and that you're not mad at him anymore." Angrily slapping the newspaper seam straight, "No!" "Walt, please," putting her hand on his knee. "If not for him, if nothing more, do it for me, please." Starring at his wife a long moment before speaking, "I knew it, Myra! I knew you'd take his side on this!" "What 'side,' Walt? No! I'm not taking sides on this," she lied. "But he's so unhappy! Please go in to him!" "Yes, you are! And I'm not going to go to him and tell him I'm not angry when I am! He made a pig of himself today and that's that!" Glaring at Myra a moment longer, Walter brought his attention back to the paper. "Oy, Walt. Someday, my honey, someday you'll remember how you treat him, only then it'll be too late...." Knowing her husband's obstinate, unbending look, giving up, "Dinner's ready," Myra said flatly. "Mitchie," attempting to sound cheerful, "dinner!" Still red-eyed from crying, coming into the kitchen, Mitchell sat down. Still angry, coming into the kitchen, Walter sat down. The family ate in silence. 12 The Geography Lesson March 14, 1945 Thinning, soot-coated remnants of winter still clung to naked tree limbs even as barely seen buds pushed through layers of winter bark. Driblets of muddy water swept over curbs into thousands of miles of gutters, then combined and surged to become gushing streams that poured from all directions of the compass into the fast-flowing currents of the Chicago River. Wanting this endless day to end, squirming restlessly on the hard oak seat of his desk, paying scant attention to the droning, slightly accented voice of his sixth-grade teacher, his eyes half closed, Mitchell Lipensky

BECOMING gazed through the dirt-streaked window. Whenever he thought of Frank Rizzo, which really wasn't all that often, he missed him, but did not miss Baylor, especially since his brother, Lawrence Joseph, had been born. The war, so far, had brought no great calamity to either family. Myra's brother, Sheldon, was somewhere in Italy reconstructing airfields that had been destroyed by the retreating German army, while Ira, Walter's youngest brother, had spent the duration in Colorado as a clerk "rubber-stamping" documents.

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Radio, newspapers and movie newsreels claimed decisive victories for the Allies throughout Europe and Asia, and Americans knew that it was only a matter of time till it "was over over there." Slumping lower in his seat, stretching his legs forward, the toe of his shoe nudged the heel of the boy sitting in front of him, and the boy, as though awakened, started and fleetingly looked over his shoulder, then he, too, looked out the window. Checking to be sure that Mrs. Stakowsky was not looking in his direction, touching the tip of his finger to his tongue, Mitchell put it through the opening of the small packet of Sen-Sen that was in the breast pocket of his shirt, then licked off the seven or eight tiny, licorice breath-sweetening confections. Looking at the multi-colored map that was pulled down like a window shade in front of the blackboard, he tried to comprehend his teacher's words as she pointed to the map with a wooden yardstick, but his brain seemed to be covered with a layer of gauze, and his wandering mind wandered to his tracings and, as happened so often then, his penis, completely uninvited, began to stretch his underpants. Recently, using his comic books, enlarging the breasts and filling in the nipples and crotch as best as he could visualize, he had taken to tracing pictures of women onto tracing paper and had an assortment of naked women, as best as he could visualize, ranging from Wonder Woman to Archie's girlfriends, Veronica and Betty, hidden in the recessed top of the built-in hutch in the dining room. Second from the end, his seat was in the row closest to the window. Slouching, his Jockey shorts had hiked into his groin, and by putting his left hand into his pocket and stretching his finger through the hole he'd discovered when his nickel fell out, by ripping the hole further he was able to push two fingers through, to beneath the elastic band of his underpants, then, looking about to be sure that no one was watching him, and with the possible exception of Tobey, the girl that sat directly behind him, no one was, Mitchell hunched forward, slumped lower and by angling to the right, unless Tobey went out of her way to look, he was able to hide his lower body. Pulling it through, his penis then jutted at a left angle through and from under the elastic band of his shorts and up through the hole in his pocket, and with absolutely no show of motion, he began a squeezing, rolling motion beneath the glans, till, Uh-oh, better stop! But his fingers, as his penis, seemed to have minds of their own and no part of his body obeyed. Straining the material of his pocket--squeezing, rolling--he tightened his knees--rolling, squeezing--pushed his legs forward and sat upward in his seat then, remembering where he was, slouched again... Stop! Why won't his fingers listen to his brain? And within moments, with a rapid intake of breath, sensing the beginning of his orgasm, constricting his thighs, groin and rectum, Mitchell's nervous system taking over, he jerked upright and... "Tach!" Clicking her tongue in annoyance, Tobey whispered, "Mitchell! Can't you sit still, even for a minute?" He felt the warm spurts of sticky semen in the palm of his hand, and...

BECOMING His squirming and, although she's whispered, Tobey's words had caught someone else's attention.

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"Mister Lipensky," Mrs. Stakowski said, pointing the yardstick at him, "would you please come forward and go to the map and define the eastern, pre-war boundaries of the Soviet Union." Thinking, Oh, my God! he rose slowly, and slower yet made his way to the front of the room. "And for goodness sake, Mitchell, take your hands out of your pockets!" 13 Shadows In The Mind Radio: The age of imagination. How wonderful to lie comfortably on the softly carpeted floor. To be snug and warm on a cold winter day with your brother or sister beneath mommy and daddy's sweet smelling blanket. To smell grandpa's aftershave and feel his arms about you as you sat on his lap. To close your eyes and be carried away... "RETURN WITH US NOW TO THOSE THRILLING DAYS OF YESTERYEAR WHERE OUT OF THE DISTANCE COMES THE THUNDEROUS HOOF BEATS OF THE GREAT HORSE SILVER! THE LONE RANGER RIDES AGAIN!" With our imaginations wide open we could see them! They were there! There! There's the Lone Ranger and his great horse Silver! There's Tonto and Scout! "HI-HO, SILVER, AWAY!" "Lux Radio Theater presents, 'The Dawn Patrol'!" "Mom, I saw that movie! Can I stay up an' listen? Please?" "No! There's school tomorrow and it's past your bedtime!" "Aw, gee, Mom. I'll get washed'n'brush my teeth'n'get into bed soon's it's over! Please!" On Saturday mornings... "Cream of Wheat is so good to eat,

BECOMING yes we have it every day. We sing this song, it'll make us strong, and it makes us shout hooray!" "Cream of Wheat presents, 'Let's pretend'! Today the story of 'The Princess and the Pea'!" "Grand Central Station! Crossroads of a thousand lives!" "Corless Archer, America's Junior Miss!" Raptly listening. Imagining. Being there! Run home from school. Go to the store for mom. Take a package of Twinkies and a glass of milk and sit on the floor in front of the radio: "Jaaack Armstrong, the All American Boy!" "Captainnn Midniiight!" "The Green Hornet!" "Look, up in the sky!" "It's a bird!" "It's a plane" "It's Superman!" Eat supper. Take the garbage to the can. Rush through homework. Back on the floor again because: "It's time for Jack Benny!" "Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy!" "Fanny Brice as Baby Snooks!" "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? "The Shadow knows!"

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"Today, April twelfth, nineteen-hundred, forty-five, our president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, died suddenly of a massive cerebral hemorrhage in Warm Springs, Georgia."

BECOMING "God save America!" "Today, May eighth, nineteen hundred, forty-five, Germany surrendered to the Allied Forces." "The war in Europe is over!" "Today, August, fourteenth, nineteen hundred, forty-five, Japan surrendered to the Allied Forces." "WORLD WAR TWO IS OVER!" We, and our radios, were there. 14 Chicago, Illinois 1946

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In 1925, when Walter Lipensky was seventeen years old, he'd discovered that he had two loves: one, an outlet for his type of adventure, and the other an outlet for his creativity. Sailing and photography. Throughout his younger years, even through the great depression and right up to the time he'd met and married Myra, he was able to participate, if not wholly then passively, in both of these activities. When you're in love and have a beautiful new wife, even if money is not as scarce as during a depression, old loves are usually abandoned... if not with a backward glance than certainly with a warm remembrance. Walking the shore in spring or the beach in summer. Driving the Outer Drive in sight of Lake Michigan in the fall. A soft breeze or a gust of wind would bring pangs of quiet longing to Walter and he would desperately crave the feel of a small boat heeling in the wind and the touch of spray on his face. Colored kites with necktie tails floating above the trees. Children huddled in a circle shooting marbles. A lonely, gnarled tree silhouetted before ominous gray clouds. These sights would register upon the mind of Walter Lipensky and he would hunger for the satisfaction of being able to show these things to others, as he saw them. But... a wife cost money. A child costs money. What was needed took precedence: rent, food, medicine and clothing. What was wanted was put on the back burner beneath a growing list of priorities. Sailing? Photography? Sailing and photography were way, way down, at the bottom of the list. At the end of the war, when defense plants began the process of retooling for the produce of peace, the massive work forces were being cut back and, knowing he'd be out of a job shortly, Walter decided that then might be the best time to combine business with pleasure and began to think of looking for work in the field of photography... Sailing he forgot--temporarily.

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The Park Studio was on Kedize and Fifteenth Place, about a mile from the Lipensky apartment. In the waning days of the war, its owner, Mister Myron Pincus, was in his late sixties when he'd received the telegram informing him that his son, Elmer, had been seriously wounded and Pincus suffered a heart attack. Morris Barrish and Mister Pincus attended the same synagogue. One Friday evening after the Shabbes service, Pincus mentioned that he was looking for an assistant and, putting a good word in for his son-in-law, Morris called Walter when he returned home. On Monday evening Walter brought samples of his photographic work to his job interview and was hired immediately... Well, immediately after an hour of haggling over a livable wage for a family man with two children. Walter worked at the Park Studio for less than six months when, early in 1946, Pincus suffered another, more debilitating heart attack and was told by his doctor to retire or die. Having to sell the studio, Pincus made a proposal to Walter. Walter made a counteroffer. Pincus made a counter-counteroffer, and they settled for seven hundred dollars down, five percent of the gross for five years, then a two-thousand-dollar buyout. Walter and Myra Lipensky became the owners of the Park Studio on March 11, 1946. The husband and wife worked together with Walter doing the shooting, darkroom work and retouching, while Myra handled the bookkeeping, the reception of customers and, after discovering that she had a steady hand, for those customers willing to pay, Myra hand-colored portraits in oil. Mitchell was old enough to care for himself after school and on Saturdays so Walter and Myra brought the baby, Lawrence, to the studio with them each day. The Balance May, 1946 He was the tallest boy in his class, and with the exception of only one other boy in the eighth grade, the tallest in school. Still a nosher [one that eats between meals] he remained on the heavy side, but due to his bone structure carried the weight well. His face had turned from round to oval, giving him a slightly more masculine appearance. Going on twelve, Mitchell Lipensky was considered the best looking boy at Holland School. He liked the way he looked, and did whatever he could to enhance his appearance even further. Using one of Myra's nylon stockings, he'd made a cap and slept with it on, hoping to train his straight hair to fall into a wave, which in time it did. In summer he would spend as much time as possible in the sun to ensure a dark tan. Mitchell was always meticulously clean, although, much to the annoyance of his mother, he allowed his bedroom to become messy and the clothing that she so carefully ironed and hung in closet to go awry. For all his good looks, however, Mitchell Lipensky did have a balance... He was bashful, very bashful, and in the presence of strangers--particularly girls--his heart would quicken, his palms would become moist and minuscule droplets of perspiration would break out along his hairline. Believing people were looking at him made him feel clumsy, as if he were about to trip over his own feet... But, even though he did become nervous when being looked at, or when he thought he was being looked at, oddly enough, Mitchell enjoyed the attention.

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Prone to daydreaming, unless the subject matter completely held his interest, Mitchell's mind would wander and often, even when trying to concentrate, it was as if a barricade of gauze lay across his brain, keeping whatever the subject from sinking in. Even though he'd had the "male/female" conversation with his father, Mitchell still hadn't the slightest idea of what "it's" all about, and had absolutely no idea of what to expect when, and if, it ever happened. When thinking "dirty," he could only fantasize breasts because breasts were something he knew, for sure, girls had and guys hadn't, and even though hardly any of the girls in his class had even the budding of a breast, in his sexually charged, over-active imagination, beneath each flat-fronted blouse or sweater there sprouted two dark pink--as the lady on the train--or brown--as Louise Ann--nippled breasts. Whatever girls had between their legs, was still an absolute void. As far as still he knew, girls still had nothin'! When in the presence of an unknown girl, or girls, he'd taught himself, even at that age, to hide his shyness by appearing to be aloof, and to those that did not know him, this sham, combined with his good looks, became the image of conceit. But Mitchell's vanity was truly focused inward. Most pretty girls, being pretty and being girls, usually do not want to be seen with a boy that is better looking then themselves, or with a boy that may, for whatever reason, project more conceit than themselves. It was for this reason that, for most of his life, the girls that he wanted to know better usually backed away from him leaving him feeling inferior, confused and wondering, What's wrong with me? The Meeting May 11, 1946 "Sam, slice for me a pound salami, hard, please." Reaching up, the grocer lifted a wrinkled Vienna salami off a hook. "Hard enough, Ida?" Ida Parminter nodded her head. Peeling about four inches of the Hebraic-inscribed casing with the edge of a knife, placing the salami on the marble slab, Sam cut perfectly uniform slices. Turning her head to the tinkling of the bell as a tall lady pushing a buggy came into the store, "Myra, hello!" Squinting a moment as her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight to the subdued light of the grocery store, "Ida, how nice to see you... Sam," wheeling the buggy to the counter, "hello." "Oy, let's see the boychick." Wiping his hands on his apron, coming from around the counter, Sam bent over the buggy. "Myra, another beautiful baby; another Mitchell." Tickling the baby's under-chin, Lawrence giggled. "Shayner punnum," Ida said, putting her forefinger in the baby's open hand. Closing his fist, the baby held her finger. Tickling him again, Sam was rewarded with a laugh. "You and Walter, you make beautiful babies," he commented as he returned to his place behind the counter. Blushing, "So, Ida," Myra asked, "how's by you? Frank and the boys, they all okay?"

BECOMING "Yes, sure, by me everything's fine. Frank's working hard--two jobs, you know; I hardly see him anymore." "Where's your Norman? I haven't seen him in weeks. I asked Mitchell, but he wouldn't say. The boys didn't have a fight, did they?" "Norman?" Thinking a moment, "Oh! Mitchell didn't tell you?" "No. Tell me what." "Well, my Norman's going to be twelve in June, and if we want him to be a Bar Mitzvah he's got to go to Chader!" "Hebrew school! That's where he is! No wonder Mitchell never mentioned it."

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In the past, whenever Myra and Walter had spoken of Hebrew school, they both agreed that, yes, they did want their son to have a Bar Mitzvah. But with the end of the war, the baby, the studio, and the way "time just flies," it had slipped their minds. And Mitchell, of course, not being inclined to school of any kind, would never mention that Norman was going to Hebrew school because if he did, it would remind his parents and he'd be going, too... Oh, yeah! "Ida, I must be meshuggi! You just reminded me, Mitchell is going to be twelve in August." "So, you're going to send him to Chader?" "He's not going to be happy about it, but, yes, on Monday, my Mitchell will be going to Chader with your Norman. Where are you and Frank sending him?" "The old Chader, over on St. Louis." The Prison... May 13, 1946 ...was an old, one story, yellow brick building. At the south end of the building there was a chain-linked, pea-graveled playground without equipment or benches. A hand-painted sign on cracked canvas hung over the front of the building. The dark blue Hebrew lettering had faded to a transparent cameo with only the darker, outer edges of the lettering still visible. Underneath, painted in black letters, in English, were the words "MONTIFORIE HEBREW SCHOOL." Mitchell Lipensky knew that on that, the thirteenth day of May, 1946, as he reluctantly followed five paces behind his mother and father through the playground entrance, after all but being physically dragged the nine blocks from his home to this combination Devils Island and Alcatraz, that on that day his fifteen-month sentence was about to begin... "Oh, shit!" At 3:40 p.m. on any weekday there would be dozens of children milling about the playground. Norman was there, talking to "Big" Rosalind Feigenbaum, a homely, largeboned, redheaded girl from the "block." Looking up as the Lipenskys entered the playground, Norman waved to Mitchell, but, as though to say, "This is your fault," Mitchell shook a clenched fist at his friend.

BECOMING * "So, Mr. and Mrs. Lipensky, you wish to have, uh..." glancing at the application on his desk, "Mitchell," he said, looking at the boy with obvious dislike, "ready for his Bar Mitzvah in such a short time, eh?"

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Usually cognizant of people's reactions to him, noticing the Rabbi's dark look, Why don't he like me, Mitchell wondered, when he don't even know me? Rabbi Isaac Mietzner did dislike the boy, and he also disliked the boy's parents; the boy, because he knew by his attitude, he'll be nothing but trouble, and the parents, because they'd put their son's Hebrew schooling off for so long, depriving the boy of much of the education, and himself of the income. Answering the Rabbi's question, "Yes, Rabbi," Walter said, "but his thirteenth birthday's not till August... Uh, next August." "Fifteen months, eh?" Mietzner said sarcastically. "That does make all the difference! You speak Yiddish, or maybe Hebrew?" "Yiddish, a little, when we don't want him to know what we're talking about," Myra answered. "Mr. and Mrs. Lipensky, you know, of course, that some boys going to Chader in preparation for their Bar Mitzvah attend, sometimes, for five years!" Five years! Mitchell visibly shuddered at the thought. "But, Rabbi, Norman Parminter..." Mietzner looked at Myra over the top of his glasses. "Ah, yes!" Cutting her off, "Parminter! That's another one!" "Rabbi," Myra glanced at Walter, "we know we've been wrong, but with the war, and we had a baby and started a business..." Stopping because she knew those were just excuses, "You're right, Rabbi. We definitely should have brought him here sooner." Mietzner glared at Mitchell. "You do understand you will have to work hard to catch up!" Sitting slouched in a straight-back chair, "Yeah." Mitchell grudgingly muttered, squirming under the Rabbi's skeptical stare. "All right, then," Mietzner looked at Walter, "leave him and we'll start today." "Uh," looking up, "I gotta? Today?" Rising from his chair, standing directly in front of Mitchell--who immediately straightened his body--"Yes!" Poking his stiffened finger in his son's chest for emphasis, "Today!" Poke. "And if you" poke "know what's good for you" poke "you'll work your tuchas off!" Poke. "Do you understand me?" Poke, poke, and poke. "Yeah! Ouch! Yes, I understand!" * The classroom was hot and stuffy with the prevailing odors of dust and chalk. The one-piece desks were small

BECOMING and hard. Mitchell's desk was in the center row, third from the front; a position he hated because he felt he was always going to be under the watchful eye of the Rabbi, which, in fact, he would be.

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Rabbi Berkovitz was a small, thin man in his late sixties. His long, gray beard was streaked with dark brown nicotine stains, as were the first three fingers of his right hand. The old man smelled of tobacco, chalk dust, onions and sweat. His black, three-piece suit was old and frayed, and smudged with chalk dust from the shoulders of the jacket to the cuffs of the pants. "Mein class," Berkovitz said in a thick German accent, "dis goyisheh kop [Gentile brains]" pointing a nicotine-stained finger at Mitchell, "is Lipensky, und he's joining vit our class... So, nu, Lipensky, you know, maybe, the aleph-baz?" Slouching, trying to make less of himself visible, "Huh?" "The aleph-baz! The Hebrew Alphabet!" "No." "Oy! Hokay, mein class, from the beginning, ve start again." The Chader Caper September 25, 1946 Sitting on the ground in the corner of the playground with their backs resting against the chain-link fence, making a small mound between his legs, Mitchell let pea gravel run through his fingers as Norman stabbed the hard earth with a blunt-pointed pocket knife. It was a clear, Indian summer day, perfect for football, baseball--anything but Hebrew school. "Oh, God, I don't want to go in there today," cocking his head in the direction of the blistered-paint doors. "I hate it here an' I got another full year to go... I'll never make it! Shit!" For emphasis Mitchell threw a handful of the small, round stones; a few accidentally hitting the leg of a girl who was leaning against a fencepost reading. "Hey!" she yelled, turning towards the boys, rubbing the calf of her right leg. "That's not funny!" "Amy, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there!" "What do you mean, you didn't see me? You look at me all the time, you big, stupid jerk! You're always looking at me and now you throw stones at me and say," mimicking sarcastically, "'I didn't see you there'! Well, open your dumb, stupid eyes!" Blushing, Mitchell looked away. "You big, dumb, stupid jerk!" Squatting to pick up the stack of schoolbooks at her feet, her skirt hiked up over her knees and instinctively, without thinking, cocking his head downward, Mitchell tried to see up her skirt. Repeating, "big, dumb, stupid jerk!" With an annoyed flip of her honey-colored hair, Amy Pearlman angrily walked across the playground, well away from the boys. "Shit! Of all the people in the world, I gotta throw stones at her, an' then I look up her dress! Jesus! I am a jerk!"

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Having had a crush on twelve-year-old Amy Pearlman since the first time he'd seen her, sitting two seats behind and two aisles to the left, staring at her, Mitchell often daydreamed... trying to imagine Amy Pearlman naked. Slightly overdeveloped for her age, Amy's mother recently had her fitted with a training brassiere, which she proudly wore, so while most of the girls in her classes were breastless, or appeared to be breastless, Amy was outstanding, looking almost like an "older woman." To add to this impression she was also beautiful and, even at the age of twelve, Amy knew it. Amy Pearlman had light brown eyes and soft, wavy hair. She was the girl, and later the woman, that boys, and later, men, would stop to stare at and following longingly with their eyes. To top it all off, Amy was smart, always in the top five percent of her class. It was as though the genes of her parents had combined to make one flawless, beautiful, self-affected person. Mitchell Lipensky loved Amy Pearlman, and showed it. Amy Pearlman hated Mitchell Lipensky, and showed it. Mitchell could not understand why. Why's she hate me so much? he'd think. He was always courteous, slowing up, dropping behind so he could hold the door open for her when the bell rang. If Amy dropped something he'd practically fall all over himself picking it up. "Here, Amy," he'd say, handing it to her, giving her his number-one prize-winning smile, and all he ever received for his effort was a reserved, "Humpff!" Never a thank you or, God forbid, a returned smile. The worse she treated him, the more he loved her. The reason Amy Pearlman hated Mitchell Lipensky was simple--and not so simple. Of all the people she knew,--relatives, acquaintances, friends--of all of the people Amy knew, Mitchell Lipensky was the only person better looking than she. This fact did not register with her, though, and truly, Amy did not know the reason for her animosity, or why she was so hostile while he went out of his way to be so nice. At times she was even angry with herself for treating Mitchell as badly as she did. "Conceited bitch!" Watching Amy as she'd strutted across the playground, Norman hit the crook of his elbow, giving her the Italian salute. Following her with his eyes, "Yeah." Mitchell sighed, then, a few seconds later, "Normie," he said, "I've an idea, I been thinkin' a lot about..." "Yeah?" Norman Parminter was wary of Mitchell's "ideas." "Well, you know how you'n'me's been wantin' to see what a girl looks like," touching his crotch, "here." Cautiously, "Yeah?" "Anyway, my idea's..." Mitchell hesitated a moment, "that you should sneak into the girls' toilet so, uh... so's you can see it an' then tell me what it looks like." "Me? You want me to sneak into the girls' toilet?" Laughing, Norman fell over, onto his side, into the gravel. "Shhh!" Starting to giggle Mitchell forced his growing laughter down. "Yeah!" reaching over, he pulled his friend up by the front of his shirt. "It'll work! Listen..." His giggle returned but he suppressed it. "Listen to me, Normie, it'll work!"

BECOMING "You gotta be kiddin'! You want me to sneak into the girls toilet so's I can watch 'em pee an' see what her pisser looks like, an' then I'm supposed to come an' tell you, huh? Why me?" "Yeah! It's gotta be you, 'cause you're smaller'n'me."

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"You know what'll happen to me if I got caught?" Without waiting for an answer. "My mom'll kill me, that's what!" "You won't be caught! But how's come your mom's all you ever worry 'bout? How's 'bout your dad? Don't he ever kill you, too?" "Nah, I don't worry 'bout my dad killin' me" "Why, Normie? You dad's a bull, an' your mom's a peanut." "Yeah, that's why. He's so strong, he's 'fraid if he hits me he'll kill me, so he only pretends to hit me. My mom's the tough one! An' that's why I ain't gonna sneak into no girls' toilet." "Normie, you won't be caught! All's you gotta do is..." "Nope! I ain't gonna do it!" "...Just before recess, you come up with some reason to get out early," he laughed, "like puke on your desk or somethin'." "Nope!" Norman shook his head. Ignoring him, "The girls' toilet's just like ours, two sinks an' three toilets, only theirs got doors. You go in the middle one, close'n'lock the door an' kinda fold your socks down so's they look like bobby-socks, an' when a girl comes in, you stay quiet a minute then, real quiet like, you stand on the toilet an' look over the top, an'..." "Oh, yeah, sure! What if she sees me... uh, you?" "She won't! Who ever goes to the toilet lookin' up at the ceiling?" Answering himself, "No one goes to the toilet lookin' up at the ceiling, an' then you get a perfect birds-eye view! So, you gonna?" "Nope! You're the guy that's interested in seein' what girls pee out'a, so you do it!" "Parminter, you're a chicken-shit, schmuck!" "Yeah, Lipensky, but a live chicken-shit, schmuck." 4:00 p.m.: Sticking his arm through the door, Rabbi Meitzner shook the brass bell. The kids shuffled into the stuffy building. 4:52 p.m.: Reading to themselves, with the exception of the rustling of clothing, the turning of pages, the occasional clearing of a throat, and the buzzing sound of Rabbi Berkovitz's snoring, the room was silent... "Gaaaggghhh!" Hiding his face behind the book with his index finger shoved down his throat, "Gaaaggghhh!" The harsh, gagging startled Rabbi Berkovitz, who'd been dozing holding the book in his left hand and the side

BECOMING of his face in his right. "Vuzzit?" The old man had to catch hold of the edge of the desk to keep from falling off his chair. "Gaaaggghhh!" The class looked in Mitchell's direction. Standing on wobbly legs, "Vuzzit?" Berkovitz asked. "Vos is doos?" Looking about the room with bleary eyes. "So, who's sick?" Holding his arm up, "Me, Rabbi, I'm sick." Closing his mouth, Mitchell brought air into his cheeks causing them to puff outward, as though holding off vomiting. "Can I... ulp, go to the toilet?" "Yes, Lipensky! Go! Go already."

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Glancing at Norman--who was holding his hands together as though praying for the life of his dumb, but not chicken-shit friend--doubled over holding his stomach, Mitchell rushed from the room into the hall, where he hesitated a moment considering the consequences if he got caught. But because he had told Norman he was going to do it he was committed and had to prove that he was not a chicken-shit schmuck. So he went on, into the girls' toilet, into the middle stall, where he closed and locked the door, folded his pants legs up and his socks down, took a deep breath and waited for the recess bell. Mitchell's legs were moderately hairy, but he knew that he had less hair on his legs, and for that matter, on his face, than a number of the girls there. With his crew socks folded into bobby socks, wearing a pair of nondescript sneakers, unless asked a direct question that he couldn't answer with a grunt, he could not see why he wouldn't pass for some hairy-legged girl using the toilet. 5:00 p.m.: The recess bell rung. He waited... but no one came in. Maybe it's for the best, he thought. No, come on! I may never have the guts to do this again.... The door opened. Wanting to see what girl came in, he looked through the crack... Oh, my God! It's Amy Pearlman! Going to the stall on the right, she closed the door. He heard the sound of paper being torn and by bending down was able to see the position of her feet. She's covering the seat so she won't have to put her tush where every one else's tush goes. Her feet turned in the opposite direction. He heard the rustle of her skirt and the crinkle of cheap toilet paper as she lowered herself onto the toilet seat. Sitting still, hardly daring to breathe, he heard a sound, a soft tinkling sound. How cute! Then the harsh expulsion of air being forced through her rectum. A fart? He could not believe what he'd just heard. Amy Pearlman farts? God, he thought, I love Amy, and if I look at her here than I really am a jerk and she'll have every reason to in the world to hate me. But, he rationalized, so long as she hates me anyway, and so long as I'm here... Reaching back, covering the sound of his getting up and standing on the ring, he flushed the toilet, and the sound of water running through the pipe seemed to be deafening. Standing, he put his right foot, then his left, onto the cracked, wooden toilet seat. Rising from a stooped position, he carefully centered both feet and turned his body so he was facing the steel partition, but his position seemed precarious so, shifting his body slightly, moving his feet apart, leaning forward, looking over the top of the partition he could see the top of Amy's head. Leaning further, he could see her bare thighs. Amy was squeezing a pimple! What, he thought, Amy Pearlman got pimples on her thighs, too! Standing on tiptoes, leaning further to the left, Oh, shit! Girls don't pull their skirts down like guys pull their pants down when they gotta make. Girls pull their skirts up! Why can't Amy be like other girls and wear slacks or jeans? Trying to see past the bulk of the bunched material, Mitchell leaned still further to the left. The toilets had been installed in 1910, and the pins holding the seats had thirty-six years to rust, to say nothing

BECOMING of (during the years this had been the boys toilet) miss-aimed urine. Just a little further and maybe... His leaning weight forced the seat back, putting a strain on the badly rusted pins... One pin snapped and the seat slide backward and to the right...

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With fingernails screeching down the metal partition, falling to the left, his shoulder thumping against the door, kerploop, his right foot splashing into the bowl, Mitchell suddenly found himself standing with one foot in the toilet and the other on the floor. Oh, shit! What do I do now? Startled by the sounds coming from the neighboring stall, looking at the partition, "What's going on in there? You okay?" Amy asked. Getting no answer, "Jesus Christ," she said, "I come in here to take a god-damned pee..." Amy Pearlman swears, too! "...and some idiot falls in the toilet! How'd the hell'd you do it? You okay?" He had to say something. "Uh-huh," in a high pitched, falsetto voice. "Who's in there?" Amy demanded. "Who the hell are you?" Not answering, in spite of the cold, wet foot kerplunked in the toilet, Mitchell began to sweat. The clanging of the bell. "Oh, well, whoever you are," Amy said, "there's the bell and I got to get going." He listened to the tearing and crinkling of toilet paper. Once, twice, three times. Finally, the toilet flushed, the door opened and, going to the sink, Amy washed her hands. "See you, whoever you are." she called over her shoulder, then rushed back to the classroom. Alone. What do I do now? Lifting his foot from the toilet, he shook it, then, sitting on the seat, removed both--the water-soaked sneaker and sock--and wrung them out. Only one thing I can do. "So, vere's our Mr. Lipensky?" Looking about the room. "He's so sick, maybe ve got lucky und he vent home. So, nu, anyone see Lipensky?" Rabbi Berkovitz turned his head as the door opened. Coming into the room, "Uh, here, Rabbi. I'm feeling a little better." Mitchell, squeek-squish, walked across the floor to his desk. Squeak! Squish! Grating, squeek-squish, his sopping sneakers left wet, shiny footprints on the worn, dirty linoleum. Mitchell did not look at Amy Pearlman

BECOMING But, oh, yes! Amy Pearlman did look at Mitchell. The Atomic Ring October 19, 1946 It came!

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Finally, after two months of running up and down the stairs checking to see if the mail came--and if it did, did "it" come--on this day it did. The box was smaller than he'd thought, no more than three inches square. There was a miniature Ovaltine logo on the left corner, and on the right, in self-depreciating type, the caption read, THIRD CLASS MAIL. Putting the box to his ear, he shook it, then sitting on the top step, using his key, he cut through the brown paper tape that held the two halves of the box together. Inside, the treasure he'd so anxiously awaited was held bondage by a crumpled piece of paper. Carefully, so it didn't slip out of the paper and fall and break on the marble step, the boy lifted the crinkled package out of the box, put it on his lap and unwrapped it. There it was! Sunlight streaming through the plate glass door reflected on its multifaceted, diamond-like, clear plastic dome. Embossed in the self-adjusting, "one size fits all" gold plated tin ring, around the dome, was a clock face with both hands straight up, at twelve o'clock. Running up two flights of stairs he tripped on the second floor landing and almost fell. Regaining his balance, he rushed up the last flight and through the door into the apartment, and yelled at his mother, "It came!" as he... "Mitchell, stop running!" ...ran into his bedroom slamming the door behind him. Sitting on the edge of the bed he laid the paper on the blanket and smoothed the wrinkles with the flat of his hand. CAPTAIN MIDNIGHT'S SECRET SQUADRON ATOMIC RING. HOLD RING TEN INCHES FROM ARTIFICIAL LIGHT FOR THIRTY SECONDS. GO INTO DARK ROOM. HOLD RING TWELVE INCHES FROM EYES. "That's it?" he said aloud, turning the paper over. "That's all it says?" Thinking, It don't say nothin' 'bout millions of flashin', colored lights, like the guy on the radio said. Or as "if you're standing in the middle of a shower of shooting stars"! Turning the paper over again, seeing nothing other than what he'd already seen, he then looked in both halves of the box to see if there was something that he'd missed. There wasn't. Disappointed, but, Oh, well, tilting the shade back, turning the light on, holding the ring approximately ten inches from the lamp on his dresser, he counted to 30, then went into his closet and closed the door. As the door closed he did see "millions of flashing, colored lights," but the lights were from the rapid dilation of his pupils caused by staring at the naked light bulb then going into the total darkness of the closet... but nary a twinkle from Captain Midnight's Atomic Ring. "Mom, what's a second?"

BECOMING "Huh?" Myra looked at her son as though he were an idiot. "I mean, exactly how long? Like counting one, two, three?" "Well, no, it's more like, one-and-two-and-three-."

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Thinking, I'll do it longer this time, holding the ring to the bulb he counted, one-and-two-and-three... to sixty, then went back in the closet... to the sunburst of phantom lights from his pin-point pupils. "Mom, read these instructions an' tell me if I'm doin' somethin' wrong." Myra looked at the crinkled paper. "Mitchie, are you looking directly at the light when you hold the ring there?" "Yeah, I guess so." "Well don't. Close your eyes and turn your face away." Back in his bedroom, he again held the ring to the light and counted slowly to sixty, but this time, averting his face, Mitchell closed his eyes... With his eyes still closed he groped his way into the closet, closed the door, held the ring in front of his face and opened his eyes. At first he saw only black, then, as his eyes became fully adjusted to the darkness, he saw a small green dot. If he moved the ring closer the dot got bigger. If he moved the ring away the dot got smaller. If he moved the ring in orbit around his face, the dot trailed in a small circle... No "Flashing, colored lights." No "Shower of shooting stars." For the cost of three Ovaltine labels and a quarter--one full week's allowance--Mitchell Lipensky had received a rapidly fading green dot and, sadly, one of life's lessons: The knowledge that you do not always get what you pay for. 15 A Bar Mitzvah Story: From Boy to Man August 2223, 1947 Blue and red shadows from the blinking Carta Blanca beer sign on the top of the building kitty-corner from his flashed across the ceiling and walls of his bedroom. Indistinguishable voices speaking in Spanish and the sounds of laughter came through the open, sliding wall of carpet cleaning plant three stories below. Screeching breaks, clanging streetcars... and the heat. Twisting on the sweat-dampened sheet, Got to get to sleep! Tomorrow's the day and I've got to get to sleep! If he pulled the window shade down to block the flashing light it also blocked whatever slight breeze there was, and in that heat closing the window was completely out of the question. Turning on his stomach, the boy momentarily solved the dual problems of sound and light by putting his face onto the pillow and folding it

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over his ears... for about ten seconds, until the heat of the feather pillow became unbearable, then he turned onto his back again. Maybe, if I think I'm cool and don't think of nothin' else, maybe I'll fall asleep. Composing himself, lying with his arms and legs spread so air could circulate the length of his body, closing his eyes, Mitchell thought, I feel cool! I am not hot! Then he thought of nothing, literally nothing... Nothin'! Don't think of nothin'! ...except for thinking of not thinking. It didn't work and his mind returned to tomorrow. Okay, so he couldn't read Hebrew, at least not enough to get through the entire Hebrew phase, but he had that covered, and surprisingly--no, it was not all that surprising when he thought about it, as a matter of fact--it was Rabbi Berkovitz' idea... "So, Lipensky, you know how to read from the Talmud?" It was the first of four review and instruction classes held forty-five minutes before the start of Hebrew school for that month's Bar Mitzvah boys. No one was in the room but Mitchell, Donnie Weinberg and Rabbi Berkovitz. "So? So read already!" "B-b-ruch, a-ata," haltingly, but trying, "A-d-onai..." "Lipensky, come." Berkovitz motioned to him. Rising from his front-row seat, Mitchell walked to his desk. Turning his book in the boy's direction, sliding it across the desk, pointing with a nicotine-stained finger, "Read!" the old man said. "B-ruch, a-ata, uh, A-do-onai... emm?" "Lipensky, you got your Bar Mitzvah in five days, und you can't even yet get by the first void, yet? So tell me, Lipensky, tell me vhut you learned, besides..." he suppressed a smile, "how to fall in a toilet?" Donnie Weinberg, who didn't know much more than Mitchell, snickered. Leaning his head around Mitchell, Berkovitz glared at the other boy. "You vait, boychick," pointing a stern finger, "it's your turn next... So, Lipensky," coming back to Mitchell, "read to me already!" Trying again, "B-bruch, a-ta, A-do-nai..." "Lipensky, you know ven your mama und papa brought you here--und they should have done it years ago, but den, God forbid, I vould have you in mein class for years--it vas so you vould learn to be a Bar Mitzvah. Vell, Lipensky, I ain't gonna disappoint them, und you ain't gonna disappoint them, too!" Opening a drawer the old man removed a mimeographed piece of paper and handed it across the desk. "Lipensky," whispering, Berkovitz moved his head closer to the boy's, who crinkled his nose at the old man's putrid onion, garlic and tobacco breath. "I vant you should be a Bar Mitzvah for tree reasons: Von, a boy is tirteen only vonce. Two, Torah says you become a man, und should be a Bar Mitzvah ven you're tirteen... Und also, I vant you should be hout from mein class!" Mitchell looked at the paper. It was in Hebrew and English, and read phonetically: Ba-ruch a-ta Adonai, eh-lo-hei-nu meh-lech ha-o-lam, bo-rei p'ri ha-ga-fen.

BECOMING "Lipensky, I vant dis should be our secret!"

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Oh, thank you, God! Mitchell had thought, In English! I got it in English, and all's I gotta do is memorize it. "Hokay? No von should know but you und me!" "Yes, Rabbi! Believe me, I won't tell no one!" * The next day was Mitchell Lipensky's Bar Mitzvah. Coming off the bed, he went to the window, sat on the floor and looked down through the open wall of the carpet cleaning plant three stories below. The carpet was unrolled onto a concrete deck. First hosed with steaming water, the workers, wearing high rubber boots, pushed electric scrubbers back and forth leaving thick trails of soap. Occasionally one of the workers, passing from one end to the other, would run and slide across the foamy carpet. Kind'a looks like fun, Mitchell thought, except for all that steam. Yaght! He watched a minute longer, then went back to bed. Now I gotta sleep! His hand moved to the band of his shorts. Maybe if I... Maybe it'll relax me... No! Not tonight! Not the night before my Bar Mitzvah! He looked at the Baby Ben on his dresser. Almost the day of my Bar Mitzvah. His hand went to his chest... then down again, this time, though, poking through the fly, the tip of his finger caressing his glans, Oh, God, he thought, why's this always happen to me? And, as if by magic, the fly to his Jockey Shorts parted and it sprung through and, knowing it won't, Maybe it'll go away, he further thought as, forcing his hand up, crossing both hands behind his head, staring at the flickering, multi-colored ceiling, concentrating, whispering, he concentrated on, "Ba-ruch a-ta Adonai, Eholo-hei-nu mel-lech ha-o-lam," Dropping to his stomach, "br-rei p'ri Ha-ga-fen." his index finger circled his navel. "Beloved parents, relatives and friends." Now, holding the warm, hard protrusion. "Uh, today, emmm," his hand moving, "Today I am," faster, "emmm, a man!" faster... "Oh, God!" Instantly depressed, feeling guilty, Mitchell wiped himself with a handkerchief, got off the bed, went into the living room and, as he still had the remnants of his erection, looking past the dining room, seeing that the lights were out in his parents' bedroom, he tiptoed to the bathroom, urinated, then got back into bed. I shouldn't have done that! He yawned. God'll punish me for doing that tonight! He did feel relaxed, though, as if the act of masturbation had drained him of apprehension and tension, which in fact, outside of his guilt, it had. Yawning again, Mitchell Lipensky closed his eyes... * "Mitchie," Myra Lipensky called softly through the partially open door, "today's the big..." Pushing the door open, "uh, day." she quickly, quietly, pulled the door back to its previous position. Stirring, "Yeah, Mom." the boy yawned, stretched his arms and legs, and rubbed his crotch... where his hand lingered a moment on the pee erection that had, once again, pushed its way through the fly of his shorts, then, looking at the partially open door, he quickly pulled the summer blanket over his lower body. "I'm awake!" "Walt? Mitchie, he, uh..."

BECOMING Sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking this day's first cigarette, "Yeah, Myra," Walter Lipensky asked. "Mitchell what?" "Walt, just now when I went to wake Mitchell..." trying to think of a delicate way to say it. "Myra, what in the hell's the matter?"

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"Uh, when I went to wake him, the, uh, door wasn't closed all the way and Mitchell was lying, uh, sleeping on his back, and..." "And what?" "Walt, his... thing, his..." pointing to her husband's crotch, "was out of his underwear and it looked like a man's! You know, like you... when we, uh, make love." "Yeah?" Amused that she'd be so flustered over this. "So what? He probably had to make." "Make?" "For Christ sake, Myra! Your son had to go to the toilet! You do remember what happens to boys when they have to make?" Myra had bathed, changed and dressed her two boys often enough to know that when a baby has to urinate, sometimes his little penis erects. But the last time she'd seen Mitchell's it was a small, cute, six-year-old penis, and she'd never given thought to it growing in size along with the rest of his body--and Mitchell was big for his age, standing an inch or two taller than any of his friends--so, this morning, when she'd seen him, "it" looked like a man's and it had shocked her. Blushing, "Oh, yes, Walt, how stupid of me." she said. "I forgot." Remembering, still feeling an enormous sense of guilt, coming off the bed the boy stood, and the tan of his face turned a sickly khaki as, sitting again, he--whether it was caused by God as a punishment for masturbating on the night before his Bar Mitzvah, which was rather doubtful, or more the likely, due to guilt it was psychosomatic--he felt a sharp pain in his testicles. Standing again, supporting the weight of his scrotum in the palm of his hand, going to the window he looked skyward, "Oh, God, I'm sorry I did it last night, and I know you're punishing me for doing it, but please, God," Mitchell prayed, whispering the words because he felt a prayer would not be listened to unless the words were more than a mere thought, "don't let there be anything wrong today! I'm sorry and I promise never to do it again! Honest!" * Standing her family by the front door, inspecting, wanting them to look perfect today, "What a beautiful family I have!" Myra said proudly, adding, "Mitchie, honey, you look a little... pale." Meaning a little green. "You feeling okay?" "Yeah, sure, Mom. I'm just kind'a, you know, nervous." "Sure. I don't blame you, not one bit." "Okay." Appraising her husband and boys one last time, just to be safe, "Are we ready to go?" "Yes! Let's get this show on the road!" Walter lifted three-year-old Lawrence, who had slumped to the floor,

BECOMING back onto his feet. "Ready to see your big brother become a fountain pen?" he uncharacteristically joked, giving Mitchell a rare smile, and an even more rare wink. "Walter!" Myra said, feigning anger. "How could you?"

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Just the evening before, Al Marcus had told the old joke about the Bar Mitzvah boy who was told that for his Bar Mitzvah he'd get all kinds of presents: a fountain pen and a sweater; a fountain pen and a wallet; a fountain pen and money, and when the boy made his speech he'd said, "My beloved parents, relatives and friends, today I am a fountain pen." Thinking of Mitchell as an extremely handsome boy, but not necessarily an overly intelligent boy; worried her son would, somehow, make the same mistake, Myra had berated her brother-in-law for telling the story just the evening before his Bar Mitzvah, and she now scolded her husband for the same thing. "Yeah!" Giggling, "A fountain pen!" Lawrence mimicked. Holding back tears of joy and pride, "You're all so beautiful." Myra said once again. "I'm just so proud of all of you, and especially you, Mitchell. After all, it's not every day a mother gets to see her son as a boy one day and a man the next..." Alluding to the Hebrew theory that a boy becomes a man on the day of his Bar Mitzvah, "Is it, Walt?" Thinking his wife may have a double meaning to her question, referring to both the Hebraic belief and what she'd seen when she accidentally looked in on Mitchell earlier that morning, "Yes, Myra," Walter said sincerely. "You're so right! It's sure not everyday a mother gets to see that!" 16 Softball May 22, 1948 Mitchell Lipensky was not too athletic, and really not too interested in sports of any kind. Oh, yes, he'd play football, both touch and tackle with the guys, but as for softball, his enthusiasm was minimal, except when... Mitchell! Yooo, Mitchell!" Running from the kitchen, letting the screen door slam shut behind him, he leaned over the banister. "Yeah, Sharon?" Almost fifteen, Sharon was a pretty Jewish girl with the unlikely last name of Duffy. She and her divorced mother lived in a second floor apartment, in the two-story building on the southwest side of the bisected alley. "Yo, Mitch! You wanna play baseball?" Considering, he looked to see who was there. The kids were sitting on the low, broken wall of a 4x6 cement incinerator that was to the side in the junction of the tri-cornered alley. There was fifteen-year-old Phyllis Koscinski, the Polish girl that lived next door to Mitchell. It was her porch that must be crossed when entering or leaving the Lipensky porch. Sitting next to Phyllis were the fourteen-year-old twins, Susan and Sally Gugulski. Next to Sally was Marlene, the thirteen-year-old daughter of Abe, from the corner deli, and to the left of Marlene was "Big" Rosalind Feigenbaum. On his porch, Norman was awaiting Mitchell's answer because, though he'd rather play ball with

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the guys, he'd rather play ball than not play ball, and if it had to be with the girls, so long as Mitchell played, he'll play, and besides, Mitchell's team usually lost. Tossing the split-seamed, ten-inch softball in the air and catching it, "So, you wanna play?" Phyllis called. Mitchell looked at Norman, who shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah! Be right down!" Rushing back to the kitchen, letting the screen door slam shut behind him, shoving the rest of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his mouth and gulping down half a glass of milk, slamming out of the apartment again, running down the three flights of stairs, "Same sides?" "Yeah, sure." Norman answered. "Why not?" As always, it was Norman, Marlene and, for fourteen-year-old girls, the hard-hitting, fast-running Gogulski twins against Mitchell, Sharon, Phyllis and lumbering, Big Rosalind. Norman and Mitchell were the power hitters and by then actually had a team rivalry... of sorts. Norman tossed the bat to Mitchell, then wrapped his fist around the bat on top of Mitchell's fist. Mitchell's hand went snugly against Norman's, then Norman's and, "Buttercups!" like a small steam shovel, Mitchell's hand capped the top of the bat. "We're up!" They played facing east in the long portion of the alley, with "home" just opposite the first floor of Mitchell's building. Norman's team took their places in the field; Norman pitched. Marlene went to shallow left, but because of the tall fence that bordered the alley, left was actually closer to center. Sally took deep center and Susan right field. Phyllis was up first. The following batter was always catcher, so Sharon knelt a few feet behind the crushed tomato juice can that on that day served as home. Slow, but if connecting, Big Rosalind was powerful and, waiting her ups, Rosalind stood in the shade leaning against the building. Batting clean-up, in his usual spot, Mitchell sat on a cinderblock in the dirt to the right and just slightly forward of the batter. "Okay," Norman called from the pitcher's mound, a chunk of broken concrete, "Batter up!" Phyllis and Sharon's standard baseball uniforms were blue jeans and one of their father's old, short-sleeved, loose-fitting dress shirts open at the collar and, depending on how hot it was, an additional one or two buttons down... And on this day it was hot. Phyllis came to home and, grasping the bat, hunched forward, leaned to the right and concentrated on Norman's pitch. Sitting on the cinderblock with his elbows on his knees, his head held in the palms of his hands, hunched forward also, Mitchell cocked his head to the left and, "Come on, batter!" he called to Phyllis watching her closely. "Slug it!" Straining to "kill it," the tip of the poised bat moved in a slow, tight circle, and Phyllis crouched even lower...

BECOMING The collar of the loose fitting blouse gapped open and... Phyllis's breasts swung pendulously, openly, and in full view of Mitchell. Sharon was up next. 17 Freshies September 7, 1948 Their back doors slamming simultaneously, they ran down the three flights of stairs. This day, Tuesday, September 7, 1948, was Norman Parminter and Mitchell Lipensky's first day of high school. They had their choice of two schools: Farragut, to the south, and Harrison, to the east. The boys, against the wishes of their parents, had chosen Harrison. Their parents' reasoning had been two-fold: Farragut was closer, about a mile away, while Harrison was almost three miles away, and also, Farragut had a goodly number of Jewish children in attendance, while the kids at Harrison were primarily Polish and Italian. Norman chose Harrison because he wanted to join the ROTC, which Harrison had and Farragut didn't. Mitchell chose Harrison because Harrison had Phyllis Koscinski and Farragut didn't.

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She was an older woman, sixteen, and a sophomore and, outside of living next door for years and knowing that he was that annoying kid that always looked down her blouse when they played baseball, Phyllis didn't know Mitchell was alive or, if she did, she could not care less. Mitchell, on the other hand, was madly in love with Phyllis. Last spring, before graduation and summer vacation, one day, accidentally, Mitchell saw Phyllis naked... well, half-naked really. He'd been on the toilet and could hear the sound of running water, then the knocking of pipes when the shower was turned off. Finished, he washed and dried his hands, opened the door and, going to the kitchen, turned to the left. As he began to walk he looked over his shoulder and there, on the opposite side of the air well, standing, staring towards the front of the apartment, as though in deep thought, or possibly daydreaming, was Phyllis. Obviously no one was home, and obviously it had been Phyllis in the shower because she was naked, at least from the waist up. Unaware that Mitchell, on the other side of the air well, no more than ten feet away, was looking at her... Looking? Hell, he was gawking. Her eyes seemingly focused on some faraway point to the west, reflected in the golden rays of the setting sun, Phyllis' face had a shining glow. Her dishwater-blond hair hanging in straight, wet strands down her back, her head held high, her neck arched, her youthful, pink-nippled breasts pointed outward and upward. Standing with his heart pounding, thinking, She's so beautiful! he'd stared at this wondrous picture for what was in reality no more than three heartbeats, then, sadly, Phyllis moved out of sight. But still he stood looking,

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hoping, wanting her to come back, but she didn't, and through the ten feet of airspace Mitchell Lipensky had fallen completely and hopelessly in love. From that day, whenever he'd hear the door on the opposite side of the landing slam shut, he'd go to the front window, pull it open and look down, and if it was Phyllis, he'd go downstairs and wait, nonchalantly, so he thought, for her to return. Oh, God, Phyllis would think when she'd see him sitting on the stoop, what's that damn pest want now? "Hi, Phyl," he'd say. "Want some help with those bags?" "Sure," she'd say, shrugging her shoulders indifferently, "why not?" And she would allow him the privilege of carrying the heavy bags of groceries up the three flights of steps, then, opening her door, she'd take the bags from his hands and, having slightly more manners than Amy Pearlman, Phyllis would mutter a barely-heard, "Thanks," and kick the door shut behind her. Oh, yes! Harrison did have Phyllis Koscinski, and for all the good that ever did him, Mitchell Lipensky. The boys met in the juncture of the alley. "Hey, Norm!" "Hi, Mitch! So, you ready?" "Jeeze, yeah! I guess so." Carrying their lunches in brown paper bags, each had ten cents in their pockets: a nickel for milk and a nickel for an after-school snack. Cutting through the alley, they crossed Nineteenth Street and followed the same route they'd taken to the Douglas Theater for years. Coming to the Douglas, they stopped to see what movies would be shown when the features changed, then went on, and on! Walking to the east, the rising sun shining in their eyes, since there was no shade on either side of the street, soon perspiration covered their faces and ran down their necks. "You know, Norm, it never seems this long when we go to the Marshall." On Marshall Boulevard, one of their choices of a movie theater, The Marshall Square was one block north of Harrison Technical High School. "Well, I guess we could always take the streetcar, then." "You kiddin', Norm! They ain't gonna give us another penny for the streetcar! Not after the way you'n'me fought 'em to go to Harrison. They told us we wouldn't wanna walk every day." "Well, I guess we could give up pop..." The nickel was for milk, but they both knew they were going to get pop. "...and ride one way, or we can give up the nosh, too, and ride both ways." Hefting the bag, feeling the weight of two salami sandwiches, an apple and a package of Twinkies, "No, I don't wanna do that!" "Hey, Mitch, you're the one that's complaining."

BECOMING Marshall Boulevard, finally! Turning right, walking one block, there it was: Harrison Tech. "God! Normie," Mitchell said in awe, "it's gigantic!"

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Talking, yelling, horsing around, re-acquainting themselves with friends they hadn't seen in more than two months, thousands of teenagers, so it seemed, milled in front of the entrance and all of them were... "Holy shit!" Norman said. "They're so big!" Last spring, in the eighth-grade graduating class, Norman and Mitchell thought of themselves as the biggest kids in school, but now both felt like... what? Shrimps! Norman was of average height for his age and Mitchell was better than an inch taller, but in their minds both boys felt small in comparison to the giants that bumped, jostled and elbowed by them. Mitchell looked to see if he could spot Phyllis or anyone else he knew, but there were so many kids it was impossible. "Mitchie! Normie!" Feeling a poke in their backs, the boys turned and, Oh, shit! they both thought. Of all the people in the world it's gotta be these two! "Hi, Roz." Mitchell said without much enthusiasm. "Hi'ya, Ron." Norman said in the same flat tone of voice. Big Rosalind Feigenbaum was big in both height and girth. She had short, kinky red hair and her heavily freckled, light complected face, was, as always, broken out with pimples. Ronald Muskowitz, whom they called Mushuggi-witz--the Mushuggi, as in crazy--lived on the other side of Christiana Avenue. Smaller than average, Ronald had tightly curled, platinum blonde hair. Besides being a blonde Jew, there was not much else wrong with the way Ronald looked. Except, at birth he'd been an instrument baby and the doctor had extracted him from his mother's womb with forceps. Consequently, his face was long and thin, especially above both temples where his head, going from his forehead back about three inches, was deeply grooved where the inch-wide forceps had grasped and pulled. And in these one-inch wide strips no hair grew, giving Ronald a kind of satanic, crazy appearance, hence, Mushuggi-witz. But being physical outcasts made Rosalind and Ronald the best of friends and actually, aside from their appearance, they were clever, quick-witted and--their verbal sallies toward one another often leaving whomever was within hearing holding their stomachs gasping with laughter--bitingly sarcastic to each other. And also, as though when God made them ugly, he gave them brains to compensate, Ronald and Rosalind were the two top-graded students in their graduating class. Maybe, Mitchell had thought one day while trying to understand a math problem that Rosalind, at the blackboard, was in the process of easily solving, that's why I'm not so smart, because God gave me a good-looking face. Look at her; she's ugly as hell and knows everything! The bell rang. The four freshies melded in the stream, got caught in the current, and were carried away with the flow.

BECOMING Cavernous hallways. Monstrous stairwells. Harrison is gigantic! "Where we supposed to be?" Rosalind asked Ronald. "I d'know!" "Where we at?" "Beats the shit outta me!" "Where we going?" "I d'know!"

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"You don't know where we're supposed to be, you don't know where we are, and you don't know where we're going?" "Yup, that's right!" "I guess we're lost, then." "Well," Ronald said, "in the words of that famous old Indian chief..." Knowingly or unknowingly, always each other's foil: "Uh, what famous old Indian chief?" Rosalind asked warily. "You know, Roz. The chief of that wandering tribe that moved someplace else every day... the Fukawees." Big Rosalind looked at Crazy Ronald. "Uh, the Fukawees?" "Yeah, the Fukawees!" Ronald said seriously. "Every morning the chief would climb to the top of the highest hill, shade his eyes with his hand, look around and say: 'Where the fuk'a'we'?" 18 The Trip May 28 and June 18, 1949 "Hello!" "Yeah, hello!" In a false-sounding, deeply masculine voice, "This the La'pish'ky residence?" "Lipensky! Yeah, it is!" "Is there a, uh, Mitchell La'pish'ky there?" "This is Mitchell Lipensky!" "The Mitchell La'pish'ky?" "Yes!" Now knowing it's a gag, "Who's this?" he asked.

BECOMING "Mitchell La'pish'ky? The Jewish peeeg!" "My God, Frankie!" "Hey, ya big shit! Your hand busted? You can't pick up the phone an' call me once in a while?" "Yeah, I know, sorry. So what'j'ya been doin' with yourself? How'd you like high school? Jesus, Frankie, you're gonna be a junior!"

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"No. The Catholic school my folks sent me to didn't have half semesters, so I was put back an' graduated same as you." "That's tough, bein' put back that way." "Nah, didn't mind all that much. So, what'j'ya been doing'?" "I had my Bar Mitzvah... what? Jesus, almost two years ago, and I'm going to Harrison! When the hell's the last time we talked to each other?" "When I called you!" "Okay already, I'm sorry! I promise, I'll call next time! Okay?" "Okay, you dick, I'll forgive ya... this time! I think the last time we talked was right after you got that stupid ring." "My Captain Midnight ring." He laughed. "It never did work." "So, Mitch, tell me, you still 'cherry'? Ya ever get laid?" Frank laughed, too. "Ever even get to see a cunt?" Not too sure of what cherry meant, and no, he hadn't been laid, and had no more of an idea then, than when he'd been nine, of what a cunt looked like, and so said nothing. "Yeah, that's what I thought! Know what?" Without waiting for an answer, "It's 'bout time I got'j'ya fucked. Look, why don't'j'ya talk to your folks an' see if you can visit here for a couple'a days after school's out? You remember that girl I tol'j'ya 'bout?" He thought a moment. "Oh, yeah! The one that wants to see what a Jewish dick looks like." "Yeah! An' seein' as you're the biggest Jewish dick I know!" "Fuck you, Rizzo!" "No, I been fucked, now we're gonna get you fucked. Anyway, for years now, Gina keeps askin' when she's gonna meet my ugly Jewish pal, Mitchell. Shit! She ain't even met'j'ya an' she's got the hots for ya! You get your folks to let'j'ya come an' I promise, you'll get screwed, blewed an' tattooed!" "You sure, Frank?" Becoming excited. "No shit! You mean it? Uh, whats'er'name...?" "Gina." "Yeah, Gina! She told you this?"

BECOMING "It's a sure thing! I wouldn't lie to my best pal."

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Quiet as Frank's words sunk in, both, "the sure thing," and Frank still considering him as his best pal... "Okay, school's out in a couple'a weeks, an' I'll ask my mom'n'dad if I can go see you soon's it's over. I'm pretty sure they'll say okay, an' I'll give you a call and let you know when, for sure. Okay?" "Yeah, that sounds great. Hey, I got an idea. You still got that Captain Midnight ring?" "Yeah, someplace. Why? I tol'j'ya it don't work." "It don't gotta work. You bring it an' I'll tell you why when I see you." "Okay, if I can find it, I'll bring it." For some reason, though, no matter how Frank assured him, Gina sounded too good to be true. "But you're sure now, about Gina?" "Mitch, I told'j'ya, if nothin' else, she wants to see what a circumcised dick looks like." Mitchell laughed. "You guys ain't got none'a your own?" "Yeah, we got lots'a pricks in my neighborhood, but none of 'em been whacked off like yours... You still got my number?" "Whacked off, huh? Same old Frankie. Yeah, if it ain't been changed, I got it filed under Dago." "Okay, then I'll be talkin't'ya in a couple'a weeks." "Yeah, Frankie. Talk to you soon's I know... Bye." "So long, Mitchie." June 18, 1949 "Got your hankie?" As though calling on God to help him, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, he patted his back pocket. "Yeah, Mom, I got my hankie!" "Your keys?" Patting his left front pocket, hearing a muted jingle, nodding his head, "Yeah!" "Money?" "Mom, I'm fifteen!" "Going to be fifteen!" she corrected. "Okay! Going to be fifteen--in two months! Mom, I ain't a baby no more!" "Ain't, ain't in the dictionary." she corrected again. "And you're not a baby anymore! Do you have your money?"

BECOMING Patting his right front pocket, "Yeah, I got my money." "Show me!"

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Reaching in his pocket, removing five one-dollar bills and 75 cents in change, holding the bills and change forward for her to see, "Okay?" "Okay." Nodding at the canvas bag on the bed, "And what are you taking to wear?" He thought a moment. "Two undershirts and underpants, and two hankies and two shirts and my new khaki pants... Okay?" "Don't be fresh! You know I'm still not too happy about you going and for two cents..." "Mom, I ain't seen Frankie in almost five years!" "I know you haven't seen Frankie in almost five years! Why couldn't he come here to visit? I'm sure this is a much nicer neighborhood than where he lives." "Mom, that's your opinion, an' besides, I didn't invite him here and he did invite me there!" "I know! I know! Got your toothbrush?" "Yeah," sighing, looking skyward again, "I got my toothbrush! Mom, I got everything I'm going to need! I'm only going for two days!" Regarding her eldest son, Myra fleetingly wondered, Good Lord, where have the years gone? Regarding his mother, Mitchell noticed a bulge beneath her housedress and wondered, Another watermelon seed? Nah, it couldn't be! * Besides his two years at Baylor, outside of a week's visit to his aunt and uncle in Pittsburgh the summer before, this was the first time he'd left home alone. When he went to Pittsburgh, Myra and Walter had put him on the train in Chicago and he was met in Pittsburgh by his uncle Jerry, Jerry's second wife, Meg, and her son, Bob, and was never really on his own. But this was completely different: To go to a tough, gentile neighborhood that was a world apart from his? Myra was apprehensive about this trip, and rightfully so. In her eyes Mitchell was an innocent boy and, to her knowledge, had never faced true anti-Semitism. Oh, yes, she thought, there'd been that anti-Semite dictator at Baylor, but that was so subtle he probably never really felt it. Myra was sure he'd heard, if not been called the names: sheeny, kike, Christ-killer. That was the main reason she'd been against Harrison as his choice of high school. But, to her knowledge, even that had turned out okay. Maybe it's because Mitchell is so big for his age? But, No, she reasoned, his size would only make him more of a target. That's why Jews live together. That's one of the reasons we live here. After all, there is strength in numbers. But maybe it's not all that bad anymore, and maybe there are more Jewish kids in Harrison than I thought. When Mitchell had asked Myra if he could visit Frank, fully expecting Walter to say no, she gave him "Mother's Standard Answer Number One": "Go ask your Father."

BECOMING "Dad," he'd asked, "do you remember my friend Frank Rizzo?"

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Sitting in his chair in the front room, reading the paper, Walter put his cigarette in the ashtray and looked at his son. "Frank Rizzo? Yes, I do. Nice boy, for an Italian." "I talked to him last week and he asked if I could visit him for a couple'a days when school's out." Giving "Father's Standard Reply Number One": "Did you ask your Mother?" "Yeah, Dad, I did, and she said it's alright with her if it's alright with you." Slightly surprised, "She did, huh? Where's your friend live?" "Oh, somewhere around California and 63rd." "The south side. That's not such a great neighborhood there." Knowing what his father was thinking, so long as he'd told one lie, he figured he might as well tell another. "Dad, Frank says that it's not so bad there, and that he has lots of Jewish friends there." "Really! Know what, Mitchell? It may not be such a bad idea after all. It might even be a good experience for you, being in a different neighborhood. After all, you can't live here forever. You've got to meet different kinds of people sometime. Yes, I do think it's a good idea that you visit your friend!" "It's okay then, if I tell mom you said it's okay?" Flapping the paper forward, "Uh-hu." dismissing his son, he'd lifted it in front of his face. "Dad say's he thinks it'll be a good experience for me to be with other people for a change, an' it's all right with him." * "You have Frankie's phone number?" "Yeah," sighing, looking skyward again, "I got it!" "You know, Mitchie," taking her son by the shoulders, looking directly at him, "if I treat you like a baby, even though we have Larry," stopping, she considered if she should tell him, but decided against it, "you're still my baby and I'm always going to worry about you. Do you understand me?" Not waiting for an answer, "You know how to get there?" "Yes, Mom." Pulling back, looking into her eyes, "I know how to get there! Stop worrying; it's easy!" Forcing a smile, "Okay," she stared at him a long moment. "And you will call me when you get there!" "Yeah, Mom. I will! I'll call you from Frankie's." Holding the curtain aside, Myra stood at the front room window watching Mitchell as he waited on the safety island for an eastbound streetcar. She heard the clanging before seeing it.

BECOMING The streetcar came to a stop.

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He stepped into the car's vestibule, and as though knowing that she was watching from the window, without turning, lifting his arm, Mitchell waved his hand. The conductor stamped on the steel button. Myra heard the faint clang-clang. The car moved across Homan Avenue, and out of sight. Sighing, she let the curtain drop into place. * He'd traveled north on California Avenue many times. The dentist's office and Grandma and Grandpa Lipensky's house was along the north-bound route, but the furthest south he'd ever gone was twenty-second street. As the streetcar traveled south he was surprised at the change and deterioration of each following neighborhood. Well-maintained apartment buildings changed to hulking, dirty tenements. Once thriving neighborhood storefront businesses give way to dirty, steel-barred storefront windows and doors. White faces changed to black faces. People stood on street corners, or sat in the shade on door-stoops, or walked singularly, or in pairs or groups, just like the people in his neighborhood, yet they seemed so different... so foreign. Shvartzers! Negroes! Not accustomed to Negroes, even though they did nothing in any way threatening, still, he was glad to be behind the window of this moving streetcar, and though it was the eighteenth of June and the temperature was 78 degrees, he shivered. Mitchell had no idea why he was afraid. He'd never even met a Negro seemed to be so... Not at all like Charlie Chan's chauffeur in the movies or Jack Benny's "Rochester" on the radio. Uncle Al told shvartzer jokes all the time, but looking through the fly-specked window of this fast moving streetcar as it passed from corner to corner, he saw nothing funny and was very glad to be in here, and not out there. Becoming cleaner, the stores, buildings and streets changed again and the black faces once again become white faces. "Sixty-third Street!" The conductor called, "Sixty-third Street, next stop!" Mitchell stood, went to the rear platform and waited till the streetcar came to a complete stop before he stepped off, onto the safety island... into a "different" place. Standing in the wash of the departing streetcar he felt the humid wind and the air seemed hotter here than it was there--hotter now than it was before. As he stepped from the safety island, a speck of blowing grit stung his left eye. Rubbing it, he walked from the street onto the sidewalk. Along and around the corners of California and Sixty-third streets were dozens of intermixed shabby and somewhat better maintained stores.

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Across the street, green and orange tissue-paper wrappers mixed with paper scraps and dust twisted along the gutter in a dwarf-sized cyclone. Names on the plate glass windows of storefronts were unfamiliar to Mitchell's eyes and memory: Vesuvio Bakery and Ristorante. Sicelia Cheese Co., Gesseppi Grocery and Olive Oil. Some were completely unpronounceable words in a gold scroll that was hand-painted on dirty, fly-speckled windows. Looking from corner to corner he felt a sense of dread, but at the same time a feeling of adventure, as though when he'd stepped off the streetcar he'd stepped into a strange, foreign land. Even the air here smelled different... "Ughhh!" He gasped as a pair of well-muscled arms encircled his waist from behind and lifted him off his feet. "Jewish peeeg!" whispered in his ear by a familiar, but much deeper voice. "Frankie!" Trying to twist out of the vice-like grip, released, Mitchell turned around. "Jesus, Mitchie, you look just like always, only ten feet taller!" Feeling his smile fade, thinking, It's Sal Diamond! Mitchell blinked his eyes. No! Forcing his smile back. It's really Frankie who now looks like Sal Diamond. Frank Rizzo's youthful appearance had drastically changed in the five years since the two friends had said goodbye at the train station in downtown Chicago. All of Frank's features had...? Mitchell tried to put the changes into thought... Frank Rizzo's features had hardened and...? dirtied. Frank's face now appeared to be...? What? Chiseled out of white marble. His smooth skin and child-like features had given way to straight, hard, adult-like lines. His black hair was long and greasy and combed back with each comb stroke visibly etched in the sweeping growth that grew above and behind his ears, making a well-pronounced D.A. on the back of his head. He had a rash of blackheads above his eyebrows and across the bridge of his nose. There were clusters of small, white-headed pimples on either side of his lower lip. Frank's hands, once well scrubbed, now had a grimy look. Dirt was ingrained in the pores of his knuckles and his fingernails were half-mooned with grease. But the change that most amazed Mitchell was Frank's body. Wearing tight Levi's and a cotton undershirt, his arms and shoulders fairly bulged with muscle that shined as though coated with oil. It was the torso of an adult rather than that of a sixteen-year-old boy and, with the exception of the blackheads and pimples, it was as though Frank Rizzo had jumped from childhood to adulthood completely bypassing puberty. Finding it hard to believe that this... man standing before him was really his friend, his smile still forced, "Frankie," swallowing, "you look so, uh, different!" Looking at him, "Mitchie," the worried look that crossed his face was quickly replaced with a broad smile. "Come on, we can't stand here grinnin' at each other or people'll start thinkin' we're a couple'a homos." 'Homos'? Taking him by the elbow, Frank steered Mitchell across California Avenue. "I can't wait till Gina see's ya... 'J'ya bring the ring like I told'j'ya?" "Yeah, I found it." Taking the ring out of his pocket, he handed it to Frank, who looked at it a moment, then gave it back. "But I told'j'ya it don't work, and still don't know why you wanted me to bring it." Walking east on Sixty-third, "Mitchie, you gotta understand women!"

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"Well, I ain't had much opportunity till now, but what in the hell's this busted ring got to do with understandin' women?" "Look, Gina's had the hots for you ever since I told her 'bout you an' it ain't gonna be a problem to get her into the sack, but I want everything to go right, an' you can't treat a lady like a whore! That's where the ring comes in. Understand?" "No! I don't understand what a busted ring's got to do with treating a lady like a whore." "Mitchie, the damn ring don't gotta work. But let's say you'n'me'n'Gina'n'Lisa--Lisa's my girl--are sittin' 'round and I say to you: 'Hey, Mitch, you bring your Captain Midnight ring? The one that shoots off all them shootin' stars in a dark room!' An' you say to me, 'Sure I brought it!' An' I say to you, 'Gina would love to see it. Wouldn't you, Gina?' An' she says to you, 'Hey, Mitch, why don't you show me your ring?' An' then the two of you get up an' go into the bedroom. This way you'n'her go off to fuck, an' she don't have to feel like a whore... Capisce?" The rational completely eluding Mitchell, "Capisce?" he asked. "Don't you remember anything I taught'j'ya?" "Oh, yeah! Now I remember! Capisce! Understand!" "Yeah, ya dumb Jew fart!" "Oh, yeah! Well, you're not so nishgafarelach either!" "I'm not so nish-ga... huh?" "Yeah!" Punching Frank on the shoulder, "See? You don't know everything, you stupid wop!" "What's nisgha, uh,.... what you said mean?" "Beats me, but whatever it is, you ain't!" He laughed. "Or maybe," remembering what he'd called him after their meeting with Skorupski, "maybe you are, you Dago tittie!" Laughing, too, in a show of friendship, though he had to reach up to do it, Frank put his arm across Mitchell's shoulder. Hesitating a moment, Mitchell put his arm across Frank's shoulder, also, then, going a few steps further, both boys began to feel self-conscious and their arms fell to their sides. But together again, the years and the unaccustomed differences dissipated and each felt the warmth of their old friendship. "Frankie..." Mitchell looked to his right. "I wasn't sure till right now, but know what?" Without waiting for a reply, "I've missed you, a real lot!" Looking to his left, "Yeah," blinking his eyes, "me too, pal." Walking side by side, both boys quiet a few moments, "Where we goin'?" Mitchell asked. "I got a couple'a things I gotta do for my old man, an' I want him to meet you... There it is," Frank said, proudly, "by the corner. See our sign?" Sandwiched between a small savings and loan on the corner to the east, and a tailor shop to the west, RIZZO & SON. FRESH PRODUCE was written in gold, italic lettering on a comparatively clean, plate glass window.

BECOMING Frank held the screen door open as they stepped inside to the accompaniment of a tinkling bell.

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Wearing a green- and red-smeared white apron over a pair of denim overalls, a short, obese man with a thick patch of graying, black hair that fringed his otherwise totally bald head came from the rear of the store. "Frankie is'a good you come back! I'm'a'need'a you bring some orang'a'an'apple up'a the stairs." "Sure, Papa. You remember I hadda go meet my friend at the streetcar?" "Sure, I remember!" Looking at Mitchell, he held his hand forward. "My Frankie, he's'a tink his Papa's stupid." "No I don't, Papa... Papa, this is Mitchell." Taking the chafed hand into his, Mitchell shook hands with the older man. "I'm glad to meet you, Mister Rizzo." "Mitchie, it'll take a few minutes to get the crates up from the cooler an' it's hot in here, so why don't you go outside an' wait for me. I won't be too long, then we'll go get somethin' to eat, and by that time we can head over to the girls'. Oh, an' by the way," taking the canvas bag from Mitchell, "Papa'll bring this home for you." "Thank you," nodding to Mr. Rizzo. "Can I give you a hand, Frankie?" "Nah, thanks, though. The stairs are kinda steep an' Gina'd never forgive me if you fell an' broke somethin'." He winked. "An' anyway, how'd you think I got these?" Frank flexed his right arm, causing the biceps to pop. "Go on, wait outside, I'll be done in a couple'a minutes." "Guess I'll see you at home then, Mr. Rizzo." "Sure. You have a good time wit'a my Frankie." Outside, standing a moment, he stretched. Noticing a nail and staple-studded telephone pole, he walked to it, leaned against it a moment, then, with his feet in the gutter, sitting on the curb, Mitchell rested his back against the dry, cracked wood. The warm sun feeling nice on his face, his eyes closed to the glare, the sunlight caused a pleasant red glow though his eyelids... Cooling the heat and darkening the glow beneath his eyelids, thinking it was Frank, opening his eyes Mitchell looked up, at two shadows silhouetted against the sun. "Ai, she's awake!" "Yeah, I see that!" Facing the sun, having to squint and shade his eyes in order to see their faces from his lower, sitting position, the two looming figures appeared to be huge. Each had sideburns that trailed to below their cheekbones, and oil-slicked hair combed into sharp D.A.'s. Both faces were covered with pimples and scabs and scars where the pimples had been squeezed and ruptured. One of the faces was dark and thin, having a long, sharp, hawk-like nose, a slit of a mouth and crooked, tobacco stained teeth. Scraggly wisps of hair sparsely covered his thin upper lip and pointed jaw. Thick and pasty colored, with the exception of eyebrows and sideburns, the other face was completely

BECOMING hairless. This one's nose had been broken, possibly more than once, because it was discolored and lay somewhat flat above fat, saliva-coated lips.

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Each wore oil-smeared undershirts that were dotted with holes as though sprayed with battery acid and greasy, tight fitting blue jeans held up by wide, steel studded, black leather belts. Cigarettes dangling from their lips, the upward curling smoke causing both to squint and look, if at all possible, even more menacing. "Hawk Nose" appeared to be about seventeen, and "Fat Lips" sixteen, or possibly seventeen, too. Stooping, pinching, painfully twisting the flesh of Mitchell's left cheek, "Ain't she pretty!" Hawk Nose said through clenched teeth. "Who are ya? An' what the fuck ya doin' here, sittin' on my curb?" "Stan'up when my friend's talkin' to ya, ya prick, ya!" Grabbing Mitchell by the front of his shirt, Fat Lips yanked him onto his feet. "Jesus Christ, Look'a'dat! Ain't she a big one!" "Yeah!" Hawk Nose said, "That's how I like my broads, big'n'pretty. Ya know what? Ya look like a fuckin' fairy! Are ya? Are ya some kinda fuckin' homo fairy?" Shouting, "Well, are ya?" Terrified, "N-no," emphatically shaking his head negatively. "Ya ain't, eh! Well I think ya are! What's your fuckin' name, ya fuckin' fairy?" The color drained from his face, his knees weak, Mitchell all but hung by the material of his shirt, bunched in Fat Lips' fist. Speaking softly, Hawk Nose said, "Ya gotta at least know ya fuckin' name, fairy!" Slapping him on the cheek, "Your name!" Then slapping him harder. Hardly noticing his stinging cheek, he stammered, "M-m..." "I know!" Fat Lips said. "His name's Mama!" He laughed. "Hi ya, Mama! How ya doin', Mama?" Reaching with his other hand, he grabbed Mitchell by the crotch of his pants. "My, ain't Mama got a nice pussy!" Laughing, pulling him even closer by both his shirt and the crotch of his pants, leaning into Mitchell's face, drawing deeply on the cigarette, Fat Lips exhaled a double stream of smoke through his flattened nostrils. Choking on the smoke, Mitchell instinctively attempted to pull away. "Hey, Mama, when I talk to ya, don't ya be tryin' to move away; it ain't polite." Pulling him inward again, "Come on, tell my pal here," cocking his head towards Hawk Nose, "What's your fuckin' name?" "M-M..." "Again with the Mama!" Fat Lips shook Mitchell by the shirt bunched in his fist, causing his head to whip back and forth. "Mitchell!" he said desperately. "My name's Mitchell." "'Mitchell'! See, that wasn't so fuckin' hard." Releasing the shirt with a shove, Fat Lips pushed Mitchell against the telephone pole, where he cracked the back of his head and elbow.

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"Ya know what, Al?" Hawk Nose said. "Mitchell's a kike name! I think this here guy's a kike." Poking his finger into his chest, "Are ya, Mitchell? Are ya a Jew, Mitchell? A kike, Mitchell? A fuckin', sheeny bastard, Mitchell?" Emphasizing each question with increasingly hard, sharp digs of his finger. "What the fuck ya don' here sittin' on my street, ya fuckin' kike, son-of-a-bitch?" Reaching to Mitchell's throat, using his forefinger, Al flipped the silver chain hanging around his neck out from under the collar of his shirt. "What's this fuckin' thing?" Trembling with fear, Mitchell looked over his shoulder, towards the Rizzo store, Come on, Frankie! Please come on, Frankie! praying that Frank or his father would come out. "Ain't no one here gonna help ya! Look at me when I talk to ya!" Looking at his friend, Al snickered. "Know what, Guido? I think you're right! I think this here prick's a fuckin' Jew!" Taking the chain from Al's hand, Guido asked, "What's this here thing?" lifting the oblong silver object that hung at the end of the chain. When he didn't answer, Guido yanked the chain, causing it to cut into Mitchell's neck. Glancing at Al, "This pussy don't like to talk! Ya know what it looks like to me, Al? It looks like a half a crucifix. Ya!" Yanking the chain again, snapping Mitchell's head closer to his, "I think it's a cross what lost its arms. What is it? Wha'd'ya call this here fuckin' Jew thing?" "A, uh, m-m..." Al laughed. "Mitchie, is that all ya kikes know how to say? Mama! Mama!" he imitated in a high, falsetto voice. Becoming tired of the game, "Stop with the fuckin' mama," Guido snarled, "an' tell us what ya call this here fuckin' thing!" "It, uh, it's a m-mezzuza." "A what?" Al laughed. "What'd'ya call it?" "A, uh, mezzuza." "A mezuzziz?" Laughing. "What the fuck's a mezuzziz?" Tugging on the chain again, closing his other hand into a fist, Guido brought it up and back... Closing his eyes, Mitchell tensed his body... But the punch didn't come. Thwack! Opening his eyes, Thank god! A club in his hand, Frank had hit Guido in the small of the back then behind his legs, causing him to fall onto his knees, pulling Mitchell--because the chain was still entwined in the crook of his finger--onto his knees also. Turning, "What the fuck!" Al lifted both hands to cover his face, but it was too late because a fist hit him, causing blood to squirt from both nostrils and run down his chin onto the holy undershirt. "My dose!" he screeched as, staggering backward, tripping on the curb, he fell onto his back. "Ya broke it again! Ah, shit! Ya broke m'dose again!"

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Ignoring Al, grabbing hold of Guido's fingers, bending them backwards, "Jesus, my fingers!" forcing him to release the chain. Loose, straightening his body, Mitchell stumbled backwards, bumping into the telephone pole, where he stood breathing deeply trying to bring his fear under control. "You're breakin' my fuckin' fingers! Aw, shit! Rizzo, let go'o'me! What's it to ya if we kick some fuckin' Jew's ass? Ow! Come on Frank, le'go me... pleeease!" Releasing him, Frank backed up a step. Rotating his wrist in a slight, clockwise motion, the heavy end of the club moved in a tight circle that Guido watched a moment then tried to stand, but his knee buckled and he fell back into the gutter. "Frankie, I think ya broke my leg! Why'd'j'ya do it?" "Me'n'my pa both tol'j'ya to stay the fuck away from our place here! We don't want you hangin' 'round scarin' our customers." Pulling himself up, Al sat on the curb. Trying to stem the flow of blood, he held the all but non-existent bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand while tugging the now bloody undershirt out of his pants with the other revealing a white, blubbery stomach and a hairless chest. Wiping the blood from his chin, forcing himself onto his feet, he approached Frank, who, turning to him, menacingly lifted the club. "Whoa!" Holding both hands forward, the blood beginning to flow again, "I d'want no part of ya, Frankie!" Al motioned over his shoulder. "This guy ain't no customer! Since when d'ya care what we do to a Jew, Frankie? What's this fuckin' kike to ya?" Frank looked from Al to Guido to Mitchell. His Adam's apple noticeably moving up and down in his throat, he swallowed because here was a problem: Frank lived here, had a reputation to uphold, and although he had never taken an active part in Jew baiting, he had taken part in gang fights with other Jewish youths... But this was Mitchell, not only his oldest and best friend, but also his guest, invited here by himself. What to say? If he did not admit that Mitchell was his friend he knew he would, and rightfully so, lose his friendship, and if he did admit he was his friend he'd lose the respect of Guido and Al. Shit! he thought, Fuck Guido and Al! Reaching down, Al helped pull Guido onto his feet. "This here's..." pointing the club at Mitchell, "my oldest pal. Mitch'n'me, we went to school together during the war an' I didn't invite him here so's you two assholes could beat the shit outta him! Now," pointing the club in their general direction, "get the fuck outta here!" he poked the club into Al's shoulder for emphasis, then, pointing it at Guido, "Get the fuck outta here, I said!" Bringing the club back as though to swing it, Guido ducked while Al back-stepped, then, looking from Frank to Mitchell, the two turned and, arrogantly, Guido, limping, walked away. Watching till they'd rounded the corner, Frank then looked at Mitchell, whom, having backed away from the street, was squatting, leaning against the building. His chin was on his chest, his eyes were closed and, holding himself as though in pain, both arms were wrapped around his stomach. "Mitch," kneeling in front of him, "God, Mitchie!" Frank put his hand on his shoulder, "I'm sorry! So sorry this happened! Those pricks!" His eyes moistened. "It's my fault! Goddamn it! I shouldn't'a left ya alone! I should'a known somethin' like this would happen in this neighborhood. Shit!" "Frankie," consoling him, "it ain't your fault, I'm just glad you came out when you did. God!" he said in awe, "you sure beat the shit out'a them two assholes." Standing, smiling reassuringly, "Come on, let's get outta here, I'm starvin'!"

BECOMING "Shit, Lipensky, you're always starvin'!" "Yeah, that is true, but I get especially hungry when I get into a gangbang an' beat the shit outta two wop hoods... You got any edible food in this shitty neighborhood?" "You wanna eat, huh? Ya think you Jews know what good food is, huh? Okay, I'm gonna take ya for somethin' like ya probably never had before in your life!" "Yeah?" Becoming very interested, "Like what?" "Ain't gonna tell ya. You'll find out." Going east on Sixty-third once again, "Mitch, I been thinkin'." "You, thinkin'? No shit, Rizzo!"

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"Yeah, no shit! Ya know, if they know you're a J... uh, Jewish, you're gonna be a target for all the guys in the neighborhood, an' I can't fight 'em all off, so while you're here, what if I call you, uh... Mario. You bein' so dark an' all you could easily pass for a wop, an' if I introduce ya as my paesano," he looked at Mitchell. "My paesano, my pal, Mario, from say, uh... Milwaukee. Yeah! That's it! I'll introduce ya as Mario, my old pal from Milwaukee, an' no one'll fuck with ya... I hope!" Though thinking, I don't like that idea too much, he'd been badly shaken by the violent experience with Guido and Al and would have agreed to just about anything so long as he didn't have to go through that again. "Yeah, okay," he said, "but what about the girls? They know I'm Jewish! An' what about those other two pricks?" "Gina'n'Lisa won't say nothin' an' me'n'them guys don't run in the same circles, so probably we won't be seein' 'em again." Mitchell glanced skyward. "God willing!" "Yeah! So what'ya say? It's okay if we call you Mario?" "Call me whatever you want, only let's do two things." "Yeah," Frank looked over his shoulder, "what's that?" "Let's eat! An' where the fuck's the girls?" "The girls'll come a little later." Glancing at each other, they smiled at the unintended pun. "You don't get much chance to eat Italian food, do ya?" "Well, my mom makes spaghetti." "I said Italian food--real Italian food! Come on!" Frank started to run. "Hey, hold up, not so fast!" Mitchell chased after him. Half way down the block, Frank disappeared through a doorway and he followed.

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It had sawdust on the floor! He'd never been in a restaurant, or anyplace else, outside of a job site once with his grandfather, that had sawdust on the floor. Along the walls on both sides of the room there were wooden booths. In the middle of the room were six round tables, each of which was surrounded by four wire-back chairs. All the booths and tables were covered with crisp, clean, red- and white-checkerboard tablecloths. And each booth and table had a wax-dripped, raffia-bound wine bottle with a candle on its neck. Mitchell had never been anyplace with wax-dripped, raffia-bound wine bottles either. "Uno momento!" a female voice called from the back room. Sliding into one of booths, "Sit down Mitch." Sitting, he looked at the cheaply reproduced paintings of Italian masters that hung on all four walls. "Frankie!" Folds of flesh from her copious bosom spilling over the top of a low-cut, off-the-shoulder white cotton blouse, wearing an apron tied about her overly abundant middle, coming from the rear of the store, "You come to visit your mama?" "Frankie," Mitchell whispered, "she ain't your mother, is she?" Waddling across the floor with both arms outstretched, encircling his head, all but pulling Frank out of the booth, the heavy-set, middle aged woman forced his face into the soft crease of her breasts. His words muffled, "Nantmma!" Able to turn his face after a few seconds, "No, "he said through puckered, compressed lips because her hand was pushing against his cheek, "she ain't my ma." His head still pressed against her chest, rocked back and forth, "she's my godmother." Reaching around her wide hips, "Mama, enough already," he patted the big lady. Laughing, she released him. "Mama Mia! You almost smothered me!" "Frankie, how come you never come to see your Mama no more?" "Mama, if I came here more, I'd be big as you." Reaching up, he patted her cheek. "I save coming here for special times." "E'special times! E'special times!" she scolded. "Frankie, you know your mama miss you when she don't see you! Don't wait for e'special times!" She looked at Mitchell. "And this is an e'special time?" "Yeah, Mama. I want you should meet my oldest an' best friend, Mi... Mario." Looking at Mitchell, he winked. "Mario, I want you should meet my Mama Maria." Holding his hand forward, "Hi, I'm..." Surprised when he was jerked forward and also pulled into her copious bosom, for a moment Mitchell was alarmed, then, with his nose pressed against Maria's chest, he smelled the pleasant odors of spice and sweet dough and, surprisingly, liked the soft, warm feel of his face being pressed against the large woman's huge breasts, and he unwittingly sensed a tightening in his groin. "Mama, Mario an' me are hungry... Mama, let him go!" Releasing Mitchell, pretending to pout, standing back, she looked at Frank. "I'm just saying hello."

BECOMING "I know, Mama, but I been bragging about your Special and..." "My E'special! So," scolding playfully, "that's all you come to see Mama for? For my E'special?" "No, Mama, I wanted Mi... Mario to meet you, but we want a Special, too." "Hokay!" Smiling broadly, she began to walk away. "Oh, and Mama," Frank called after her, "some vino!" "Vino?" Mitchell questioned, "what's that?" "What's what?"

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Reaching beneath the table, Frank took a crumpled package of Lucky Strike cigarettes out of his sock, then, partially standing so he could reach into his pocket to remove a Zippo lighter. "Oh, vino!" Sitting, he picked a bent cigarette out of the package, flipped the lighter open and flicked the wheel with his thumb. A large, orange-capped blue flame erupted from the wick. "Frankie, you smoke?" "Yeah, sure! Been doin' it for years... Wine." "Huh?" "Dummy, vino's wine! You really don't know nothin', do ya?" "Come on, Frank, we're kids! They don't serve kids wine!" "Yeah?" Drawing on the cigarette, blowing the smoke upward, he looked over his shoulder, to the kitchen, where Maria had just emerged carrying a small tray. "All dagos drink wine, Mario! You do want wine! Don't you, Mario?" Laying the tray on the table, Maria put a glass in front of each boy, then holding the bottle by its neck, poured a glass for Frank, who covered the second glass with his hand. "So, Mario," he asked again, "do you want some wine?" He hesitated a moment. The crimson-colored liquid did look refreshing, and the odd-shaped, raffia-bound bottle intrigued him. "Yeah, sure!" Mitchell said. "Why not?" Pouring the Chianti, Maria stopped only when the glass was brim-full, then, smiling at both boys, patting Frank on the head, turning, she walked back to the kitchen. Lifting the glass, holding forward, "Salud!" Frank said, and waited for Mitchell. He wanted to pick it up, but the glass was too full so, hesitating, looking from the glass to Frank and back at the glass, lowering his head, bringing his lips to the rim, Mitchell slurped a few drops, "L'chayim!" so he could pick it up without spilling any on the clean tablecloth. The two friend's glasses clinked. Frank drained his without stopping.

BECOMING Outside of an occasional glass of beer or an ounce or two of the thick, sweet kosher wine used in religious ceremonies, Mitchell had never tasted alcohol, and after the first quick swallow of the strong, dry Chianti, putting the glass down, closing his eyes tightly, grimacing, "Yuck!" "Ahh!" Frank said with a wink, "'Tis the blood o'Christ!" "What?" Holding the glass away. "The blood of Christ! What the hell do you mean, this is the blood of Christ?"

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Smiling, "That's what the Micks call their booze," Frank said. "The blood o' Christ. Come on, drink up! Don't be such a baby! Drink up! I dare ya! I double dare ya!" "You dare me, huh? You double dare me, huh? Okay you..." Remembering what he'd called Frank after their sexually enlightening discussion with Skorupski. "You, wop tittie, you!" Mitchell brought the glass to his mouth, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, drank, stopped, took another breath and drank slowly till he drained it. "Whew!" Opening his eyes, he put the glass down, looked seriously at Frank, pointed a finger at him and, the wine going immediately to his head, giggled. "You know, Frankie..." Re-pouring, interrupting, "Yeah, I know Frankie, great guy!" Frank said, causing both boys to giggle, then to laugh. "As I was sayin' before I was so rudely inter... urrp..." belching loudly, "uppted." "Yeah?" Blowing smoke rings, "What were ya sayin'?" "Uh, where's'a'food? An' I wanna tell you som'thin'! It's'a good thing you came out when you did, Frankie, 'cause I was just gettin' ready to wipe the place up with them two dago pricks." Lifting the glass, about to take another drink, "Know what?" Not waiting for an answer, "I don't think... urrp... I ought'a drink no more'a this here stuff." He looked at the glass. "Aw, what the hell!" "Yeah, sure you were!" "Yeah?" Lowering the glass, "Sure I were, what?" "You was getting' ready to wipe the place up with them two dago pricks." "Boy-oh-boy, Rizzo, you don't know what a tough son'a'a'bitch I can be when I get riled up. An' le'me tell ya, I'd just about had it with them two pricks when you came out an' saved 'em from really getting' the shit kicked out of 'em." "Yeah, they sure were lucky I came out an' saved 'em from 'Super Jew,' the caped defender of liberty, justice an' the American way!" "Yeah, that's me okay. Mitch Lipensky, Super Jew!" Lifting his head, he sniffed deeply. "What is that smell?" "You'll see." "Jeeze, that smells sooo good!" Hoisting the glass, he took a gulp. "So tell me. Whaz 'er name? The girl, my girl, what's she like?" "Girl? What Girl?" Teasing, "Oh, that girl... Gina."

BECOMING "Yeah, Gina. She pretty? She got big tits? Shit, she got any tits?"

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"Yeah, sure she got tits. They ain't this big," holding his cupped hands a foot from his chest, "but she do got tits." "An' she really want's'a fuck me?" Taking another drink of wine. "She really want's'a see my dick, an' she'll show me hers?" "Mitchie," Frank said patiently, "Gina's a girl, an' in case ya d'know, girls don't got dicks. An' like I tol'j'ya," feeling the wine, too, "Gina's been wantin' to see yours for years, 'cause I told her you're the biggest prick I know." "Outside of them other two pricks, Al an' ol, wha'ziz'face?" Re-filling Mitchell's glass, "Guido," Frank said. "God, I can't wait! I'm really gonna get fucked!" Drinking more wine, lifting his head, sniffing the air, Mitchell watched as Maria came from the kitchen carrying a large, round, steaming tray, which she put on the table between Frank and himself. His eyes opening wide, "Oh, my God!" Salivating, Mitchell followed her every movement as, using a spatula, Maria lifted a large wedge of the pie-like substance. His eyes following the spatula, he stared at the thick, trailing strings of steaming yellow cheese as she put a slice onto his plate, then Frank's. "Bon appetiteo!" "Thank you, Mama," Frank said. Looking at the near-empty bottle, "You want more vino, Frankie?" "No, Mama. Thank you, not now." "Hokay." Turning from the boys, Maria waddled back to the kitchen. Looking at his plate in absolute awe, his mouth, literally watering, "Frankie," Mitchell asked softly, "what is this?" "Pizza. An' be careful 'cause it's hot." "Pizza?" Gazing at the chunks of Italian sausage, tomato, onion and green pepper, "Kind'a looks like a pancake that someone puked on, huh?" Reaching for Mitchell's plate, "Then I guess you don't want any." Making a stabbing motion with his fork, "Touch it, Pal, an' you lose a finger! You kiddin'? I've always loved puke on my pancakes!" Slicing the tip of the wedge, lifting the running cheese with his finger, he brought it to his mouth, and... "Watch it, it's hot!" Even though it temporarily burned his tongue, drawing air inward, his eyes rolling upward, "Oh, God!"

BECOMING Mitchell said, "It's de-licious!" The only sounds then were chewing, slurping and sighing. The pizza finished, the raffia-bound bottle of Chianti drained, "Mama," Frank called, "okay if I use the phone?" "Sure, Frankie, anything you want. You like'a the pizza?" "Just like always, Mama, it's great, an' my friend loved it!" Forgetting he'd given her the impression that Mitchell was Italian, "He's never had pizza before." "An Italian boy who's never had pizza?" "Uh," thinking quickly, Frank said, "he's from Milwaukee." As though Milwaukee were on another planet, "Oh." Maria replied simply.

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At the telephone on a battered desk at the rear of the kitchen, fishing a nickel out of his pocket, dropping it in the slot, Frank waited for the operator to ask for the number. "Hi, baby, it's me... Yeah, he got here just fine, an' we just finished eating... Mama Maria's. ... Yeah, he loved it! Would you believe he's never had pizza before? ... Yeah! Those people don't know what's good. ... Yeah! He can't wait to meet Gina. ... Yeah, sure he's gonna like her! ... Yeah, okay, see you in a couple'a minutes." "Mama, let me pay you for lunch this time!" "Frankie, I'm'a tell you a tousand times, I'm'a no take'a money from my godson! An' besides, me'n you papa got a deal." "Yeah, I know, for the vegetables." "Yeah. An'a you for the pizza." "Okay, then, at least for the vino!" "No, Frankie," she said with finality, "you no pay here!" "Okay, Mama." Kissing her on the cheek, "Thank you." "Hey, Mitch... Shit! Mario! Okay, we did the first thing on your list." Sliding into the booth, Frank lit a cigarette. The heavy lunch sobered him, somewhat, but, picking the last of the crumbs off the tray with the tip of his finger, he still felt the effect of the wine. "Yeah, an' what's next?" "What's next? Well, we et, diddle we?" "Ah, so!" Mitchell said in a terrible Chinese-American accent. "An' what else does the honorable Charlie Chan desire?" Standing, "Honorable Charlie Chan..." making a deep, exaggerated bow, "now desire fuckie, fuckie! Is so?"

BECOMING "Ah..." pulling himself from the booth, standing, a bit wobbly, "s so! Honorable Charlie Chan do desire fuckie, fuckie." Reaching into his pocket, Mitchell removed his five dollars.

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"No need." Frank pushed his hand away. "It's all taken care of. She never charges my family or me for nothin', an' she gets all her vegetables for free. Some deal, eh, wot, Holmes?" Taken from any Sherlock Holmes movie, "Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary!" Holding his hand forward again, "You sure?" "Yeah, put your money away," "Okay, if you're sure. Thanks! So, where are they?" "Where are they, who?" "The girls!" "Girls? What girls?" "What do you mean, what girls? You dago, fart!" "Oh, those girls! Come on." * They walked two blocks south and one east to Sixty-sixth and Rockwell. The entire block consisted of weather-beaten, two-story frame houses, some of which had been converted to small apartments: one up and one down. Stopping five houses from the corner, "This is it," Frank said. Its paint, whatever color it may have been, was now faded, blistered and peeling. Looking at the structure, God, Mitchell thought, what a terrible place to live. "This is where your girlfriend lives?" he asked. Taking the steps two at a time, "Yeah," Frank knocked on the door. Following him, standing alongside Frank, Mitchell heard the muffled sound of a radio, then echoing footsteps on a hardwood floor... The door opening, "Hi, Frankie!" the girl looked from Frank To Mitchell. "Hi'ya, Lisa!" Turning to Mitchell, "Mitchie, this here's my girlfriend, Lisa." Turning back, "Lisa, this is my pal, Mitchell." Thinking, She's cute, "Hi, Lisa," he said, "nice to meet'ch'ya." Fourteen years old, on the short side, slightly overweight, much of the girl's weight was around her hips and bust--just the way Mitchell liked girls. She had a dark complicated round face with clear, smooth skin. Cut into bangs to help cover a wide forehead, Lisa's hair was jet black. Widely set over a small nose, her large eyes were dark brown. When she met Mitchell she smiled, showing small, even teeth. The girl wore a short-sleeved white blouse and a dark-blue, calf-length skirt with white bobby socks and black, patent leather shoes. A small, silver crucifix hung from around her neck.

BECOMING "Hi, Mitchie! Frankie's talked so much about you I feel like we're friends already... Please, come in." "Me, too. Thank you." She led the boys down a long hallway, past two closed doors into a large, sunny living room. Considering the structure's deteriorated exterior, the apartment was surprisingly clean and orderly. The girl sat on a green, slip-covered sofa. "Hi'ya, Frankie." Standing, nodding her head, she looked expectantly at Mitchell. "Gina," Frank said, "this here's my friend, Mitchell... Mitchie, this is Gina."

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Feeling awkward, thinking, She's ugly! Hoping the disappointment he felt wasn't too apparent, knowing he should step forward, offer his hand and say hello, or something... but standing, as though rooted, Mitchell muttered a barely heard, "Hi." "Jeeze, Mitchie, I never knew you was so bashful." Poking him in the back, Frank propelled him forward. Coming closer, forcing a smile, holding his right hand forward, "Uh, Frank's told me all about you." Which seemed to be the wrong thing to say because, shooting Frank an angry look, forcing a smile, Gina haltingly took Mitchell's hand, pumped it once then released it, leaving both outstretched arms hanging, self-consciously, in mid-air. If Lisa was a bit overweight, than this girl was completely the opposite. Tall, almost as tall as Mitchell and, Olive Oyl, reed thin. She looks like Olive Oyl! Instantly bringing the picture of Olive Oyl from the Popeye comic strip to mind. Wearing the same blouse, skirt and shoes that Lisa wore, obviously a uniform from some parochial school, whereupon Lisa's neck hung a small silver crucifix, upon Gina's neck hung a huge wooden crucifix. Probably to keep vampires away, Mitchell thought. That's if any vampire would want to put his teeth into that neck. Gina's pasty complexion accentuated the shadow of grime that went from behind her ears and down and around her chin, and there were streaks from dribbling water that ran beneath her chin and down her neck. When she smiled Mitchell noticed, Jesus... the upper portions of her front teeth had a greenish tinge... she's got green teeth! Also noticed, when she turned her head, She don't clean her ears too good, there's wax in Gina's ears. As though she had tried and failed to dye her hair a lighter color, her short cut, dark brown hair has a brassy sheen. Gina's eyebrows had been plucked to a near nonexistent line then heavily penciled over. To add to this, as far as Mitchell was concerned, rather unappetizing picture, the girl has a long, thin nose with a red blemish midway up the sharp ridge. But, yes, Gina did have two noticeably redeeming features. Of lesser importance, she had beautiful, light-blue eyes. Of primary importance, noticing the two outward-pointing points, Gina did have breasts. Gina's breasts appeared to be rather small beneath the formless, white parochial school blouse, but yes, they were definitely breasts, and, yes, they were definitely there. Unaware that in the few seconds they'd been standing, facing each other, Mitchell had assessed the multitude of her bad points and, in his mind, her primary two good points, which were not her eyes. "Hi, Mitch," Gina said, "glad to meet'ch'ya." Doing a bit of assessing herself, unlike Mitchell, though, Gina liked everything she saw. "Frank's been talkin' bout'ch'ya for years now. Come on, sit down!" Back-stepping around the coffee table in front of the sofa, sitting in the near-exact middle, she patted the seat to her right

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Going to the sofa, he sat, too, but rather than immediately to the right, Mitchell sat to the left of Gina, on the far end, as far to the end as possible. Holding hands, Frank and Lisa sat with their legs crossed on the carpeted floor in front of the coffee table. Nobody spoke. No one seemed to know how to get the conversation started. Mitchell stared at his hands, which were resting one on each knee. After a few seconds his fingers began a nervous, systematic tapping. A breeze blowing through the open window caused the white, lacy curtains to flutter inward. Three sets of eyes darted back and forth, from one to the other as Mitchell sat, looking at his tapping fingers, till... "Shit!" Gina said, breaking the silence. "Was today ever a hot day!" Reaching under the skirt of the sofa, searching a moment, she pulled out a package of Camels. "I thought school would never end!" The three watched as Gina sophistically pushed a cigarette upward from the bottom of the package, pulled it out with her teeth, tapped it on the back of her hand, stuck it between her lips, struck a match, took a deep drag... and started to cough and began to gag and had to run out of the room, into the toilet. Turning to Lisa after he heard the door slam shut, "Uh," Mitchell asked, "did I hear her say that you two had school today?" "Yeah. You public-schoolers got out a week ago, but, oh, no, not us kids that go to Catholic school! Us, they give an extra week an' just got out today... Ain't we lucky?" "No!" Thinking she was serious, "I don't think that's too lucky at all. Is that why you'n'Gina's wearin' the same kind'a clothes, 'cause'a school? They're some kind'a uniform?" "Yeah, they are." "Yeah? What school?" "Immaculate Heart." "You like it? Going there?" "No! I hate it! I'd much rather go to school with Frankie." Looking at Frank a moment, Lisa kissed his cheek. "You'd like it if me'n'you went to school together, wouldn't you?" "Yeah," he said sincerely, "you know I would!" "Don't know why I smoke that shit." Returning to the room, dropping onto the sofa, but closer to Mitchell, "It always makes me puke," Gina said. "So, Mitch, how do you like this shitty neighborhood? Kind'a shitty, huh?" Angling her body in his direction, exposing her knee and about four inches of the bare flesh of her inner thigh, lifting her skirt, she folded her left knee beneath her right leg. He looked down, and up again, quickly, "It ain't so bad," and down again. "I've seen worse." Though in truth

BECOMING he hadn't. Inching closer, "Where do you live?" Gina asked.

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"Uh," Looking at the smooth, white flesh of her inner thigh, "on the west side, on Homan, uh, near Ogden." and up, into her beautiful blue eyes. Noting his flickering eyes, "Gee, it's really nice there." she said, though in truth she had no idea of where Homan and Ogden were. He'd never thought of his neighborhood as being really nice or even nice, but in comparison to this neighborhood it was. "Yeah, it's okay, I guess." "Yeah! He's just gotta love this neighborhood, 'specially since he almost got himself banged up real good by a couple'a assholes." "What couple'a assholes, Frankie?" Gina asked. "These two guys that hang out together, Guido and Al." "Yeah, I know them cocksuckers." He'd never heard a girl swear as much as Gina, and Mitchell stared at her. "So, what happened?" she asked. "Shit!" Frank said, taking one of Gina's Camels. "It was all my fault. I had'a do some work for my pop for a couple'a minutes, an' it was hot in the store so I told Mitch to wait outside, an' then them two pricks came along an' started hasslin' him..." "Yeah," Mitchell interjected, "an' ol' Frank here came out like Gang Busters an' kicked the..." hesitating a moment because up to now he'd never sworn in front of a girl but, Oh, well, he rationalized, swearing doesn't seem to bother these two. "...shit out'a both of 'em." "I feel bad whenever somethin' like that happens to anyone 'round here, but to Mitch? Jesus, was I ever mad!" No one spoke for a few seconds but, afraid of letting the conversation come to a complete halt again, "An' talk about puke!" Frank said. "Puke?" Lisa laughed. "Who's talkin' 'bout puke?" "Gina! When she came out'a the toilet she said smokin' makes her puke. You should'a heard what Mitch here said 'bout Mama's pizza." "Come on, Frankie! If you didn't fill me full'a cheap booze," he said jokingly, "I'd'a never said such'a thing." "Yeah? What'd he say, Frankie?" Lisa asked. "Would'j'ya believe he's never had any before, and said Mama's pizza looked like puke on'a pancake... An' it was only one or two teensy," holding his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart, "weensy glasses of Chianti. Guess Jews just don't hold their liquor too good. That's if you want to call one or two teensy, weensy glasses of Chianti liquor."

BECOMING "Mitchie, it's true? You've never had pizza before?"

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"Gina, I've never even heard of pizza before. But, really," enjoying the humor of the situation, he began to laugh so hard he was almost unable to continue talking, "after I burnt my tongue and my fingers, an' almost had the whole damn thing slip off the crust and land on my lap, it was really pretty good... No! It was great!" "Frank," Lisa scolded good-naturedly, "maybe, for Italians, eating pizza comes naturally, but for a Jewish guy like Mitchie maybe it don't, and maybe you should have taught him how to eat it." "I did! But the dumb shit was so drunk he wouldn't listen." "Dumb shit? You schmuck! You dared me... you double dared me to drink the wine. An' the glass was this big!" holding both index fingers, vertically, a foot apart. "Schmuck?" This tickling him, "Schmuck?" Frank fell onto his side laughing. "You called me a schmuck in front'a these ladies." Catching his breath after about thirty seconds of prolonged laughter, that, though not quite understanding the joke, the three others joined in, Frank sat up. "An' talkin' 'bout vino!" He looked at Lisa. "How's 'bout it? How's 'bout us bringin' some'a your ol' man's stuff up?" "Mitchie, Lisa's pop makes the best Dago Red you ever tasted... Well, I wouldn't wanna use your taste in vino as an example, but believe me, it's great, an' Lisa'n'me'n'Gina here helped Lisa's ol' man make it... But I suppose, in your case, Lipensky, any vino would taste good." "Or bad!" Mitchell added. "How'd he make it? You guys don't crush the grapes in a tub with your feet, do you?" In geography, he'd seen a movie about people from around the world and remembered the scene of a group of people in a huge vat crushing grapes with their bare feet. He envisioned Gina, bare-footed, crushing grapes with her feet that, he was sure, had to be at least as dirty as her neck. "Nah!" Gina said... "That's the way they do in the old country," while inching closer to him. "Here we use a grape press." As she came closer, her skirt hiked up further, showing more bare thigh, and... Mitchell looked away because each time he looked at her, his eyes, as though magnetized, were drawn to her naked thigh that, Oh, God, fighting the urge to do it, I wanna touch so badly! As... Jesus, Gina thought, everything Frankie's said about him is true! He's just about the best lookin' guy I ever seen. And, subconsciously, no longer aware of her action, doing something she'd been doing since she was a child: tightening and loosening the muscles of her groin and rectum, Gina was invisibly masturbating. "Gina, why don't'j'ya tell Mitch all about makin' vino while Lisa'n'me go on down to the basement an' get a jug." Turning to Lisa, "Huh, babe," he asked. "Ya wanna go downstairs with me?" "Your parents let you drink wine?" Mitchell asked Gina. "My ol' lady don't give a crap 'bout whatever I do," she said bitterly. "Yeah, I'd like vino. Go on, Frank, go get a jug." Thinking, It'll gi'me a chance to be alone with him. "Yeah, okay!" Standing, taking Lisa's hand, Frank pulled her to her feet. "An' while we're gone," winking conspiratorially at Mitchell, "why don't you two try an' get better acquainted." Panicking at the thought of being alone with Gina, Mitchell asked, "Maybe you guys need help?" "No!" Emphatically shaking his head, "Lisa'n'me sure don't need no help in the basement. Do we, babe?"

BECOMING "Nope," she smiled. "We sure don't need help down there."

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Having spent a lot of time alone in the basement, holding hands, going through the kitchen, Lisa and Frank went down the back stairway, and... The moment they were out of sight, Gina laid her hand on Mitchell's thigh. This being the first time a girl had ever placed her hand on his thigh, staring at the hand a moment, "Uh, Gina," he said, searching for something--anything--to say, "before, you said your parents let you drink wine, an' it's okay with them?" "Jeeze, Mitchie, this must really be important to ya." Sighing, "In Italy," she moved back a couple of inches, much to his... Mitchell wasn't sure if he was glad or sad that she'd moved away... "kids drink wine 'stead'a milk." "Really?" Desperate to keep the conversation going, "Why?" "For one thing, it's a lot cheaper 'cause there's more grape farmers than cow farmers. An' also, the adults there think vino's better for 'em than milk. Here, in America, we think that ain't true, you know, 'bout vino bein' better'n'milk. An' also, here a bottle'a milk cost ten cents, an' a bottle'a wine, even shitty stuff, is at least twenty cents. So like the ol' sayin' goes: 'In Rome do as the Romans do.' Only here in America we do as the Americans do an' drink milk. Only it's just that drinkin' vino is somethin' we wops been doin' a long time, so most parents don't care so much if we do drink vino, only don't want us drinkin' it as much as the kids in Italy. Capisce?" He smiled. "Yeah, I capisce. Your parents, they come from Italy?" "My Ma'n'Pa, when I had a Pa, came from Sicily." "Really! When'd they come here?" "Nineteen-thirty-five, when I was two." The thought that Mitchell might not like her had never entered Gina's mind. All guys like me! So she'd thought. "Your mom'n'dad," she asked, moving her hand along the back of the sofa, touching the back of his neck, "where they from?" Her touch going through him like the scraping of fingernails on a blackboard, "Here." Standing, he walked to the window, parted the curtain and looked out. He's just bein' bashful. "Here?" "Here, in Chicago. My Mom was born on the west side and my Dad on the north side." So bashful! "Know what?" Not answering immediately, trying to fathom why, I hate her touching me, an' yet I'd'a given anything to touch her leg a little while ago. Turning from the window, "Know what, what?" "I d'know hardly any second-generation Americans." "Second-generation Americans?"

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"Yeah. Like me'n'my'Ma'n'Pa were born in Sicily, an' Frank an' Lisa's parents were born in Italy, so that makes Lisa'n'Frank first generation Americans, an' because I wasn't born here, I ain't even that. An' because your parents were born here, right here in Chicago, an' you were born here, too, then that makes you a second generation American... Capisce?" "Yeah, I capisce." Crossing the room, going to a chair, he sat down. "You hate your school, too? What's it called again?" "Immaculate Heart. Yeah, I do! Where do you go? You like it there?" "Harrison. It's okay, I guess, but I don't really like going to school too much." "Yeah, me, too! What do you like to do, Mitch?" What he liked to do, not necessarily in this order, was go to the movies, listen to the radio, watch television, occasionally play touch or tackle football, or baseball with the guys--really, with Phyllis and Sharon--and think about girls and masturbate... but he wasn't about to tell her that, so... "Oh, I don't know," he said. "Stuff." Other than playing baseball, or touch or tackle football, neither knew just how alike they were. "So," still fishing for conversation, "Immaculate Heart just let out today, an' you came here right from school?" "Yeah. Frankie said you'd be here 'bout twelve... Uh, you Jewish kids, you don't go to a religious school?" "Yeah, sometimes. I had my Bar Mitzvah two... almost three years ago, an' that was it for me! God, I hated chader!" Unable to pronounce the, throat-clearing "ch," "K-Kader?" Gina asked. Seeing the look of confusion on her face, "Chader's a Hebrew school, an' a Bar Mitzvah's... When a Jewish guy is thirteen, the Bible, uh, our Bible, says a guy's a man when he's thirteen, an' he has this big ceremony, an' after..." "Know what?" Not waiting for an answer, her tongue parting her lips, looking at him seductively, or at least as seductively as a girl with a ring of dirt around her neck and green teeth could look, Gina said, "You sure look like a man to me!" God, he thought, she really likes me! Why's she gotta look so dirty? His eyes dropped from Gina's face to the, albeit small, twin points of her breasts, then to the white flesh of her bare, inner thigh, and what he'd been hoping to avoid, the conversation lagged and the room, once again, became quiet, but fortunately not for too long because within seconds... Sounds came from the rear of the apartment, then a moment later Frank, carrying a bottle in his hands, was back in the living room while Lisa did something in the kitchen. Breathing a sigh of relief, "Hey, what took you guys so long? We was startin' to think you got lost..." He sees traces of lipstick on Frank's mouth. "...or somethin'." "Nah!" Calling to Lisa, "We weren't lost, were we, Babe?" "Nah, you'n'me, Frankie, we sure weren't lost," came the reply from the kitchen.

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Nodding to the bottle that Frank placed onto the coffee table, "So that's what bathtub wine looks like, huh?" "Yeah, Mitchie, this here's the real stuff. Wait'll you taste it." The bottle was a gallon milk bottle, the old fashioned type with a glass cap and a rubber gasket around the inside that was permanently attached by means of a piece of wire held around the neck of the bottle and secured through holes in the lip of the cap. Coming from the kitchen with the rims of four glasses held between her fingers, putting three onto the table, "Here, Mitchie." Crossing the room, taking the glass from Lisa, he looked at it. It was an eight-ounce jelly glass with a full color embossed picture of Porky Pig. Fleetingly wondering if it was a coincidence that she handed him the glass with a picture of a pig on it, or if she gave it to him because he's Jewish, though not really caring, "You sure it's okay now?" he asked, motioning to the gallon milk bottle. "Yeah, Lipensky, it's okay! Stop worryin'. We're gonna have a party." Squatting in front of the coffee table, pulling the cap off the bottle, it opened with a slight hissing sound. "The first one's for our guest." Taking it from his hand, Frank filled the Porky Pig glass, then the other three. "Salud!" Holding their glasses up, Lisa and Gina's clunked against Frank's. "Hey, Mitch! You ain't gonna join us? Salud!" Frank repeated, holding his glass towards Mitchell. Hesitantly, "Yeah, sure." All four glasses clunked. Then, moving it to his lips, his eyes moving in a semi-circle, watching the others above the rim of his glass as they drank, he took a sip. The homemade wine was sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the Chianti that he'd had earlier. Taking another sip, Mitchell stopped. His glass drained, seeing that Mitchell had stopped drinking, "Come on, Lipensky. Thirty million dagos can't be wrong!" Motioning with his glass, "Come on, Chicken Little. Bottoms up!" The girls having finished their wine also, all three sets of eyes watched Mitchell, waiting for him to drink. "Jeeze, Mitch, that ain't nice, bein' a guest in Lisa's house an' not wantin' to drink her ol' man's wine. She feels real hurt, don't you, babe?" "Yeah, I'm real hurt!" Trying to look stern, she smiled instead. "Nah, it's okay, Mitchie. You don't have to drink it if you don't want to... Frank, leave him alone." "Yeah, sure, cluck-cluck, you don't gotta drink it." "Oh, what the hell!" Bringing the glass to his mouth, he looked at Frank over the rim. Drinking without stopping to catch his breath, "There!" Slamming the glass onto the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Ah, 'tis the blood o'Christ!" "The blood o'Christ! Oh, Shit!" Frank began to laugh.

BECOMING Grabbing him by his belt, pulling him onto the sofa, "Hey, Mitchie,' Gina said, "I knew a big guy like you could handle a little glass of vino." Pouring a second round, "Here, ya drunken Mick, have another." Frank, put Porky Pig back into his hand.

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"Sure! I'll show you wops that Jews can drink, too!" Downing half, he noted that for some strange reason this glass tasted much better than the first. "Hey, how's 'bout some music?" Going to the console in the corner of the room, Frank turned the dial until he found a station playing danceable music. Going back to Lisa, taking her by both hands, he pulled her up into his arms. Mitchell took another drink, almost emptying the glass. "Ya wanna dance, Mitchie?" Refilling Porky Pig, "No, thanks," he said, but seeing the look on Gina's face, "Dancing, uh," slurring his words, "d'know how." "Ya, can't dance? At's okay, Mitchie," she said. "I'll teach'j'ya." Looking at her, he took another gulp of wine. "Ya don't gotta be so bashful!" Standing, grasping his free hand, Gina attempted to pull him to his feet, but he wouldn't budge. "Come on, Mitch!" Pulling harder, she did get him onto his feet, where he wobbled until, putting her arms about him, tightening her arms, pressing her body against his, "It's real easy. All's ya gotta do's make a box." Aware of her body pressing against his, "All's I gotta do's make a box?" he repeated. Leading him a step or two to the side, away from the coffee table, "Yeah, baby." Loosening her hold a bit, so he could look at their feet, "Like this, baby. Watch my feet." "Baby?" Looking down he became dizzy and had to lean into her for support. "Only my mommy calls me baby." He giggled. His inward movement encouraging her, tightening her arms, pulling him closer, rubbing her body against his, "Okay!" Okay? Thinking she'd asked, How do you feel? or, How are you doing? "Grrreat!" he said. Grrreat! Thinking he meant, It's great to be held by me! Further encouraged, "Yeah? Okay!" she said. "Watch me." Releasing him, Gina backed a foot away. "All's ya gotta do's like this." Sliding her left foot to the left, her right foot followed. Moving her left foot forward, it was joined by the right. "One-two, three-four." Making a box, moving her feet to the left, forward, to the right, and backward. "One-two, three-four. One-two, three-four. See? It's easy!" Holding her arms to him, "Come on, baby, you can do it!" Stalling, bringing Porky Pig to his lips, taking another drink, then, holding his hand to his mouth to stifle a belch, "URRRPPP!" "Jesus, Lipensky," Frank laughed over his shoulder. "You know any other tricks?"

BECOMING "Sorry, 'scuse me. Okay, Gina," shaking his head to bring his eyes into focus, "I'll dance wi'ch'ya." Taking another drink, he put the glass down, took one step forward, tripped over his foot and stumbled into her waiting arms. Positioning her arm around his waist and his arm around her waist, taking his hand into hers, "Okay? One-two, three-four." Her cheek against his, her whispered words tickling his ear, "One-two, three-four." Being held rather tightly, he felt the surprisingly hard, yet soft prod of her breasts against his chest... "One-two, three-four."

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And the contours of her warm body against his definitely--most definitely--warming body, Mitchell thought, Funny, she don't look so bad now. She don't look so good, neither, but she don't look so bad. And he further thought... "One-two, three-four." What the hell. She's a girl, ain't she! "One-two, three-four." Feeling him slip into the rhythm of the music, releasing his hand, pulling him closer, holding him tighter, Gina put both her arms about him. Her exotic breath in his ear, the firm, yet soft feel of her breasts against his chest and the contours of her warm body sent a message downward... But picturing the wax in her ear, he moved the side of his face from the side of her face... But... the swaying motion of her hips sliding the coarser material of her skirt minutely back and forth over her rayon slip, feeling Gina's skirt slithering beneath the palm of his hand, what else could he do... but let his left hand drop onto her outer thigh. So now he had one hand on the outside of her right thigh and one hand hanging in space, so he moved it, where else, but onto her left buttock. Gina was a thin, young woman! Hidden beneath the Immaculate Heart school uniform was the figure of a thin, young woman, and her buttock, oh, yeah, was surprising well defined and, oh, yeah, you bet Mitchell's hand sent this simple message to his benumbed brain... God, her ass feels great! As if both hands were mutinous extremities that no longer listened to the message that his brain was sending, his right hand rubbed up and down the outside of Gina's outer thigh while his left hand opened and closed, squeezing and releasing the firm, yet so soft, oh, yeah, roundness of Gina's right buttock. He felt the sensuous sensation of the wool-like material of her skirt as it slithered over the smoothness of Gina's rayon slip and, oh, yeah, he was deserted by yet another member of his body and, if he didn't have one a minute ago, he sure as hell had one now, and as it didn't seem to have anyplace to go but to the corresponding area of Gina's Immaculate Heart skirt, there it probed. Feeling the projection of his penis again her thigh, Gina arched outward, purposely rubbing her pubis, under the dark material of her Immaculate Heart skirt, against the bulge that pressed outwardly against the faded blue material of Mitchell's Levi's. His erection and, oh, yeah, growing passion not withstanding, even in his wine-induced fog Mitchell was struck with amazement.

BECOMING His clean ear was pressed against her dirty ear. His clean face was pressed against her not-so-clean face.

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Although, once again, he had to admit that Gina didn't seem quite so dirty nor quite as ugly as she had when he'd first met her... when? When he'd first met her about forty minutes and two-and-a-half glasses of Porky Pig ago. His six-foot, one-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound body was pressed against her five-foot, eight-inch, one-hundred-and-nineteen-pound, 342335-inch body and his head said, Stop! Don't hold her so close! If he were any closer he'd be behind her. But, Oh, God! It feels so nice! His head said, Stop! L'go her ass! He now held both rounded, slithery buttocks in the palms of his hands, and... Oh, God! They feel so nice! His head said, Stop! She's got, uh... small tits? His chest was pressed against her chest and he felt the prod of the twin points of her brassiere and they might not be very big, but... Oh, yeah! They were real live tits! And, Oh, God! Pressing his chest against hers, rubbing his chest from side to side, They feel so good! Mitchell's head said, Stop, stop, stop! But he strained closer. He squeezed harder. He embraced tighter and... Oh, God! Everything about Gina felt so nice! The music ended, the announcer came on: "L.S.M.F.T. Lucky Strike means fine tobacco!" Mitchell and Gina still stood, swaying, straining, their bodies locked by four arms and unseen components. On the other side of the room, in pretty much the same position, Frank and Lisa paid scant attention. Uh, oh! Mitchell stopped all motion and using all the will power he could muster, pulled his pelvis, breaking the mesmeric, erotic contact. "No! Stay here!" Breathing the words in his ear, Gina moved her pelvis hard against his. "Don't move, Mitchie, I'm so hot!" Thinking, She thinks she's hot! The embarrassment of an ejaculatory stain on his light colored Levi's being something he did not want, knowing that he must break away, or else, closing his eyes tightly, biting his lower lip in concentration, Don't come! Don't come! Do not come... The wave passed. Thank you, God! Hunched at the waist--as though thinking if he bent his body forward Gina would not notice that he had an erection--backing to the sofa, he dropped heavily onto it.

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Attempting to regain her composure, standing a moment, Gina went to the sofa also and, their thighs touching, sat next to Mitchell. This time he did not move away. "Frankie," Lisa whispered, "they're watching us." "Yeah? Maybe they'll learn something." "Come on, Frankie!" She pulled away. "We'll be alone in a little while then we can... you know." Smiling, "Yeah!" Dropping his arms, they crossed the room. As they walked to the sofa, walking straight up, as if proud of it, Mitchell could see the telltale bulge in Frank's pants. Taking their previous positions on the floor in front of the coffee table, lifting the milk bottle, leaning across the table, refilling all four jelly glasses, "Okay," Frank said, looking from Gina to Lisa, "there's somethin' I gotta talk to you about. When we go to the movies later..." Thinking, Movies! I don't wanna go anywhere with her! He looked at Gina. I don't want anyone seein' me with her! "Hey, Frankie," he said, "can't we just kind'a, you know, kind'a hang around here?" "Mitchie, Lisa's mom'n'dad'll be home 'bout six-thirty, an' I thought we'd go to a movie or somethin'. What else can we do?" "Don't know if I wanna go to a movie neither," Gina said. Although, in truth, she'd like nothing better than to be seen out with Mitchell. "My ol' lady's not supposed to be home 'til late, an' if you guys wanna, you can come to my place." The thought of being alone with him, again, later, appealed to her even more. "Okay, we'll see 'bout that. But I wanna tell you somethin' just in case we do go some place later. You gotta call Mitch Mario!" "Call Mitch Mario?" Lisa said, looking at Frank. "Why?" "Today, when them two pricks was pushin' Mitch around, they were only playin' like..." "Playing? They were only playing?" "Well, I don't think they'd'a hurt'j'ya... too much; 'til they found out you was a J... Jewish. Then, when they found out you were, they were gonna kick the livin' shit outta'ya." "Yeah, I thought they were gonna kill me, an' if you didn't come out when you did..." Shuddering, bringing Porky Pig to his mouth, Mitchell swallowed half the contents. "Anyway, when we're out," Frank glanced at Mitchell, "if we go out, I want you should call him Mario," looking from girl to girl, "so anyone seein' him with us'll think he's Italian. Okay?" "Sure, Frankie, anything ya want... Mitchie," tucking her knee beneath her leg again, making sure that, minimally, as much of her bare thigh showed as it did earlier, "can I ask ya somethin' without'j'ya getting' mad at me?"

BECOMING Staring at the flesh of her bare thigh again, "Sure..." Having a bit of an idea of what she was about to ask, fortifying himself for the circumcision question with another gulp of Porky Pig, "...I think." "Mitchie, is it true you, uh that Jews got..." Hesitating, Gina asked, "Uh, is it true that Jews got tails?" "Huh? Tails?" Choking, turning his head to keep from spraying her with wine, "Where'd'ya hear Jews got tails?"

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"In school, uh, not from the nuns! Well, not from all of 'em. But mostly it's kids that say that their parents told 'em that Jews got tails..." hesitating again, "like the devil." Mitchell's mouth dropped open. He blinked his eyes and shook his head and, not sure he'd heard right, looking at the near empty glass in his hand, thinking, Maybe this stuff's caused me not to hear so good, "Tails?" he repeated. "No! Jews don't got tails!" "Bullshit! I get so sick'n'tired of hearin' this bullshit!" Frank said. "No, Gina, ya dumb shit, Jews don't got tails an' I ought'a know 'cause I seen Mitch in the shower lots'a times an' I looked to see if he's got a tail an' he don't! He's just like the rest of us... Almost." "Sorry, Frankie." Strangely, Gina apologized to Frank rather than Mitchell. "Now, don't go gettin' mad all over again," she said to Frank, "but I got somethin' else I wanna ask Mitch." She waited a moment or two to see if Frank was going to stop her, but knowing what she was going to ask, this time, Frank said nothing. "Mitchie, I heard..." "In school?" "Nah, from the kids... Mitch, I heard that when Jews are babies, they take a knife an'..." stopping, trying to think of a delicate way to put it. Frank watched as Gina's complexion turned from white to deep red. Although he knew it was coming, he was amused at the question and wanted to see Mitchell's reaction when she figured a way to say it. As interested as Frank and Gina, Lisa was also. "Cut a piece'a their, uh..." Thinking a long moment, then another, after careful consideration, arriving at a delicate way to put it, "Cut a piece'a their pricks off." Thinking this question might well come up, still, when she asked it, it did embarrass him, but Mitchell remembered all the times, right up to that very moment, that he'd thought of girls and wondered what they have between their thighs, So, he thought, why shouldn't girls wonder about what I have between my thighs? So, "Frankie," he said, "bein' my pal, you know Jews ain't supposed to eat pig, an', I'd guess, Jews ain't supposed to drink pig either," holding his glass up, "but this little piggy's about empty." Lifting the milk bottle, Frank refilled his friend's glass. Taking three noisy gulps, putting the glass down, Mitchell looked at Gina, and, "Wow, you got bee-U-tiful eyes!" Taken back by this, "Uh, yeah, you, too, Mitchie." Gina said.

BECOMING "Yeah, thanks."

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He giggled. "It's true! Frank's got a tip. All goy guys got tips!" Thinking he'd said something very funny, all goy guys got tips, holding his head in his hands, Mitchell began to laugh. Unaware of the joke, or even if there was a joke, Gina and Frank stared at him. Lisa looked at Frank. Truly loving him, Frank was the only boy she'd ever had sex with, although discreet, and well knew how much he loved to be stroked "there," and when she stroked it, she most always thought: It's kind'a cute, the way Frank's smooth, pink glans popped in and out of the foreskin with each stroke. Lisa's best friend, Gina, though, had had not-so-discreet sex with any number of boys and mostly she'd judge the boy by his looks, and by the size of his penis and how much of his foreskin she could pinch between her fingers... and more often than not, her teeth. Catching his breath, "When we're a couple'a days old," taking another drink of wine, "they put us on a blanket or a sheet on a table an' a special Rabbi--A Rabbi's a teacher an' like a, uh, priest--he gives us some wine, so's we..." "Boy!" Frank interrupted. "S'no wonder you're able to put it away so good. They start you Jews off even sooner'n'us wops." "Nah, we just suck a couple'a drops off'a piece'a cloth or somethin'. Anyway..." Speaking softly, Frank and the girls had to lean forward in order to hear what he was saying. "... this Rabbi gives us some wine so's we won't feel it, then..." Pausing dramatically, he looked from face to face. "...he takes our little 'things'..." Moving his left hand to the left, he raised his right hand, fist clenched, as if holding the handle of an ax. "...an' he stretches 'it' waaay out..." Mouths agape, the three sat staring. "...an' whacks it off. Wam!" Slapping his hand onto the coffee table, Mitchell caused the milk bottle, the glasses, and Frank, Lisa and Gina to jump. Looking at them, he fell backward on the sofa, laughing. Shaken, "Uh, how much do they cut off?" Lisa asked. "Yeah! An' how do ya pee after?" Gina questioned. "Yeah, Lipensky," Frank said, "an' what'd they do with what they cut off?" "Some stuff's a secret, Rizzo. An' if you wanna know so damn much 'bout bein' circumcised, then maybe you ought'a convert an' become Jewish an' have 'em do it to you." Protectively grabbing his crotch, "No, thank you!" Drinking more wine, not sure if either girl had ever really seen a penis, Mitchell looked from Gina to Lisa. Sure, he knew what Frank had told him, But, he'd thought, sometimes guys lie. "Well," slurring his words badly, "I d'know if you girls know what I'm talkin' 'bout, but the best I can figure is Jews get circumcised and guys that ain't Jewish--I seen 'em in the shower at Baylor... I wasn't tryin' to look!" he said defensively. "I just kind'a, you know, I just kind'a saw 'em... Well, anyways, guys that ain't Jewish got this funny, ugly piece'a droopy, dangly skin that kind'a hangs down off'a their..." Feeling the effects of the wine, too, "Funny? Ugly? Droopy? Dangly?" Putting her arms around his neck, Lisa pushed Frank to the floor. "Don't you listen to 'im, Frankie! It ain't ugly, baby! I think it's beautiful!"

BECOMING Off balance, forced onto his back, Frank could only laugh.

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Leaning over him with her buttocks in the air, falling upward, her skirt bunching around her hips, Mitchell could see a patch of white skin through a quarter-sized hole in the seat of Lisa's pink, cotton underpants. Pushing Mitchell against the arm of the sofa, "Hey, she's right!" Gina motioned to Frank and Lisa, who were lying face to face with their mouths locked together, with both of Frank's hands beneath Lisa's underpants, clasping her bare buttocks. "That piece'a droopy, dangly skin's just great!" So what Frank had told Mitchell about Gina was true. Also, considering what she'd said and where Frank had his hands, most probably what he'd said about Lisa was true also. "Yeah, Mitch! It's real pretty, ain't it? Mmffmm!" Frank said from around Lisa's mouth. Putting her mouth over his again, "Mmffmm!" Lisa answered back. On her hands and knees, "Yeah!" Gina was leaning over Mitchell with her shoulders hunched forward... So that he was able to look down her gaping Immaculate Heart blouse and, oh, yeah, he surely did see within the inverted triangle of Gina's blouse, and even though her breasts were encased within a formless--no doubt Immaculate Heart-issue--cotton brassiere, he was well able to see the ridges of her ribs and the wide valley formed by the flesh of her hanging breasts, and he knew that all he had to do was to reach forward and... All Mitchell had to do was to reach forward to touch a real girl's, real live tits! He'd waited so long for this! And had wanted, so badly, to be in a position such as this with a real girl, but now that he was, Mitchell felt as though he were in a foggy dream. Trying to sort it out, the intoxicated smile faded from his face because, as though all of Gina's negative aspects: dirty neck, unbrushed teeth, brown earwax, and being skinny and ugly were all weighed on one arm of a scale, and the counterweight that tilted the opposite arm of the scale downward was merely the thought that... His eyes focused on the valley, Screw dirty neck, unbrushed teeth, brown earwax and being skinny and ugly... Screw it! And... She's a girl, ain't she! And... At that time Mitchell Lipensky wanted nothing more than to pull that--no doubt Immaculate Heart-issue--brassiere down and to look at and to touch and to suckle on those real live tits. "You wanna see 'em?" Recognizing the look on his face, for the first time since meeting Mitchell knowing that she was in control, "You wanna touch 'em, don't'j'ya?" Gina whispered. Swallowing, taking his eyes from her hanging breasts, he forced himself to look at her face. "Hey!" Sitting up, their legs extended beneath the coffee table, Frank and Lisa's hands, hidden by the coffee table, high up on each other's thighs, "You know what?" Frank said. "Ol' Mitch here's got one'a them ol' Captain Midnight rings. You know, the kind that shows shootin' stars'n'stuff. Ain't'ch'ya, Mitch?" "Yeah." Reaching into his pocket, feeling around, Why do I do that, he thought, put everything in one pocket? Finding the ring beneath his key chain and change, he fished it out. "Yeah, here it is." he said, handing the

BECOMING ring to Frank. "Okay, how's it work?" "I told'j'ya, it don't work so good."

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"Yeah, sure it does! It'll work just fine! What'd'ya do, hold it up to the light?" Holding the ring towards the window a moment, "There!" Handing it back, "You do wanna see shootin' stars'n'stuff, don't'j'ya, Gina?" "Yeah, sure, Frankie." She smiled. "Mitchie, I've been waitin' all my life to see a real Captain Midnight ring!" "Yeah, I knew that! So why don't'j'ya take Mitch into Lisa's room, an' he'll show you how it works." Frank winked at Mitchell. "Won't'j'ya, Mitch?" "Yeah! Come on, Mitch!" Standing, grabbing his arm, Gina helped to pull him onto his feet. "I wanna see shootin' stars'n'stuff!" On his feet...Wobbling on his feet, Mitchell knew that he was really about to be alone with Gina. That he was really about to be alone with a real live girl, with real live tits! Part of him, the brain in his penis part that had told him to hold her close and to rub his body against her body, the brain in his penis part that, just a minute or so ago had wanted him to look at and to touch and to suckle on those real live tits... That part of his body said, Yeah! But the other part of his body, the brain in his head part, once again reminded Mitchell what Gina looked like: the grime that ringed her face, the brown wax in her ears, her green tinged teeth and unappealing face and body... Body? Body! Yeah! Body seemed to be the key word and, Yeah, you bet Mitchell Lipensky allowed himself to be... Pulling him forward, leading him into a bedroom, Gina closed the door. Dark! Holding the ring to approximately where he thought their eyes should be, "See," he said. "I told Frankie the ring's no good an' you can't see nothin'... Why's it so dark in this room?" "Lisa likes it dark when she sleeps, so they never took the blackout curtains down after the war... Screw the ring!" Standing just inside the room, Mitchell was leaning against the door. Standing close enough to feel his breath on her face, but not actually touching, Gina hoped that he'd make the first move... But he didn't, so, snuggling against him, putting her arms about his waist, "So bashful!" she said. "But you don't gotta be with me, baby, 'cause I like you, a lot!" Feeling her body pressing warmly against his, instantly inflating, Mitchell's penis shifted from neutral to third. Purposefully rubbing her body against his, Gina held him even tighter and, getting the response she'd expected, she felt the push of his penis against her Immaculate Heart skirt. "Mmmm, baby," flattered by his immediate response, "you get a boner so fast!" Holding her waist a moment, his hands found their way through the back of her skirt and beneath the elastic band of her high-waisted--no doubt Immaculate Heart-issue--cotton underpants, where, Oh, God, he thought, holding a warm, naked buttock in each hand. So smooth! Moving a hand around, to her front, finding Gina's navel, hesitating a moment, he was about to move his hand downward, when...

BECOMING Gina's warm breath was on his face, and Gina's mouth was on his mouth... Tongue! He felt the tip of Gina's tongue push against his lips and, Green teeth! he clenched his mouth tightly. "Mmmm, Mitchie, baby, ain't you never Frenched before?" Actually, no, and though her breath kind'a tickled and kind'a felt nice, his mouth remained closed against "green teeth contamination." "Mmmm, so bashful," she whispered onto his mouth as, reaching downward, caressing the bulge of his penis...

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"Ummm!" His mouth loosened slightly, and the tip of her tongue went just a bit deeper than it had a moment ago, and... Obviously used to working backhanded, especially with a boy's fly, his belt suddenly unbuckled, Mitchell felt the release of the waistband of his pants as the metal button was popped from its hole, and... "Ummm!" Gina's tongue moved another centimeter inward. Another button and, reaching beneath the elastic band of his shorts, her hand encircling him, "Mmmm!" stretching upward, Gina's cold touch on Mitchell's warm penis all but, "Oh, God!" caused him to leave the ground. So warm! So hard! she thought, and wanting to know how it felt, rubbing her thumb over the glans, Gina further marveled, So smooth! No one had ever touched him there except himself, and, he supposed, his mother when he was a baby, but in a situation such as this the touch of his mother when he was a baby sure as hell didn't count and, "Ummmm!" within the first infinitesimal second of feeling Gina's hand wrap around his penis--What green teeth?--His mouth opened and their tongues found each other's and, leaving the indentation of her navel in the flat hardness of her stomach--floating in a fog of red passion and Dago-Red, for him, the eroticism in this pitch-black room was...? Dream-like, so--I'm really going to touch a girl's cunt! he thought on one hand, but on the other hand Mitchell simply could not believe that this was truly happening, that... I'm really going to touch a girl's cunt! Now! Lowering his hand, his fingers touching the soft/hard protrusion of her mound...? He has pubic hair, but he'd never considered that girls might have hair there, too, and when he touched Gina's coarse, surprisingly abundant mat of pubic hair, "Ummmm!" his penis jerked in his hand. Feeling the spasm, Gina rubbed her thumb over the urethra, making the glans slippery with the minute droplet of semen that had seeped through, as, arching her hips, she turned her body to the side so that Mitchell might reach her easier. Extending his hand, and still, having no idea what he was about to find, touching Gina's labia, the fleshy lips felt as one and thinking, This is it? the remembrance of the thought, Girls got nothin', came to mind and, not readily finding the chasm, rubbing the ridges of flesh between his fingers... "You ain't never touched a girl here before, have you?" Reaching under his hand, spreading her vaginal lips, guiding his index finger, "Yeah, baby!" Gina's lips brushed his. "That's how ya do it." On a vaporous cloud of discovery, Oh, yeah! Having no idea of what he was touching, Girls do got

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something! Mitchell felt as though his entire psyche was contained within the tip of his index finger, and within Gina's slick wetness. And as he, with Gina's guidance, touched the soft and the hard, the rough and the smooth, he was unaware that Gina was using him to masturbate, and that something he was totally unaware even existed, or that he was inadvertently fondling--her clitoris--was the female sensory equivalent of his penis. "Mitchie," whispering in his ear, taking her hand from beneath his underpants and both their hands from beneath her underpants, "get undressed." Oh, yeah! Obediently, Mitchell kicked his shoes off, stepped out of his Levi's and underpants, and pulled his shirt over his head. As Gina bent to lower her skirt and underpants, he felt her hair brush his chest... Suddenly they were in each others arms again, and for the first time in his life Mitchell felt the wonderful warmth of a... Mitchell felt the warmth of Gina's completely naked body against his completely naked body and, once again, "now" was so totally surreal that he had to remind himself, I'm really here! Now! Naked, with a girl! A real live naked girl! He touched the outside of her thighs, then, bringing his hands upward felt the contour of her slight hips and, Oh, God! the firm softness of the outer sides of Gina's compressed breasts. Tits! I'm touching real tits! Cupping Gina's breasts in the palms of his hands, feeling their soft, warm weight, he squeezed the now-hard protrusions of her quarter-sized nipples between his fingers--that due to size and color were normally barely discernible, but when excited hardened and became tuberous to such an extent that the areola became all nipple and, as nerve strings run from nipple to uterus, as blood had engorged the erectile tissue of Gina's nipples, so then did blood engorge the erectile tissue of Gina's clitoris, and--holding her breasts, kneading her nipples, Mitchell instinctively, erotically, moved his lower body hard against hers, as... Tightening her arms, Gina drew him to her, as... Penetrating the juncture of her thighs, he felt the moist heat of Gina's vulva and, barely able to contain himself, Mitchell ground his pelvis inward, as... Feeling him there, sensing his urgency, very well knowing how fast it could end, and not wanting it to end now, this way, standing, "Baby," she said, pushing him backward, "let's lay down." Yeah! Lay down's good! Back-stepping, he felt the edge of the mattress behind his knees and, as she was still moving against him, he fell onto the bed... "Scoot up, baby." Scoot up, yeah! He did, and... She's there, caressing his penis; kissing him, her tongue... hell, her welcomed tongue was into his mouth and, lying face to face, his tongue was then into her mouth and not having to be shown the way this time, after but

BECOMING a moment or two of searching, his finger, parting the way, found its way deeply into her vagina... Kissing, touching, fondling...

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Breaking the long, saliva-exchanged kiss, lowering his head, finding a nipple, he sucked the hard cone of excited flesh into his mouth and, as if looking for mother's milk, drew hard, bringing the coarse nipple, along with most of the soft flesh of Gina's breast deeply within... Coming up for air, thinking, Oh, my god! "Gina," he said, "you taste so good!" Having trained herself, never far from orgasm, this boy's strange-feeling penis and his words further warming her, rotating her hips, taking his hand, positioning his hand where she wanted it, "Yeah," she said, "that's where it's at!" Ambidextrously holding his hand with one hand and his penis with the other, tightening her vaginal muscle, moving her pelvis in syncopation with all three hands... Gina was doing to him what he'd done to himself hundreds of times, only now the sensation of her hand holding him along with the knowledge, and the feel of his finger deeply into her so warm wetness caused an erotic sensation such as he'd never dreamt and, "Mmmm!" he moaned, "Oh, God, Gina!" Fully aware of the pleasure she knew that she was giving to this handsome, though wholly inexperienced young man, "Yeah!" Gina was carried to yet another orgasm. But always ready for another, her one hand still holding his hand, her other hand still holding him, turning fully onto her back, unconcerned about pregnancy--having been lucky so far by using an American invention to kill sperm--a Coca-Cola douche--"Mitchie," she said, "fuck me, now!" Fuck me, now! The command traveled from his upper brain to his lower brain--although, actually, by that time, as his upper brain had taken residence alongside his lower brain, Mitchell no longer had an upper brain, and--the entire situation: Gina's tits; Gina's cunt, the touch of Gina's hand on his penis and then, "Fuck me, now!" Oh, yeah! Never far from orgasm, Uh-oh! He did not want it to end then, that way, and, turning onto his back, too--as men and boys will often do in an attempt to hold off ejaculation--he tried to hold it off by tightening his sphincter, but, unfortunately, Uh-oh! without the help of his upper brain, his sphincter, not having all that much will power, "Uh-oh!" Uh-oh? Knowing what was coming--no pun intended--"Uh-oh!" Gina felt the first heavy, warm drop splatter onto her hip, then another on her chest and even onto her forehead, as... Giving in, closing his eyes tightly, stretching his legs, arching his pelvis; because these contractions were more intense than any he'd ever witnessed--except possibly when he'd ejaculated for the very first time--"Mmmmm!" moaning loudly because those contractions were stronger and sweeter than any he'd ever thought possible. Beyond the splatters of semen, aware of his orgasm due to the feel of his spasms within her hand, going with the rhythm, ambidextrously continuing the cadence of all three hands, tightening and loosening the muscle within her vagina, within seconds she, too, orgasmed... again. Sated... for the moment, not caring that he'd climaxed as he had, "Baby, you shot jizim all over me!" Gina said as a statement attesting to the strength of his ejaculation. But not taking it as a compliment, "Sorry," he said. "Nah, s'okay, baby." Her hands stopping all motion, "I d'mind, and we can screw in a couple'a minutes, after you rest up a little."

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We can screw in a couple'a minutes? These words spoken by a girl, by almost any girl, normally would have brought, minimally, a twitch to the penis of Mitchell Lipensky, but... Things then began to happen. Lying on his back in this ultra-dark room, the room began to spin. Becoming dizzy, his penis, down-shifting from third to neutral, returned his body to upper brain control and, Ow, he thought, that hurts! as the pain in his bent wrist, that remained clamped between Gina's thighs, became excruciating, and suddenly, simultaneously, a number of other things registered on his mind: He'd nuzzled a filthy, dirt-streaked neck, and not only did she kiss him, putting her tongue into his mouth, but he'd returned the kiss putting his tongue into her mouth... the mouth with green teeth! Sitting up on the bed, pulling his hand from Gina's now vice-like thighs, he heard a sickly wet suction sound and his hand felt slimy, and the room spun faster, and also, now, he not only remembered that big, spicy pizza, but could actually smell it and his stomach and head seemed to be keeping time with the spinning room. "Urp!" He belched, and the putrid taste of second-hand pizza and Chianti and homemade Dago Red came to his mouth. "Gacchh!" Sitting up quickly, "Mitchie, what's wrong?" Gina moved to the far side of the bed. "Feel, sick. Room's spinnin'. Toilet! Got'a get to the toilet!" Bounding off the bed, "Ow!" twisting an ankle on one of the shoes that either he or Gina had kicked off and, "Ahhh!" painfully stubbing his toe on the unseen wall and, "Ouch!" breaking a fingernail groping for the door and, finally, finding the doorknob he pulled the door open and, "Ai!" the brilliant daylight flooding the pitch black room stung his eyes. Still on the floor, as were her Immaculate Heart blouse and brassiere that, as though pulled over her head, were rolled into a ball. Lisa's pink underpants, with the quarter-sized hole, was twisted about one of her ankles. Frank, poised atop Lisa with his penis planted between her chubby, outstretched thighs, had nothing on either, other than blue boxer shorts with little green turtles that were entwined about one of his ankles, also. As Mitchell more or less fell out of the bedroom, Lisa shoved Frank backwards where he fell onto the carpet and into the leg of the coffee table and, grabbing her twisted blouse and brassiere, attempting to hide her breasts, Lisa left her crotch fully exposed... Which could have answered one of Mitchell's burning questions, except, of course, between trying to stave off vomiting and squinting into the glaring daylight, none of what he could have seen registered on him. Holding his hands in front of himself, hiding the prophylactic that then hung from his rapidly shrinking penis, "Hey!" Frank yelled angrily, "you're supposed to let a guy know when you come out'a the bedroom!" A few strokes from ejaculation when the bedroom door had burst open, seeing Mitchell standing there, naked, looking at himself and Lisa, for some unknown reason excited Frank and even though he was angry and no longer had an erection, biting his lip to keep from showing what was happening, he, very strangely, ejaculated into the prophylactic, as...

BECOMING Heedless of his nudity, rubbing his eyes, trying to adjust to the unaccustomed brightness and to get his bearings, fighting to keep the vomit down, "The toilet!" Mitchell said frantically, "Got'a get to the toilet!"

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At six feet tall, Mitchell Lipensky was at his maximum, lifetime height. Though not fat, he was heavier than what might be considered best for his frame. Not being prone to muscle-building exercise or laborious work, he was far from overly muscled. His skin tone, except for the area covered by a bathing suit or pants, was deeply tanned, even that early in the summer. He had a prematurely hairy chest, and strong legs and thighs, which helped to compensate for the slightly excessive flesh of his upper torso. When in a state of arousal, his penis was what might be considered that of a man's average size, but when flaccid it retracted into an over-abundance of pubic hair leaving only the glans and perhaps two inches of the shaft showing through curly, dark-brown hair. Frank being the only boy she'd ever seen nude, and by that time thoroughly enjoying holding and looking at Frank, having a natural curiosity, seeing Mitchell, studying his strange-appearing, circumcised penis, she thought, I'm sure glad to have a guy like Frankie. Lisa mentally compared this boy's flaccid size to Frank's much larger, when flaccid, penis. But yet, seeing Mitchell naked made her warmly wonder, Wonder what he'd look like with a boner. Lisa had also been but a second or two from orgasm when they'd been interrupted, and seeing this second naked boy made her want to be alone with Frank for just a little longer, but knew that that wouldn't happen--at least for now. Heedless of his nudity, rubbing his eyes, trying to adjust to the unaccustomed brightness and to get his bearings, fighting to keep the vomit down, "The toilet!" Mitchell said frantically. "Got'a get to the toilet!" Pointing towards the kitchen, "In there!" Frank said. Running down the hall, through the kitchen, into the toilet, slamming the door behind him, "Gaacchh!" Hearing his retching from two rooms away, never too shy, having seen each other nude any number of times, wearing only her blouse as she came from the bedroom, "Captain Midnight make it to the toilet?" Not wanting to pull it off in front of the girls, leaving the hanging prophylactic on, hiding it beneath his blue boxer shorts with the green turtles, "Sounds like he's pukin' his guts out." Always enjoying the sight of a nude, or near-nude girl, even a girl as familiar as Gina, looking at her as he pulled his jeans on, "What the hell'j'ya do to him?" "Nothin'!" Stepping into her panties, "I didn't do nothin'! We was just layin' there, you know, makin' out, an' all's a sudden he sounds like he's gonna puke all over the place, an..." Not quite as open regarding nudity as Frank and Gina, still covering herself as best she could with her blouse and brassiere, "He didn't puke on my bed, did he?" Lisa said. "Nah." Looking over her shoulder to be sure Mitchell wasn't on his way back, "It was too dark in there for me to get a look at it. J'ya see it? It felt kind'a creepy an', like it was, uh, naked or somethin'." Buttoning his jeans, "Un, fesso!" Frank said. "You dummy! It was naked!" Tucking her blouse into her skirt, "Yeah," Lisa said. "I saw it. "So," looking towards the kitchen again, Gina asked, "What'd it look like? Like somethin's been cut off?"

BECOMING "Yeah, like you said, 'it' looked kind'a... shrivelly, like something's missing. Don't know why Jews do it."

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Listening to this conversation, Frank smiled to himself. If he didn't know these two, he'd have never known that girls were interested in the same things guys are, and when he tells this to his friends, they don't believe him. The bathroom door opening, Mitchell came out... wearing a towel about his waist. Embarrassed because he got sick, embarrassed because Frank and Lisa had seen him naked, and embarrassed because he had to walk through the apartment wearing nothing but a towel, but most of all because he'd screwed up his first opportunity with a girl, Mitchell said, "Whew! I guess it was just too much wine." Smiling wanly, he went into the bedroom, closed the door and, with the exception of his shoes and socks, which he carried in his hand, came out a minute later fully dressed. The others watched as, feeling self conscious, walking across the room, sitting on the chair near the window, putting his shoes and socks on, he said, "Sorry, I got sick in your room, Lisa." "Nah, it's our fault for letting you drink that much wine." "Yeah," Gina added. "We should'a known you was drinkin' too much." Still able to taste bitter bile and secondhand wine, his stomach queasy, his throat hurting from the force of vomiting, looking at Gina, Do I even want to be alone with her again? he wondered. But also, he had a dull, pleasant sensation in his testicles that reminded him, even feeling as bad as he felt, of the unbelievably strong climax that she had been able to wrench from him just by using her hand. And, If that felt that good, wonder what it would have felt like if I'd gotten into her? But yet, as much as he no longer wanted to be a virgin, as much as he no longer wanted to be "cherry," as much as he did want to get fucked, seeing Gina, now, sober, he could not imagine that just a few minutes ago they'd actually been lying on a bed together, naked, with his finger in her and her hand about him. Just thinking about it, Mitchell felt a tightening in his crotch... along with a spasm of nausea. "Mitchie," breaking into his thoughts, "you don't look so hot. How's 'bout some soda crackers?" Looking at Gina, "Soda crackers?" "Yeah! Whenever I don't feel so hot I eat soda crackers an' pretty soon my stomach starts feelin' better." "No, thanks." The thought of even crackers accentuating his nausea, "I'll be fine." Standing, "I'm gonna get'j'ya some anyway." Going into the kitchen, Gina returned in a minute with a small stack of soda crackers on a saucer and a glass of seltzer water. "Here." Setting the glass and saucer on the coffee table, "Come on over here." Sitting on the sofa, she patted the seat next to her. Mitchell did not move. "Jesus Christ!" Gina said. "Will you stop bein' such a god-damned baby an' come over here an' eat the god-damned crackers!" Patting the seat again, "Come on now!" Forcing a smile, "Okay, mother." Obediently crossing the room, he sat next to her. Rubbing his knee, "That's a good boy." Gina left her hand there.

BECOMING "So," Frank asked, "what are we doin' tonight?"

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"I really feel like going to a movie, Frankie. Why don't we just see what's playing and if there's nothing good, then we'll go over to Gina's and, you know, hang out." Looking from Lisa to Gina to Mitchell, "S'okay with them, s'okay with me." "Yeah, let's see what's around." Gina said. "My ol' lady's got the late shift tonight, so's if we get to an' early show, we can still go up to my place after it's over for a while." His mouth full of cracker, Mitchell washed it down with a gulp of seltzer, but before he could reply... "Okay, it's settled, then," Frank said. "If there's a good one around, we'll go to the movies." Standing, "I'll get the paper." Going into the kitchen, returning a moment later with the Sun-Times, Lisa sat alongside of Gina. Lifting himself from the floor, squeezing between the girls, Frank moved the milk bottle and glasses aside. Laying the paper on the coffee table, Lisa ruffled through the pages until she found the movie section. Her hand still on his knee, "Feelin' better, babe?" Rubbing his thigh, Gina's thumb, "accidentally," nonchalantly grazed the material directly beneath the fly, in the crook of his crotch. Looking at her hand, swallowing, "Yeah, a little." he said honestly. "Hey, here's one I've been wanting to see!" Lisa looked up from the paper. "It's at the Trovili; The Yearling! I've been wanting to see it since I first heard they were making a movie of it! I read the book and cried like a baby. Let's go there!" Mitchell did not want to go anyplace with Gina, except, possibly, back to a bedroom, and now that he was somewhat sober, was not really too sure about that. "Uh, what's it about?" he asked. "This little boy lives in the mountains with his mom'n'dad, and they're so poor, and the little kid's only got one good friend that's real sick so he can't really play with him, and then he finds this baby deer, and..." "Okay, okay! It sounds good. What's it playin' with?" "Nothing." "It's a single feature?" Being against his principles, he never went to see a single-feature movie... But that also meant an hour and a half less to be seen with Gina, and an hour and a half sooner till he would be able to get back into a bed with her, That's if I really want to get back into a bed with her. He looked at her hand again, and, as he looked, Gina's thumb moved a fraction, touching the tip of his penis over the worn material of his jeans, giving, if you will, a preview of coming attractions, and... "Yeah! Okay! Let's go see The Yearling." "Okay, it's settled, then," Frank said. "When should we pick you two up? What time's it start?" "Best time's, uh..." Lisa looked at the paper. "Quarter to eight." "Okay. We'll pick you up... Where? Here? At seven."

BECOMING "Yeah, Frankie, that's fine... Seven okay with you, Gina?" "Yeah, s'okay with me." Draping her arm across Mitchell's shoulders, "An' don't you go drinkin' no more vino!" "You don't have to worry 'bout that, Gina. I ain't never gonna drink wine again!" * Walking north on Rockwell, "How much money you got?" Frank asked. "You got enough for movies an' somethin' to eat after?" "Yeah, I got about six bucks... An' what'd'ya mean, 'eat after'? I gotta go someplace to eat with her?"

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"Yeah! You 'gotta go someplace to eat with her' after the movie! Four, five bucks should be plenty. Let's see, you're kind'a big, an' they'll probably want you to pay adult." "Adult! I ain't even going to be fifteen for another two months!" "Yeah? Well, Mitch, if you wanna be cheap an' try provin' you're not sixteen, then all's you gotta do is convince the broad sellin' the tickets. But remember, Gina is sixteen!" "But I ain't!" he said belligerently. "So why should I pay more then I'm supposed to?" "Do what'j'ya want, Mitch, but that means standin' in line with the girls there tryin' to convince the ticket broad that you're a baby. An' babies only suck on titties, an' they don't get fucked! Know what I mean?" Knowing Frank was right, also remembering the heated discussion his father had with the ticket man when they went to the circus. "Yeah," he said frowning, "okay, already! So I'll pay adult!" "Okay, let's see," Frank began to figure. "Adult tickets," glancing at Mitchell, "are a buck each, An' you'n'Gina can share a box'a popcorn..." "No, I want my own popcorn!" Often, if he had the money, he'd buy a second box of popcorn. Besides, I don't want Gina's hands anywhere near anything I'm going to put in my mouth. "Okay, so two boxes'a popcorn'll be fifty cents. An' knowin' you, you'll want a box' a candy, an' if you get one you'll have to offer to buy her one, too, so that'll be another twenty cents. So let's see..." Ticking the purchases off on his fingers, "Admission, popcorn and candy for the two'a'ya'll be, uh, two-seventy. An' after the movie we'll go to... You like hamburgers, don't'j'ya? Shit, Lipensky, you like anything so long as you can eat it before it eats you. Okay! How's 'bout we go to White Castle?" "Why do we have to go anyplace after the movie? Why can't we just go back to Gina's? Because, you know, I got sick before her'n'me were able to, uh..." "Fuck!" Frank said wearily, as though speaking to a child. Mitchell smiled. "Yeah, fuck!" Then frowned. "Frankie, I really don't wanna take her out." Misunderstanding his motive, "Yeah! You gotta take her out to eat! Don't be such a cheapskate, Mitch. A date's a date!"

BECOMING "It ain't the money!" "Yeah? What's it, then?" "Frank, Gina is so..." "Yeah? She's 'so' what?" "Frank," he asked in amazement, "can't'j'ya see? She's so ugly, an' looks so dirty!"

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"Well, okay. But so what? An' besides, she ain't all that ugly, an' she'll be cleaned up for tonight, and won't look so bad. You'll see, Mitch. You'll like her much more tonight." "Frank, tell me! Would you like to be seen out with her?" "Yeah, sure! Me'n'her used to date. How do you think I met Lisa?" "You went out with her? To movies an' stuff?" "I tol'j'ya, yeah! You'll see. Every guy that knows her an' sees the two'a you together'll be jealous of you." Unable to believe what Frank was saying, "Why?" "Why? You dope! 'Cause she puts out, that's why! Didn't'j'ya have a good time with her in Lisa's bedroom?" "Well, yeah," he said begrudgingly, "before I got sick, yeah, sure I did, but..." "Don't be such a dumb shit, Lipensky. Gina fucks!" "Yeah! Okay! So she fucks, but she's so ugly!" "So what? So you'n'her fuck in a dark room an' you don't gotta see her face." "She's got a dirty neck." "Like I said, screw in a dark room an' you won't see her neck either. But like I said, she'll look different tonight." "Why? She gonna wear a mask?" "You'll see. I know Gina, an' she'll look nice tonight." "Yeah? That I gotta see... An' her ears are dirty." "So? So don't fuck her in the ear." Thinking this very funny, Frank began to laugh. It was the laughter Mitchell remembered, Frank's laughter, and up until then he hadn't fully realized how much he had missed it and, his serious expression changing, raucous laughter came painfully from his throat--still sore from vomiting. "An' worst of all! The baddest thing about her," forcing himself to stop laughing, "are her teeth! Shit, Frankie, who's got green teeth?" His expression suddenly serious, Frank stopped laughing. "Now, Mitch, now you may have a problem!"

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The smile fading from his face, "Why," Mitchell asked, "would I have a problem now? I ain't gonna fuck her in the mouth!" "Yeah?" Frank said. "We'll see about that." 19 The Date June 18, 1949 The odor of dinner overcoming whatever lingering nausea he may have had, by the time the boys sat down to eat Mitchell was well enough, and easily able to consume two servings of lasagna, salad, half a loaf of garlic bread, fresh string beans with almond slivers and two custard-filled cannoli. "Frankie, this one, he's'a not so bashful like'a you other friends. This one, he's'a like to eat. I like'a this one! Mitchell," Mrs. Rizzo asked, holding the tray forward. "You like more cannoli?" "No, ma'am, I'm stuffed." He looked at the tray. "Well..." he'd never had any pastries that tasted better than this cannoli. "Oh, okay. Thank you, Mrs. Rizzo." "Gee, Ma," Frank laughed, "guess you twisted his arm." "An' such'a good manners, this one. You should learn such'a good manners from'a you friend here, Frankie." "Yeah, sure, Ma." Frank pushed away from the table. "Lipensky, ain't you never gonna get done? Come on, we ain't got all day!" Swallowing the last of the cannoli, "Thanks again, Mrs. Rizzo." Following Frank from the dining room, "Frankie, I was supposed to call my mom when I got here this afternoon an' forgot. Okay if I call her now?" "Yeah, sure. Phone's in the kitchen." "...Mom, it's me, Mitchell." "I know it's you, Mitchell! Why didn't you call?" "I am calling!" "Yes, now!" Myra said angrily. "I thought I told you to call when you got there!" "I forgot. I'm sorry." "You're sorry? Big deal, you're sorry! I sat by the phone all day waiting for you to call and you're sorry!" "Mom. I'm sorry! I forgot!" The line quiet a moment, then, "So, okay already. How's Frank? He look different from the last time you saw him, from the way you remember him? Tell him hello from me." Mitchell looked at Frank who, flexing his wrists and forearms, had both elbows on the table, watching the muscles in his arms expand and contract, "Frankie, my mom says hello."

BECOMING "Yeah? Tell her hello back." "Yeah, he really does look different, and he says hello back." "Did you have lunch?" "Yeah, sure I did." "Where?" Where? Like what difference does it make? "A place Frankie knows; his godmother owns it." "What did you eat?" Jesus! "Something Italian. You never had it before." "Okay, so I never had it before. So what did you eat?"

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"Pizza! It's called pizza, Mom." Catching Frank's eye, Mitchell moved his right hand, index finger extended, in a small circle around his right ear, making the universally accepted "she's nuts" sign. "Pizza? I never had pizza. What's it made with?" "Uh, it's kind'a like a big pancake, an' it's got lots'a stuff on it." "What kind of stuff?" Sighing deeply, "You know, cheese'n'onions'n'green peppers'n'sausage. All good healthy stuff, just like you like me to eat." "Sausage?" Myra said sourly. "It had pork sausage?" "Well, yeah, I guess. We eat pork sausage, don't we?" "Yes, but our pork sausage is ko..." About to say kosher, she caught herself. "I know what's in our sausage,"--though, truly, she had no idea--"and God only knows what's in that goyisha trayf!" [Gentile junk] "So, what's done is done, and it probably won't kill you. So, what did you and Frank do today?" "Well, Mom..." Thinking a moment: I almost got killed by two anti-Semitic, Italian hoods, then met a girl with a dirty neck'n'ears'n'green teeth, an' got stinkin' drunk on homemade Dago Red, an' told her'n'her girlfriend'n'Frankie how Jews get their dicks wacked off, then her'n'me went into a bedroom an' got undressed an' I sucked on her tits an' put my finger into her cunt, but because I was so drunk I puked my guts out an' never did get fucked. "Uh," he said, "not too much. We just, kind'a, you know, hung around." "Come on," Frank whispered, "we're gonna be late." "An' now we're at Frank's house, an' we just finished a great dinner an' we're getting' ready to go to a movie an' we're really late now, Mom." "Well, Mitchell, it sounds like you're having a good time," Myra said, not wanting to hang up. "And I suppose your father was right about this being a learning experience."

BECOMING "Yeah, Mom," his mind going back to Lisa's bedroom. "I'm learnin' lots'a real neat stuff." "Okay, honey. Be careful, and don't stay out too late." "Yeah, Mom, I'll be careful."

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"Okay... Oh, by the way, if you should decide to come home tomorrow instead of Monday, were going to be at Aunt Bea's all day because it's Uncle Al's birthday and we're going to surprise him with a special brunch and," not too happy about him being away from home, in that neighborhood, and well knowing the way to her son's heart, "everyone is going to be there." Everyone? "What are you having to eat?" Not above bribing him, "Oh, the usual," Myra said. "Lox and bagels and all that, but much, much more--pastries, and of course a birthday cake. You know that when all the cousins get together they bring all kinds of good things to eat." "Yeah," momentarily digesting, literally digesting, all that his mother had said, "I know!" His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall then down to Frank, who was cleaning his fingernails with a pruning knife. "Okay, if I don't see you tomorrow, I'll see you on Monday. Okay?" "Sure, honey... Well," reluctant to say goodbye, "Goodbye." "So long, Mom." Dropping the receiver onto the cradle, "Frankie, what'a'we doin' tomorrow?" "First thing, I gotta go to church, an' I'll be home 'bout ten, ten-thirty. If you want, you can stay in bed or watch television till I get back. Why?" All kinds of good things to eat! "Oh, just askin'." "Come on, s'almost six-thirty an' we gotta get dressed. You bring somethin' decent to wear, at least?" In Frank's bedroom, "Yeah! Sure!" he opened the canvas bag, removed his shirts, khaki slacks and underwear, and laid them onto the guest bed. "See, I brought lots'a decent stuff to wear." "Yeah, I see. Who packed this? Not your Ma!" "Nah, me." "Figures." Taking the khaki slacks off the bed, unfurling them, "These look like shit!" Frank said, "You can't wear 'em on a date!" "Hey, I didn't think we were goin' to a formal." "You're too big for my pants, but my shirts'll fit fine, an' I'll ask Ma to iron these slacks." "What the hell's the difference how I look? We're only goin' to a movie. An' if I gotta be with Gina, it won't matter if I roll in horseshit. Shit! I don't think she'd even notice." "Mitchie, ain't'j'ya never been on a date before?" "Yeah!" Actually, no, he never had, but he didn't want to tell that to Frank. "Sure I been on dates, lots'a

BECOMING times!" "Lots'a times, eh? Bullshit!" "Okay, bullshit! But it's only with Gina, for Christ's sake!"

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"You can't go lookin' like a slob no matter who you're with! An' remember, you're gonna be with me'n'Lisa, too, an' you're supposed to be a wop not a Jew, an' wops don't go on dates lookin' like fuckin' slobs... That's my closet," pointing his thumb. "Take any shirt ya want. I'm gonna ask Ma to iron these," waving the khaki slacks. "Go on! Go find a shirt." Opening the door to a small, walk-in closet, pulling the string hanging from a bare ceiling light fixture, Holy cow! Mitchell was amazed at the neat rows of slacks, jackets and shirts that hung from wooden bars on all three sides of the closet. Separated by color, the shirts hung precisely and neatly to the right and left. Directly ahead were a number of jackets on wooden hangers and, hanging by their cuffs on metal pants hangers, the sharp creases in the slacks all faced outward. Myra ironed her son's clothing with her prize possession, a mangler, then she would hang the shirts on wire hangers and the pants on cardboard-covered pants hangers, then hang the shirts and pants neatly on the wooden rods in Mitchell's closet where they would remain neat and orderly till he pulled the first pair of pants or shirt off a hanger causing the hangers on either side to hang askew and within a day all the hangers and all of the clothing in his closet were cockeyed. Mitchell's favorite color was yellow. There were four yellow shirts in varying shades in Frank's closet. Carefully, so as not to jar the adjoining hangers, he took one down, studied it, put it back and took another. Coming out of the closet, standing in front of the mirror, removing his shirt, he put Frank's on. The short-sleeved shirt was pale yellow with two breast pockets and military-style epaulets. Studying his reflection he smiled, showing his white teeth to the deeply tanned figure that smiled back at him. Using his palm, Jeeze, I look good! pushing the wave in his hair an inch closer to his left eyebrow, It's a shame that my first real date's gotta be wasted on Gina. * ...Walking briskly, "Frankie?" Taking one last deep drag on the cigarette, Frank flipped it into the gutter before answering, "Yeah, Mitch?" "You know, they seem so different." "Who do?" Going along with the gag, "Dey do." "Dey do? Who dey?" Becoming serious, "The girls. How's come they're such good friends? Lisa seems like a nice girl, and Gina's such a..." "Whore?" "Well, yeah."

BECOMING "They grew up together. Gina used to live upstairs from Lisa." "At where we were today?"

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"Yeah. Lisa's ma'n'pa own the buildin' an' Gina's folks rented the apartment upstairs. Anyway, one day Gina's ma'n'pa had this big argument an' her pa took off an' disappeared." "Yeah, she tol' me her dad's gone." Even though he and his father did not seem to be particularly friendly at times, and that occasionally he would go out of his way to avoid Walter, Mitchell felt a hollow core of sadness as he attempted to even imagine life without his father, and in so doing felt empathy for Gina, then felt anger at himself for disliking her as much as he thought he did. "Jesus, Frankie! How can a father just take off an' leave his wife an' kid an' never see 'em again?" "Don't know, Mitch, but Gina's pop sure did." "When'd this happen?" "Right before the war started. Gina was about eight then." "God, things had'a be really tough for 'em!" "Yeah. Gina'n'her mother had'a move to a smaller place over on Campbell; it's just a couple'a blocks away, but it's a real dump. I guess bein' without a father made it real hard for Gina an' she just kind'a... you know, kind'a got wild 'that way.' An' Lisa, bein' as nice as she is, felt bad for her an' they stayed friends, an' I know Lisa'd feel real bad if somethin' happened an' her'n'Gina couldn't be pals no more." "But hangin' 'round with Gina? Don't that make guys think that, maybe, she's kind'a like Gina and, you know, try to get her to do the kinds'a things Gina does?" "Well, yeah, they used to, an' sometimes some guy still does, an' you ought'a see how Lisa shoots 'em down. An' for the last year, ever since her'n'me's been together, almost everyone in the neighborhood knows, an' mostly leave her alone or they know I'll break their fuckin' faces." Trying to think of a way to say what was on his mind, he was quiet a minute then, "Frankie, don't misunderstand me. I like Lisa, but really, if she's such a nice girl, then why's she let you do it to her? To go all the way! Like today, an' with Gina'n'me there, just in the other room." Knowing that his friend was right, searching for an excuse, also taking a minute to formulate his thoughts but, unable to come up with a creditable excuse, "If we hadn't'a drank all that wine, an' if you'n'Gina weren't in the bedroom makin' out, Lisa'n'me wouldn't'a done it, then." Quickly adding, "But Lisa only does it with me! An' she does it because we, uh, like each other, a real lot!" "Frank, lots'a girls like lots'a guys, but the nice girl's don't go all the way with their boyfriends. Yeah, I know they may touch each other an' stuff, but..." "'cause we love each other, an' we're gonna be married!"

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Incredulous, "Married! Jesus, Frankie, you're only... what? Sixteen! How do you know you'n'Lisa are gonna be married? How can you even think about marryin' anyone now, when you're only sixteen?" "Nearer seventeen! An' 'cause we love each other!" Frank repeated. "...An' Lisa'n'me really love doin' it with each other!" "Frankie, I d'know a whole hell of a lot about it, but from what I've been told, hell, even a shit-head like Skorupsi loves doin' it! An' I don't think fuckin', an' lovin' fuckin' someone means you gotta marry 'em, least way's now!" Frank stopped walking and, "Mitch," grabbing him by the shoulder, spun him around so they're facing each other. "I tell ya, Lisa'n'me love each other! Okay?" Poking his stiffened finger into his friend's chest. "An' it ain't none'a your fuckin' business, anyway! Okay?" Balling his right fist, cocking it beneath Mitchell's chin. "I invited ya here to get laid, not to give me a fuckin' lecture! Okay?" He looked at the clenched fist, then into Frank's anger-flushed face, and saw something he'd never imagined he would see coming from Frank directed towards himself: rage--pure, violent rage. The two stared at each other for two seconds... four seconds, then, his face softened. "Shit, Mitchie!" and his clenched fist relaxed. "I'm sorry!" Taking a deep breath, "Frankie, just now you looked like you hated me, an' I really thought you were gonna slug me." "Mitch, you're my best pal! I'd never hit'ch'ya!" "Yeah, sure, I knew you weren't going to hit me." Really, though, he wasn't too sure about that. "You're my best pal, too..." Really, though, Norman was. "It's just that I don't wanna see you get into trouble an' screw up your life." "Yeah, Mitch, I know that. Come on!" Walking again, "I shouldn't'a gotten mad at you," Frank said. "Shit! What'j'ya said, I know you're right. But Lisa keeps talkin' 'bout when we get married this, and when we get married that. Damn! I'm still goin' to high school an' I wanna go to college so's," sweeping his hand in a wide arch, "I can get outta this shitty neighborhood. I know what Lisa'n'I'm doing's a sin, but even when we try to stop we can't! When we're alone I kiss her an' she kisses me an' before you know it my hand's under her blouse an' I'm touching her an' her hand's in my pants touchin' me, an' we can't seem to stop." Taking a deep breath, Frank smiled. "An' that ain't all! You Jews think you got it tough? Lisa'n'me, we gotta go to confession." "Jesus!" Mitchell laughed. "I didn't think about that." "Yeah, pal, 'Jesus' is right!" "Yeah, we Jews had'a Hitler an' gas chambers," Mitchell said facetiously, "an' you goys got confession. How d'ya handle it?" Frank laughed. "It ain't easy. Seems like all Lisa'n'me ever do, all the time, is say Hail Marys an' Our Fathers." "How often do you guys gotta go to confession?" Laughing again, "Every fuckin' week!"

BECOMING "Every week? Wow! An' you gotta tell a priest every time you go, 'bout every time you'n'Lisa screw?" "Yup! Every time!" "Holy shit!" "Oh, yeah! Holy shit is right!" Sitting on the front stoop, the girls were waiting for them.

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"Hi, babe!" Taking Lisa by the hands, pulling her onto her feet, kissing her on the cheek, "You look great!" Eyeing Lisa in her pink cotton skirt and white, off-the-shoulder blouse, "How's come your mother let you out'a the house lookin' this good?" Frank pressed his nose into the soft crease of Lisa's abundant cleavage. Giggling, "She ain't home." Hugging her, "I'd guess not!" Rising without assistance, "Hi'ya, Mitchie." Standing slightly behind Frank, "Gina?" he almost didn't recognize her because she actually looked good... well, almost. Having taken a shower or bath, Gina's hair was brushed straight back and, still having a wet sheen, it didn't look quite as brassy as it had earlier. She'd brushed her teeth and, though there was still a very noticeable stain between her teeth, the moss was gone. She had put makeup on, so in comparison to the pasty color her face had been that afternoon, Gina now looked radiantly healthy. The white, pleated skirt she wore was cinched tightly at the waist, giving definition to her slight hips. Unbuttoned three buttons down, the collar of Gina's mint-green, sleeveless blouse had purposely been left open revealing, nowhere near as much as Lisa, but... How's she do that? Mitchell could definitely see the soft contour of her breasts. Where'd all those tits come from? His mouth dropping open, "Gina! God!" he stammered. "You look great!" "Hey," hiding his mouth behind his hand, whispering in Mitchell's ear, "I tol'j'ya you'd be surprised 'bout the way she'd look tonight. Didn't I?" "Yeah!" Still looking at Gina, well, actually leering at Gina, knowing what was coming later, Mitchell sensed the familiar twitching in his crotch. "You look great, too, Mitch, uh," remembering, "Mario." The yellow shirt made his tan appear even darker and his teeth even whiter and, if anything, to Gina, Mitchell was handsomer now than he'd been earlier and, knowing what was coming later, contracting her vaginal muscle, thinking, Juicy-Lucy. Sensing a moistening in her crotch, "Yeah," she said, "we'd better get used to callin' you Mario now. An'..." looking from his face to the hollow of his throat, "you'd better take that off, too." Putting his hand to his throat, he held the mezuzah. "Yeah!" Frank said, "Even I forgot about callin' ya Mario, an' about that thing," pointing, "you'd better get rid of it."

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"Yeah, guess you're right." Obviously not wanting to, reluctantly pulling the chain over his head, he dropped it into his pocket. "Hey, I got an idea!" Opening her purse, removing the change purse, opening it, Lisa handed something to Mitchell. This was the very first time in his life that he'd touched one, let alone considered putting one on, and, holding it in the palm of his hand, he looked at it distastefully. "Yeah! Hey, that's a great idea, babe! Come on, Mitch, I'll help ya put it on." Anxiously, as though this were something he'd always wanted to do, taking it from his hand, "Bend down so's I can reach ya." Clasping it behind Mitchell's neck, "Hey, pal," standing back, looking at him, "now ya look like a double grade-A wop." His hand going to his neck, Mitchell attempted to smile but, the smile freezing on his lips, he fingered the small, gold crucifix for a second then let it drop where it lay against the hollow of his throat and fleeting thought of the vampire movies he'd seen, and the inevitable scene came to mind when someone pressed a crucifix, or a reasonable facsimile of a crucifix, against the vampire's forehead and the flesh smoked, singed, than burst into fire. This crucifix, now, felt to Mitchell as though it were burning the flesh of his throat. Mitchell Lipensky, though never ashamed, had never taken great pride in what he was. He'd never really given it much thought or taken the time to consider his ancestry or heritage. When he had been forced to go to Hebrew school he'd thought he hated being Jewish. But at that moment Mitchell realized that he was Jewish and knew, absolutely knew, that wearing a crucifix, for any reason was wrong. "No!" Looking at Frank, expecting understanding from his friend. "I can't wear this! I hope you understand, but if I do, then I'm doing something wrong." He looked at the girls. "I even feel funny taking my mezzuza off, but okay, I don't want any problem with the people here so I'll keep it off. I don't mean to insult you, but I just can't wear this!" He attempted to pull it over his head but the chain was not long enough so, reaching behind his neck, Mitchell fumbled with the small clasp. Thinking it would be an honor, looking at him in near disbelief, Frank and Lisa did not understand Mitchell's motive for not wanting to wear the crucifix. And yes, they did feel insulted. Oddly, "Mitchie," Gina--of the huge crucifix, which, thankfully, she wasn't wearing on this night--"I'm sorry," Gina said, standing in front of him. "Bend your head down an' I'll help ya take it off." Appreciating her help, "Thanks, Gina." Bending forward, he smelled the subdued fragrance of her cologne. "Okay, Mitch," Frank begrudgingly said, "guess maybe you're right... Hey, it's getting' late an' we're gonna have to stand in line there." Taking Lisa's hand beginning to walk at a brisk pace, within moments Frank and Lisa were a number of paces ahead of Gina and Mitchell. Looking at her over his shoulder, "Gina." "Yeah, Mitch?" Looking at him, their eyes locked. "I wanna thank you for what you did back there. It's hard to explain, but soon's I put the cross on, it made me feel... I don't know... it made me feel kind'a funny. Really, Gina, I don't mean nothin' against you guys, or your religion." "Yeah, I know ya didn't mean nothin', Mitch." Quiet a moment, "It's just that I think that when ya know what'j'ya are, ya gotta be what'j'ya are."

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Looking at her again, he understood that Gina was referring to herself, and the way she was, as much as she was referring to him and the way he was. Reaching to his right, taking hold of her hand, "You're a pretty good guy," he said seriously. They walked a few paces before, tightening her fingers around his, "In case ya ain't noticed, I ain't no guy." Squeezing her hand, "Yeah, Gina, believe me, I noticed!" ...Standing in the long line outside the theater, waiting to buy tickets, Frank's right! Mitchell thought. This is the third guy that's come over to talk to her. Seeing Gina, they'd leave their place in line and come to where they're standing. They would nod their hellos to Frank and Lisa as Gina proudly introduced Mitchell as, "Mario, this here's my friend, Marco," or Paulie, or Mike... And Marco, Paulie or Mike looked at him with obvious envy, made small talk for a moment, then returned to their places in line and the girls they'd left standing by themselves. * The lights in the theater dimmed, faded and went black. The talk and laughter subsided. Motion in color moved along the folds of the crimson curtain as it opened outward from the center. People cleared their throats, coughed, then, outside of the rustling of hundreds of bodies on movie theater seats, were silent. Sitting slouched in his seat, fully absorbed, Mitchell was staring intently at the screen when, reaching across with her right hand, taking hold of his right hand, forcing him to sit up higher, Gina lifted it over her shoulder and around her neck. Looking at her briefly, he gladly moved closer. The beautiful golden fawn ran through the woods... His right hand now held with both of her hands. ...and bounded into a sun-lit clearing... Gina moved his hand from her shoulder onto her chest. ...and to the shore of a sparkling blue, mountain lake.... Covering the V of her blouse with her left hand, she led his hand through the opening. "...Flag!" The boy, Jody, called to the fawn... Her index finger over his index finger, moving the first two joints of her finger, she moved the first two joints of his finger in a small, tight circle. ...As Jody came through the woods into the clearing he saw the fawn... He felt something. Looking to his right, Oh, God! he realized that his hand, under her hand, was on her breast. And, Oh, God! that his finger, under her finger, was circling the aureole of her nipple. ...standing silhouetted against...

BECOMING Becoming hard, the flat circle of Gina's flesh erected. ...azure sky...

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Aware, Oh, God! of what he was touching, becoming hard, the soft cylinder of Mitchell's flesh also began to erect, as... ...and reflected... Squeezing, he gently palpated the wondrous softness in the palm of his hand. ...on the... Leaning closer, looking at her, he stretched his arm further. ...blue water. In the semi-darkness of the theater, with muted tones of Technicolor light playing across her flesh, softening the hard angles of her face, amazed at the transformation, feeling a binding in his heart, How come I didn't notice before? She is pretty, and I do like her, and I'm gonna get fucked tonight! Straining against the armrest that separated their two seats, forgetting there were people about, a whole theater of people about, holding Gina's breast, kneading the soft flesh of Gina's breast, turning her face to his with his free hand, bringing his mouth to her mouth he kissed her and now, without a hint of hesitation, Mitchell's tongue pushed through Gina's lips, beyond her teeth and into her mouth... Breaking the long kiss, "Whew," Gina whispered. "Cool off, baby." Sitting back in her seat, taking his hand from beneath her blouse and brassiere, placing it back on her shoulder, sitting straight up, "Be a good boy, Mitchie," she said, primly folding her hands on her lap. "Watch the movie." He didn't know why she'd moved his hand, but sure liked it better where it had been and after a minute, moving it from her shoulder, he put his hand onto her chest, then it slipped beneath her brassiere. "Mitchie," motioning for him to move his head closer, whispering, "watch the movie." Flicking the inside of his ear with her tongue--causing a shiver to run up his spine--as, once again moving his hand from her breast, Gina placed it back onto her shoulder. Looking at her in profile, taking his hand from her shoulder, he placed it onto the armrest... then onto her thigh, and within a few seconds began to rub her thigh, moving his hand in an ever-widening circular motion, working his way inward, and upward. Covering his hand with both of her hands so the lady sitting next to her could not see what he was doing, slouching lower, Gina crossed her legs. He felt the heat generated from her thighs and pubis... And she allowed his hand to remain there... just long enough to realize that he'd reached his goal, then, lifting it over the armrest, putting his hand onto his lap, holding it there, "Later." she whispered. Later! "Later." Having whispering the provocative word, like the gloating fisherman who'd finally hooked an elusive

BECOMING fish, sitting back, Gina thoroughly enjoyed the movie, and also Mitchell's squirming. * "That was a great movie!" In the jammed aisle, pressed in the crowd of exiting people. "Yeah, it sure was!" Into the well-lit foyer. "You girls hungry?" Outside, beneath the brilliantly glaring light bulbs of the theater marquee. "Yeah, Frankie, I could eat a cow." Taking Mitchell's arm, pressing it against her side, Gina tightened the slack on the line of the circling fish...

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A somewhat fickle fish, because, again, Mitchell felt all eyes were on him, and on this girl. This girl that just a short while ago had actually looked pretty, but now, in the harsh, cold light of thousands of unfrosted light bulbs, Gina had, once again, been transformed into the sharp-faced, pale-skinned specter she'd been earlier and, pulling his arm free, bending down, pretending to retie a shoelace, the fish spit the hook out. Walking four abreast on the wide sidewalk, flanked by Gina on the far inside and Mitchell on the far outside, Lisa and Frank walked arm-in-arm. What'd I do wrong? Gina wondered. Did I hold him off too long? She'd played the eternal female game any number of times in the past and it had always worked before: her, getting him--whoever the him of the moment was--worked into a state of sexual expectation, then she'd back away and play hard to get for a while, and by that time, usually, the guy would be completely subservient and willing to do anything she'd asked. Once, though, Gina had lost all control and had gotten it roughly in a dark alley, standing painfully wedged between a telephone pole and a brick wall. Even so, she had understood the boy's uncontrollable need, and as frightening as it was, it was also exciting to know that she was the cause of that need. This technique did two things for Gina: it assured her that she'd have sexual gratification--or at least the attention she so desperately craved--and also it eased her conscience over her often uncontrollable promiscuity. Gina Glambos knew that she was not pretty, or even cute, but when she was with a boy, almost any boy, the boy usually treated her as though she were his bambina and the most beautiful girl in the world. She loved the affection and closeness, but mostly loved the control the sexual act usually gave her. But could not understand Mitchell. Different from any boy she'd ever been with, from the moment she'd seen him, from the moment she'd been with him, she'd wanted nothing more than for Mitchell to desire her as she desired him. In Lisa's bedroom, after she'd finally been able to warm him up, before he'd gotten sick, she had been hot, much hotter than at most other times with most other boys.

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Drawn to his unpretentious good looks and innocence, Gina knew that he was wholly inexperienced with girls because Frank had told her so. But even so, she found it hard to believe that any boy that looked as good as Mitchell wouldn't have a dozen girls throwing themselves at him. Maybe they're different where he lives. Nah, they can't be all that different! But yet, Maybe so. Maybe they're snobbish. Maybe he doesn't realize just how good looking he is. Or maybe he really is that shy. Whatever the reason... Maybe, because he was not turned on by her, Gina was turned on by him, and by the time she'd finally gotten him undressed and, literally, into her hands, his strange-feeling penis had made her even more passionate. Gina had thought she had him panting in the theater, and she did, then. Now, though, it was as it had been when they'd first met. Gina had been reversed on: She was supposed to be standoffish with him doing the panting, instead, he was being standoffish and she was doing the panting. With Gina Glambos it was a game she was compelled to play. With Mitchell Lipensky, as anxious as he was to actually see the genitalia of a girl, and, of course, to have intercourse, unlike the "any port in a storm" mentality of most other guys, on that day Mitchell Lipensky had discovered that he must have some semblance of affection for the girl. And at that moment he was not attracted to Gina, and, he thought, The girls I can get I don't want. And, so he thought, The girls I want, like Amy Pearlman, I can't get... So he thought, Sure, at Lisa's, after a while I did want to fuck Gina. But I'd been drinking lots'a wine and got drunk and her tits and ass felt so nice and, God, the way it felt when she touched me... there. Sure, in the movie it felt great touching her tits. But she looked much nicer then... Wait a minute, what's changed? Leaning forward, looking across Frank and Lisa to Gina, She looks real lonely, and--away from the harsh lights of the movie marquee--she don't look so bad now, and we're gonna be alone again. So, what the hell! And--well, maybe somewhat of an "any port in a storm" mentality, and--dropping back a step, crossing behind Lisa and Frank, "Hi!" he smiled at Gina. "Hi!" Gina smiled back. * "Where'd they come from?" Mitchell asked, almost to himself, but loud enough for Frank, who was sitting next to him to hear. "Huh?" At White Castle, in a white room, eating hamburgers, munching on French fries and attempting to draw thick milk shakes through white straws, the boys were on one side of a white, plastic booth and the girls on the other. Mitchell laughed. "What's so funny, Mitchie?" "Gina, believe me, you wouldn't wanna know." "Yeah, I would." Reaching across the table, playfully punching him on the shoulder, "Come on! What's so funny?" "You sure you wanna know? You won't be mad?" "Mitchie, baby, would I ever be mad at'j'ya?" "Well," hesitating as he looked into her lovely, blue eyes, "okay... Gina, you didn't have 'em when I first met'j'ya. You had 'em tonight when I first saw you, but then you didn't have 'em in the movie when you let

BECOMING me, uh, you know," looking at her chest, "but you sure as hell got 'em now!" "Mitch," laughing, talking around a mouthful of hamburger, "what the hell ya talkin' 'bout?" "Frankie, look at her! You notice anything different?" Frank and Lisa stared and, suddenly embarrassed, Gina blushed. "Can't you see?" Mitchell said. "Don't you notice?" Bewildered, Frank and Lisa shrugged their shoulders. Pulling Frank's head closer to his, covering his mouth, Mitchell whispered in his ear. "Jesus, Mitch!" Laughing. "That's what's botherin' ya?" "Le'me in on it, guys! What's so funny?"

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"Gina," holding laughter back, trying to look serious, "Mitchie don't know how's come ya suddenly got..." his laughter breaking through, "tits!" "That's what's botherin' ya?" Glancing about the room to be sure none of the other patrons are looking in their direction, reaching in her blouse, Gina withdrew her closed hand and, reaching across the table, "Here!" attempted to put her hand into his, but he hesitated. "Mitch, go on, take it! It won't bite'j'ya!" She giggled. "An' if it does, it'll be the first time in history one of 'em ever did." "Okay." Reluctantly loosening his hand, he allowed her hand onto his. Opening her fingers, withdrawing her hand, the compacted pyramid of foam rubber, as though suddenly animated, sprung off Mitchell's palm, did a somersault and landed, pointy-end down, into a blob of catsup on the corner of his hamburger wrapper. "Falsies! Ain't'j'ya never seen a falsie?" Looking from the cone of pink foam rubber that was sitting in his catsup, up at Gina, then back to his hamburger wrapper, "Oy, gevalt! Falsies? They're falsies!" All eyes looked at the cone-shaped thing sitting amidst French fries and catsup... Suddenly the entire table burst into a gale of laughter. "Better bury the poor thing." Lisa said, dropping a napkin over it. Looking at Gina, whose chest was all but flat on one side and well pronounced on the other, "Better take the other one out; you look kind'a lop..." breaking into renewed laughter, "...sided." Mitchell picked the falsie out of the catsup, wrapped it in a clean napkin and handed it to her. "Yeah, thanks." Reaching into her blouse, Gina removed the other foam rubber pad and, noting that he was watching her every movement, closely, put both into her purse. "...Shit!" Pointing to the lit window on the third floor, "My ol' lady's home! Shit!"

BECOMING Feeling his heart drop, as though confirming what he absolutely did not want confirmed, "Your mother's home?" "Yeah." Looking at Mitchell, "They must'a let her outta the late shift. Shit!" "Hey, I got an idea! Why don't we go to the park?" "Oh, yeah, sure, Frankie, that's all I gotta do, is come home with grass stains all over this here white skirt! Goddamn 'er!"

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Not merely disappointed, "There's gotta be someplace we can go!" Actually, downright desperate, "Can we get together tomorrow?" "Ain't no place to go to on Sunday, Mitchie, less'n ya got a car. An' anyway, I gotta go to church in the mornin' an' then I gotta go with my ol' lady to visit her goddamned brother." "So, when'll you be through?" "Too late. We always stay for supper, an' I gotta be dyin' to get out of it. An' even if I am dyin', my ol' lady has a shit-fit! Tomorrow ain't a good day. Shit! When'r ya goin' home?" "Tomorrow evening, I guess." "You can always come back again another time, can't'j'ya?" "Hey, Gina," Frank said, "I got an idea! Why don't'j'ya have Mitch walk you into the hallway? Lisa'n'me ain't in no hurry." Winking at her conspiratorially, he sat on a step. "Go on, take your time." "Yeah!" Sitting next to Frank. "Frankie'n'me'll wait." "Yeah! Why didn't I think'a that?" Taking his hand, "Come on, Mitch." She led him up the steps, through the cracked, frosted plate glass door, to a dark alcove under the stairwell. Anyone coming down the stairs or entering into the building would purposely have to go out of their way to see into the hidden alcove. "It ain't a nice cozy bed, but it sure's better'n nothin'!" Rubbing her body against his body, putting her mouth to his mouth, the tip of her tongue brushed his lips, then met with his tongue... "Mmmm, Mitchie, you get a boner faster'n any one I know." Taking this as a compliment, which it was, "Yeah, thanks." His hands, having found their way beneath her blouse, fumbled with the clasp of her brassiere, then thinking it too complicated, about to lift the cups over her breasts... "Wait, Mitchie." Reaching behind her back, unclasping the brassiere, Gina's breasts fell free and instantly... Oh, God! The double warmth filled his hands. Pulling back a bit, "Wait, Mitchie, don't wrinkle me." Gina unbuttoned her blouse, giving him time to unbutton his pants and to work his engorged penis through the overlapping slit of his Jockey shorts and the fly of his slacks.

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Coming together again, feeling him rigidly poking against her, "You ain't so shy anymore, are you, baby." They kissed and, holding him, playing her thumb over the still-strange spearhead of his glans, "Mitchie, I love the way your dick feels!" No longer benumbed with wine, the touch of her cool hand on his penis exciting him almost beyond comprehension, tasting the taste of her flesh, touching his tongue to the hardened cone of her nipple, "And I love the way your tits taste." Kissing. Fondling. Tasting. In the shadowy triangle of this hidden alcove, skinny, homely, Gina Glambos became the living incarnation of all the girls his imagination--and hand--ever allowed Mitchell Lipensky to make love to. Lifting the back of her skirt and slip, reaching beneath the band of her underpants, he held the soft warmth of her buttocks, then stretching downward his finger touched the puckered orifice of her rectum, only, though, till he realized what it was he was touching then quickly, stretching further he touched, parted and easily slid his finger through the warm, very warm, wet, lower furrow of Gina's, "Mmmm, Gina!" vagina. The taste of her breast, the feel of her wetness, the wonder of her touch combined to cause a burning urgency and he began to pump within the heavenly constraint of Gina's hand, and... Suddenly he was out of her hand and she slipped from his hand and, "Oh, God!" he stood perfectly still... savoring the erotically delicious draw and release pressure of her mouth, and the flicking play of her tongue. Squatting, Gina's thighs were spread and her vagina was open to her hand, and as the pressure of her mouth tightened and loosened over and around his penis, keeping time with the movement of her mouth, Gina's fingers played over her clitoris and into the channel of her vagina.... Tight, loose. In, out. Up, down. Tight, loose. In, out.... Now! Oh, God! Now! He knew he was about to ejaculate and tried, feebly, to pull from her mouth, but... Feeling his flimsy effort, knowing Mitchell was about to ejaculate, tightening her lips, increasing the draw and release pressure Gina pressed him harder against the wall. "Gina, I'm..." All semblance of willpower gone, "Oh, God!" Apart, spasm following spasm, Gina and Mitchell orgasmed together, till... When nothing was left, when the orgasmic itch, tug and release in her ovaries subsided, when the flow of his semen stopped, when his blood-engorged penis softened and wilted... "Whew!" Standing, "That was nice." she said, then added, "J'ya like it, Mitchie?" Did I like it? He didn't know how to respond to "did you like it," even if he had the breath to say yes, yes wasn't near enough so, "Mmmm!" "Yeah, baby, 'Mmmm's right! An' ya know what?" His breath and sensibilities near normal, "What?" "You taste good, Mitchie. Real good!" That... stuff tastes good! he thought. That tastes real good?

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"You taste good, Mitchie. Real good!" Was not the right thing to say to Mitchell because the thought of Gina swallowing his semen made him slightly ill and also, as his penis shrunk so then did his affection... Whatever affection he'd felt for Gina shrank along with his penis, and having absolutely no idea of how to respond to "You taste good, Mitchie. Real good." So saying nothing, Mitchell buttoned his fly. "Mitchie, I wanna tell ya somethin'." She hesitated. "I don't do that... you know, that, that I just did to you, with just any guy. I gotta like a guy a lot to do that to him." When he didn't respond, she added, "You believe me, don't'j'ya?" "Yeah, sure, I do" he said, but really didn't. "Thanks for doin', uh, it, with me." "Yeah, Mitchie, you're welcome." "Look, Gina. Frank'n'Lisa's been waitin' for me an' we've been in here kind of a long time an' I better get goin'." Coming out of the alcove, he went to the door. "Mitchie!" "Yeah?" His hand on the doorknob, he turned around. "Somethin' I been wantin' to tell ya... I think it was real cute, you bringin' that Captain Midnight ring so's you'd have an excuse to get me into the bedroom." "Uh, it was really Frank's..." "An' from now on, whenever I hear Captain Midnight on the radio I'm gonna think'a you. Ya know why?" Captain Midnight had been off the radio for years, but, "No, why?" he asked anyway. "'Cause you're so good-lookin' ya look like a hero, an' you remind me of him... Captain Midnight." Not sure if a mere thank you was enough for this type of compliment, "Thank you." Standing on opposite sides of the hallway, Gina Glambos and Mitchell Lipensky looked at each other in the muted light of the cracked, frosted plate-glass door. Wanting to say something, "Mitchie, I, uh..." starting to say something, instead, her face contorting as though she were about to cry, turning abruptly, running, Gina started up the stairs. Listening to the hollow sound of her receding footsteps on the bare, wooden stairs, Mitchell suddenly realized that Gina had given him something... She'd given him...? Gina had given him an erotic, physical contact that up to this time Mitchell had only been able to dream of, and he knew that he would always remember this night, and this girl. Also feeling a need to say something, "Gina, thanks!" Waiting for an answer, he heard the sounds of far off, receding footsteps, then silence, and a moment later the slamming of a distant door, and with the slamming of the door a deep sadness overtook him. Trying to rid himself of this sudden depression, Well, he thought, I didn't get fucked, an' I never even got to see what a cunt looks like, but a blow-job ain't too bad... An', tweaking his ego, I remind her of Captain

BECOMING Midnight. Forcing himself to smile, "Hi!" Mitchell opened the cracked, frosted plate-glass door. 20 The Conversation June 20, 1948 "Normie, hi!" "Mitch! When'd you get back?" "Yesterday. They had a surprise birthday party for my uncle Al at his home an' I went there right from the streetcar." "You said you'd call an' tell me 'bout it! So? J'ya get laid?"

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"Well, no, not exactly... Hold on." Taking the phone with him, walking to the doorway, he looked to see if his mother was still in the kitchen, out of ear range. Coming back, he stretched the phone as far as the line allowed and sat on the windowsill overlooking the alley. "But I did get..." whispering, "a blow-job." "You got a blow job!" Obviously no one was home at the Parminter house. "No Shit! A blow job!" This was legendary stuff. "Wow! How was it? Was she pretty? How's she look? God, it had'a be great!" "Yeah..." Actually, when he thought about it, the entire visit seemed more a dream than reality. "It was a real learning experience, but I can't talk about it right now. You know, big birds got big ears." "Your ma's there, huh? So, she tell you?" "Yeah, well, she ain't in the room with me. Tell me what?" "I ain't supposed to say." "You ain't supposed to say what? What's goin' on?" "She don't want me to say 'cause she don't want you to know till she finds out if one's available." "She don't want me to know what?" Mitchell asked. "An' if what's available?" "Okay," hesitant, "but don't say nothin' 'bout it till she tells you, okay?" "Yeah, okay!" "Okay..." Teasing him. "No, I better not." "Normie, I'll kill you if you don't tell me..." Lowering his voice, "What the hell you're talkin' 'bout!" "Okay! But don't tell your ma I tol'j'ya!" "Okay, okay, I won't tell her! So tell me already!"

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"Okay! Your ma asked my ma, an' my ma wasn't supposed to tell me but it slipped out an' she did an' I ain't supposed to tell you, but I guess I'm gonna... You sure you wanna hear this, Mitch?" "Norman, stop babbling an' tell me what the hell you're talkin' 'bout!" "Okay. You remember last August when we went to Union Pier?" It had been miserably hot, "Yeah," and he'd missed his friend badly. "Well, while you were visiting your ol' pal Frankie an' getting' blow jobs all over the place, your ma called my ma an' asked about it, an' my ma slipped an' told me your ma did an I ain't supposed to tell you!" "Shit, Norman!" He looked to see if Myra had heard, but apparently she hadn't. Lowering his voice, "Tell me already!" "Yeah, yeah, yeah! Anyway, she's checkin' to see if she can find a cottage, an' if she can, you'n'Larry'n'your ma'll stay an' your dad'll drive out on Friday an' go back on Monday." "No..." catching himself, "shit! That'll be great! Hey, Norm, I just got an idea!" Ever since he'd tried talking him into sneaking into the girl's toilet at Hebrew school, Norman had been skeptical of Mitchell's ideas. "Yeah," he asked suspiciously, "what's that?" "You know the war surplus store over on Twelfth Street?" "Sure." Knowing what Mitchell was thinking, "Yeah, the..." Whenever they went to a movie on Twelfth Street, if the store was open, they would go in and look at the proprietor's collection of antique and modern handguns, then, because most of the things in this store were of interest to teenage boys, browse around. The Twelfth Street War Surplus Store was packed to overflowing with war surplus from walkie-talkies to camouflaged pup tents and, hanging from wires in the ceiling, three different sizes of navy surplus, inflatable... "...Life rafts!" Norman yelled in the phone. "Yeah! Why don't we go over later to see what one costs." "Good idea!" Then almost as an afterthought, "You got any money, Mitch?" "No... Yeah, about four bits left from my trip." "Fifty cents ain't gonna buy much, Mitch." "Yeah, but I've been thinkin'." "Uh-oh! When Lipensky thinks, Parminter gets into trouble." "Nah, it ain't nothin' that'll get you into trouble. You know how you'n'me worked out ass's off so's our moms could have Bar Mitzvahs?" "Yeah."

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"So tell me, Norm, j'you get anything out of it? Did you even see one lousy cent out of all that Bar mitzvah gelt we got?" "You kiddin'? No! I sure as hell didn't!" "Bet your ass you didn't, an' me neither! I bet, I just bet if we tell our dads--not our moms, but our dads--that you'n'me wanna go partners on a navy surplus raft, an' when they come out for weekends they can use it to, uh, go fishin'." "My Pa don't fish." "Yeah, mine, too. But I bet if we tell 'em they can take the raft out an' drop the anchor an' have a beer an' just snooze, you know, away from people..." "Like nudnik [pesty] wives who always nudge 'em to do stuff on their days off." "Yeah, just like!" "Yeah! If we tell 'em we'll be partners an' it won't cost 'em a penny, I'll bet they'll give us enough of..." "Our own money to pay for it." "Yeah! That's what I think, too!" 21 The VacationUnion Pier, Michigan... August, 1949 Slightly more than a hundred miles southeast of Chicago, Union Pier had been developed after the turn of the century as a restricted summer vacation area for wealthy Chicagoans trying to escape that city's extreme humidity and high summer temperatures. Affluent businessmen from the Gold Coast and South Shore would deposit their families in their mansions or costly hotel suites for the unbearably hot months of June, July, August and September. They would then commute by car or train on a daily basis, or weekly, arriving in Union Pier on Friday and returning to their offices or factories on Monday. The 18th amendment became law in 1920. With prohibition the law of the land, Chicago bootleggers needed a safe port for the importation of illicit liquor from neighboring Canada. Miles from Michigan City, Indiana, its largest neighboring city, already boasting an existing pier, and also having easily-bribed local officials, Union Pier became an excellent location for this illicit activity. The area boomed... until the great depression of the late twenties forced most of the property into foreclosure. Union Pier sat fallow until the late thirties and, in 1941, the advent of World War Two.

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With the economy on a rapid upswing, big city speculators purchased most of the property for pennies on the dollar that were sold by bankers only too anxious to finally get these properties off their books. The weathered, then shabby, mansions were quickly converted to boarding hotels. Acres of previously well-manicured lawns and tree-covered lots were made into groves of cheaply constructed cottages, and the area, once restricted to Jews, became the vacation place primarily for the lower and upper-middle class Jews of Chicago, Benton Harbor, Detroit and as far away as Windsor, Canada. The Old Highway began at the recently widened New Highway just north of the Union Pier Bowl and ran west for a quarter mile before angling northeast, following the shoreline for better than three miles into neighboring Lakeside. Once past the bowling alley there was a one-story, wood-frame building, the Union Pier Business Center, consisting of a grocery store; a gift, novelty and drug store; and a real estate office. Just beyond the business center was a narrow, rutted road that lead to the Palladium. Besides the bowling alley, the Palladium's rows of clanging pinball machines and its open dance floor was the only entertainment in town. Another dirt road, angling to the north, went about a quarter mile from the Palladium to merge with the black-topped Old Highway a half-mile north of the Old and New highway junction, actually making a quarter mile shortcut for anyone coming from Union Pier or Lakeside to shop at the business center, go to the Palladium or the bowling alley, or wait for the Greyhound bus that stopped in front of Union Pier Bowl. Larger boarding hotels on the lake side, and tree-lined groves of cottages on the land side, followed one after the other on the old, two-lane highway. With the exception of a few hardy gentile families, in winter the entire area was desolate and all but totally isolated. Due to a last minute cancellation, Myra Lipensky was able to rent a cottage that was even closer to the public entrance to the beach than the Parminter cottage. Public entrance meaning a weed-choked, not-too-steeply sloped path that had been etched by years of usage out of the high sand, weed and tangled-bush embankment that followed the shoreline mile after mile. Within a grove of twelve furnished cottages, the Lipensky cottage had a moderately large kitchen/living/dining room combination, two small bedrooms, a bathroom with a shower stall only and a porch. The furniture consisted of a scarred wooden table and six rickety, reed-covered chairs, and a flaking set of mismatched, white wicker furniture consisting of a sofa, two armchairs and a coffee table. The burners of the stove and oven had to be lit with a match each time they were used. The once-white porcelain sink had been scrubbed gray by thousands of steel-wool pads. The old-fashioned, high-domed refrigerator had a wooden wedge shoved beneath one leg to keep it from rattling. The bedrooms each had twin beds and badly marred, cigarette-burned dressers. The fully-screened porch faced the road, and had roll-up, orange- and brown-stripped canvas curtains to help keep the wind and rain out, and to assure privacy for anyone wanting to sleep outside. Unless it became unseasonably cold, both Mitchell and then-five-year-old Lawrence planned on sleeping on roll-up cots outside. August 3, 1949 With the orange, five-man war surplus, rubber and canvas raft perched atop their heads, looking much like a four-legged caterpillar, they made their way across the old highway, turned right and went forty yards. "Ow!" "Ouch!" stepping on unseen rocks, stones and occasional bottle caps, to the path leading down to the beach. "Ohh!" "Jeeze!" Fighting gravity, hanging onto the quarter-inch line that ran around the circumference of the raft, "Oh!" "Shit!" as sharp-leafed weeds cut at their toes and legs. "Aie!" "Jesus!" Running across the scorching sand as the wind tugged at the top-heavy, inflatable raft. "Ahh!" "Ahh!" Splashing into the cool

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lapping water, the raft, with its two metal oars held snugly under the compartmental, middle air-filled seat, was lifted off their heads in unison and flipped, landing right side up in the water of Lake Michigan. It was 10:45 a.m., and the start of the third day of the anxiously awaited Lipensky/Parminter vacation. His nose red and peeling, wearing a blue, boxer-style bathing suit, Norman's shoulders and back were burnt from the two previous days of continuous, unaccustomed sunshine on his light-complected skin. Mitchell wore a yellow, brief-type bathing suit that showed in deep contrast to his already well-tanned body. The boys had spent the first two days on the raft they'd bought with $17.50 each, coming from their Bar Mitzvah gelt that finally, with the help of their fathers, they were able to wheedle out of their tight-fisted mothers. Sitting canoe style, one boy on either side of the raft with their outboard legs dangling in the warm water, they'd explored, paddling to the south, staying in water no deeper than needed to clear the oars so that they might better find what they were so hungrily searching for... What else? Girls! Paddling till they'd spotted what looked like unaccompanied girls of their approximate age, they rowed ashore, pulled the raft onto the beach and, nonchalantly--so they thought--ambled toward their female prey, who were unaware--so they thought--of their approach. Mitchell was far the better looking of the two, but still shy, found it hard to get a conversation started with an unknown girl. Norman, on the other hand, was clever and glib and more easily able to break the ice. Going south the first two days, the boys had gone ashore nineteen times and the girls had been either too young, too old, or not pretty enough, and besides, the scene changed constantly and just because their "dream boats" weren't there on the outgoing trip didn't mean they wouldn't be on the beach when they rowed back in a few hours, so why tie yourself down with anything less than what you really want? Which was, what else, but a long-legged, big-busted Miss Jewish America of 1949... or a fairly reasonable facsimile. On this day, the third at Union Pier, they planned to explore north, towards the unknown. Taking his glasses off, Norman put them into one of the provision pockets stitched onto the raft and snapped the pocket shut. Thinking he looked better without glasses during these expeditions, although a strain on his eyes, he preferred not wearing them just in case he should meet a girl he'd like to impress. In daylight, without glasses, Norman's eyes were a striking light gray, and in just the two days he'd been in it, the sun had bleached his hair from dark blonde to a kind of streaky platinum. The mothers had been sitting on lawn chairs on the Lipensky lawn when the boys had returned the previous evening. Carrying the raft, their heads had been hidden, and when they'd dropped it on the grass, "Vey-is-mere, they look like goys! Your Mitchell looks like a shvartzer," Ida had laughed, "and my Norman looks like a Swede." If they should meet girls, they did not want to be taken for shaygets [gentiles], and shunned, so, to be on the safe side, Mitchell, as always, wore his mezzuza, and Norman, who rarely wore any type of jewelry due to his delicate skin, had a silver chain with a Star of David about his neck. Pulling the raft ashore, the boys swam for a few minutes to cool off, then dragged the raft back into the water

BECOMING and jumped aboard. Peace

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Straddling the tubular, semi-hard rubberized canvas, Norman sat on the starboard side and Mitchell port. Their outboard legs dangled in the water while their inboard legs, stretched forward, rested on the raft. In the direction they traveled, at that time of day the sun was behind them, shining pleasantly on their backs. Paddling leisurely, the boys enjoyed the heat of the sun and the gentle bobbing motion of the raft on the water. Mitchell felt the heat on his back and the right side of his face. He looked at the dark-brown skin of his thigh, still glistening with water, and at his stomach, darker where the wet flesh creased horizontally along either side of his navel, and at his upper arms. As the oar dipped in the water and was drawn back his biceps swelled and contracted with each pull and release. The water was a dusky, greenish-blue, the sand at the water's edge dark-brown, and higher, away from the lapping water, a light, golden-beige. The shrubbery on the embankment was brilliant green, the sky, radiant blue, and the clouds as white and feathery as tufts of pure white cotton The oar in his hands cut through the water as though moving by its own volition. Breathing through his nostrils, he sensed the aroma of sand, of water, and the green growth. The gentle onshore breeze skimmed warm water from the surface of the lake, bringing it inshore... to him. Mesmerized by the all-enveloping beauty, the totality of what he felt, saw and sensed seemed too beautiful to be real and Mitchell felt as though he were living in a surrealistic dream. Parting his lips, breathing through his mouth, he drew the sun-warmed, sea-cooled air deeply into his lungs. He felt the hot sun and the tepid water. He saw the sky, clouds, sand and shrubbery. He sensed the sweet odors of life about him and felt...? What? Closing his eyes, the motion of the raft tranquilized him. The tepid water caressed him. The soft air kissed him, and... Mitchell Lipensky had no way of knowing, but that very minute--that very moment--was the pinnacle and at no time in his life would he feel what he felt as strongly as at that exact time... He knew nothing of death; those he loved were all alive. He knew nothing of the pain of lost love. He knew not of debt.

BECOMING The war was a memory. His country... America was a peace. He'd made no mistakes... no mistakes of consequence. His parents were together; his family intact. There was nothing he needed--really needed--that he didn't have. The roads to his life were fully open to him.

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Mitchell Lipensky looked about the beautiful world that encompassed him and felt the wonder of his strength. The wonder of his youth. Mitchell pulled the oar through the water and felt the miracle that, possibly, might be felt only by the very young, or the very innocent. Peace. 22 Marsha August, 1949 Skirting the remnants of puddles left on the Old Highway by a fast moving summer storm, the boys heard the jumble of noise long before reaching the dirt road turnoff to the Palladium. Coming closer, the sounds became more distinct: kids calling, laughter, the raucous clanging of pinball machines, Rosemary Clooney blaring through the juke box, "Come on'a ma house, ma house'a come on..." * ...The fifth steel ball rolled through the spring barrier, hit a rubber guard, bounced off, hit another guard, rolled into a hole, was ejected and rolled striking the left flipper where Mitchell pushed the button, moving the flipper, hitting the ball, sending it careening across the board where it was hit by the flipper on the right, rolled into another hole and was pushed out to continue its journey down the angled plane as numbers flashed and changed with lightning speed on the gaudy glass display--12,300, 12,500, 12,700--and rolled into the corral alongside its four gleaming quadruplets. "Norm," looking around, "see anything interesting?" Nodding his head to the right, "Yeah," Norman said, "there's a couple that look pretty good." Mitchell looked over his shoulder at two girls playing the Captain Kidd machine. "Yeah, they do! We wanna meet 'em?" "I think it's about time we met someone! Come on." Walking towards the girls with Mitchell following a step behind, not wanting to interfere with their game, standing a foot or two from the machine, "Hi!" Norman said.

BECOMING "Hi!" The girl waiting her turn to play smiled.

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The girl was about five-five, had short, frizzy, reddish hair and a brace of freckles that ran across her nose onto her red, sunburned cheeks. She had a cute, elfin face and was wearing a white, short-sleeved man's shirt, blue jeans cut off at the knees, and sandals. Dong! Dong! Dong! Racking up points--33,500, 38,000, 42,000--the steel ball sat in the hole for what seemed a very long time before it was poked out. The game display showed seven games. "Hey, you're pretty good at this!" Glancing at Mitchell, the girl smiled, then returned her concentration to the rolling silver ball. "Shhh," bringing her hand conspiratorially to the side of her mouth, the first girl whispered, "It's broken, and we've been here for an hour and a half." "All for a nickel?" "Yeah," she laughed, "all for a nickel." "I'm Norm, and this is Mitch." "Hi, Norm, Mitch," looking from Norman to Mitchell and back to Norman. "I'm Shelly and this is..." The fifth ball rolled into the pen. The machine went dark a moment, then lit up again and the number in the game display changed from seven to ten. Turning from the pinball machine, she looked at Mitchell. The girl was tall and thin. She had a sharp widow's peak and short, tightly curled black hair. Darkly tanned, her complexion was perfectly smooth. Her eyes were dark brown and, having a slightly long nose, reminding Mitchell of a picture he'd seen of a Sabra, a native-born Israeli, her face Semitically beautiful. With the exception of bobby socks and penny loafers, she wore a matching outfit to Shelly's. "...Marsha." Shelly said. "Marcy, this is Norm and Mitch." "Hi!" She glanced at Norman, then quickly back to Mitchell. The two looked at each other for one, two, three long moments then, "You guys want to play a game?" she asked. "Nah," Mitchell said. "It's okay; you keep playing." Marsha stepped aside. "Come on, I'm getting tired of winning anyway." Tugging on Mitchell's arm, she urged him to the front of the machine. "Go on, play! You can't lose." "Well," he said reluctantly, "okay, but I'm not so hot at pinball." "Haven't seen you guys before, "Shelly said, looking at Norman. "When'd you get here?" "On the first. We've been here since Monday, three days now. How's 'bout you? When'd you get here?"

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"Actually, we came out over Memorial Day, to get the cottages cleaned and the electricity and gas turned on, then went back to Chicago and came back here after school let out." "You guys own your own cottages, and you come here all summer! Wow! No wonder you're so good at pinball." Mitchell said jokingly. "Yeah," Marsha replied, "so long's the machine's broken." "When it's cold or rainy," Shelly said, "it really gets boring here, and by the time summer's over, I'm just as glad to go home." Frowning, "Not me! I love it here! Labor Day is the worst day of the year for me. And I don't even like the Fourth of July too much because from then I can start counting the days till summer's over." Feeling much the same way, glad to have at least that much in common with Marsha, "Yeah, me, too." Remembering last summer, thinking he felt pretty much the same as Shelly, "I was here last year," Norman said, "but this is Mitch's first time." ...Stretching, "I'm getting tired of this." Marsha yawned. "It's no fun if you know you're always going to win. Let's go over to the bowling alley and see who's around." Nodding her agreement, "Yeah," Shelly concurred. "This is getting boring." Thinking the girls intended to leave without them, the smiles left the boy's faces, but noticing, taking Norman's hand, "You guys come on with us." Shelly led him across the dance floor. Reaching over the Captain Kidd machine, "You, too!" Feeling a mental jolt, Mitchell's hand closed around hers. Once outside, Marsha reluctantly opened her hand, and Mitchell's hand, reluctantly, fell to his side. The air was balmy and the sky clear, and the rutted dirt road was well lit by brilliant moonlight and millions of shining stars. Alone for the moment, neither knew what to say. Looking for conversation, "Where do you and Norman live?" Knowing what she meant, glancing at Marsha over his shoulder, "On the west side." "The 'west side'!" Marsha said facetiously. There was a kind of class rivalry between the Jews living on the west side and the generally more affluent north-siders. More than just slightly intimidated by the fact that Marsha's parents could afford to own their own cottage, becoming defensive, "Yeah," Mitchell said rather gruffly, "On the west side!" "Oh, Mitch, no!" Taking his hand, "I'm just teasing." Happy for the opportunity to hold her hand again, ashamed because he'd jumped at her, "I know that."

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"In a pawn shop, round the corner, in Pittsburgh Penn-syl-vania!" Music from the jukebox in the Bowl Bar could be heard before they came off the connector road. In a vain effort to get beyond the invisible barrier and into the enticing light inside, smaller flying bugs and giant gypsy moths fluttered and slammed onto the double screen doors that opened into the Union Pier Bowl. The boys, bravely, for the girls, brushed the bugs off one of the doors and held it open. Inside, the thunderous sounds of heavy balls rolling across varnished hardwood and the loud clatter of falling pins joined with the music from the bar, the laughter, the talking, and the shrieks of people to make a cacophony of sound. Intimidated by this older crowd, the boys tried to hold back as Marsha and, "Come on, Norm!" Shelly attempted to lead them down an aisle, to where a group of teenage boys were bowling. "Yeah, Mitch," Marsha added. "No one's gonna to bite you." Proud of the two guys they'd picked up in the Palladium, unknown to either Norman or Mitchell, they had been spotted the moment they'd walked through the door when Shelly had said, "Dibbies on the blonde!" Which made Marsha happy because the sight of Mitchell--not that she felt she'd ever really meet him--had taken her breath away. Reluctantly allowing themselves to be led down the aisle, the boys stood behind the girls as Marsha, "Roger," tapped the shoulder of one of the boys sitting on the scorekeeper's double bench. Looking over his shoulder, "Oh, hi, Marsha," nodding his head, "Shelly," the boy turned forward again, watching as a teammate visually lined up the pins, took three steps, and forcefully released the ball. "Roger," tapping his shoulder again, "I want you to meet Mitchell... Mitchie, this is my brother, Roger." The older boy turned back and with a surly look, "Yeah, hi." imperceptibly nodded his head, and was about to turn away again when Mitchell held his right hand forward. Roger looked from the hand to his sister, back at the hand and, as though it were an effort, reached forward, took the offered hand lightly, dutifully pumped it twice, released it, and turned away. "Come on, let's watch awhile." Marsha asked. "You don't mind, do you?" Mitchell noncommittally shrugged his shoulders. "Nah," Norman said, "if you wanna watch a while, it's okay with us." Taking seats three rows back, the four watched the boys bowl, but what Mitchell really wanted to do was to get out of the bowling alley and suggest they take a walk along the beach where, maybe, one thing might lead to another. But was reluctant to ask the girls to leave because they might not want to and he didn't want to put himself and Norman into a position where they may have to leave without them, so said nothing. A few minutes passed when, nudging Mitchell with her elbow, "You enjoying this?" "To be honest, no! Watching other people do athletic stuff bores me silly." "Yeah, me, too. You guys want to get out of here?"

BECOMING "Yeah!" Shelly and Norman nodded in agreement. "Okay, let's go back and see who's at the Palladium now." "Roge!" Marsha called to her brother, but ignoring her, "Roger," she called again, louder, "we're leaving now!"

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Turning, a definite scowl on his face, looking at Mitchell as though warning him to keep his hands off his sister, "Okay," he said. Looking at his sister, "But don't fool around too long!" His eyes shifted back to Mitchell, held their threatening gaze for a couple of seconds, then, dismissing them completely, the older boy turned back to his scorekeeping. Outside, back on the road to the Palladium, "God, the way he treats me!" Marsha said angrily. "He makes me so darned mad!" Though he'd formed an instant dislike for Roger, "Your brother's only trying to defend you," Mitchell said, coming to his defense. "He doesn't know me from Adam, and for all he knows I'm some kind of a mad rapist." "He ignores me all the time! At home he never even looks at me. The only time he ever acts like I'm even alive is when I'm with my friends, and then he embarrasses me by treating me like I'm some kind of a baby!" "I guess big brothers are supposed to act like jerks when they see their sisters out with guys they don't know." Other than nodding their hellos to a few minor acquaintances, the girls saw no one they really knew, and the boys saw no one they'd rather know, so after watching a group of boys rack up games on the Captain Kidd machine, which became boring very quickly, the four left the Palladium. Standing outside, reluctant to say goodbye, not quite knowing how to proceed, "It's turned into a real nice night, and I know you don't really know us," Mitchell said timidly, "but why don't we, uh, go down to the beach?" "To watch the submarine races, huh? "Marsha smiled, looked at Shelly, and a silent message passed between the girls. "I don't think going to the beach is such a good idea. Like you said, Mitch, we don't really know you guys." "Yeah, but tell you what," Shelly added, "it's kind'a far, but if you want, you guys can walk us home." The boys looked at each other and they, too, sent a silent message. "Sure, we want to know where you two live anyway." Walking on the land side of the Old Highway, the raucous sounds of the Palladium soon faded and the only sounds the four heard were those of their gravely footsteps, each others voices, and the steady hum of cicadas. Every now and then the headlights of an approaching car would waver in the distance, throwing long and short shadows as it traversed the dips in the road, the light becoming stronger and brighter until it fully lit the asphalt for the moment it took the car to pass, then once again the two couples were left to walk in the moonlit darkness. Shelly and Norman were a distance ahead and when the headlights brightened the road Mitchell could see they were holding hands. "Marcie, where do you live? In Chicago, I mean."

BECOMING "By Humboldt Park, over near Armitage and Humboldt."

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He wasn't too sure where that was, but his grandparents, his father's mother and father, lived near Humboldt Park, and though it was much nicer than his neighborhood, it was a far cry from ritzy, and he felt better knowing that Marsha was not that far socially above him. ..."Here's where I live." Stopping, they could see through the screened porch and open doorway. Lawrence was at the table eating something and Myra, reclining on the wicker sofa, was reading a book. Sounding strange, Marsha asked, "That's your mom?" "Yes," looking at her, "and that's my brother... Your mother, uh..." Not quite sure how to ask, "she's okay, isn't she? She's not..." "Oh, yes!" Understanding his concern, "My mother's okay, it's just that she..." Marsha's voice trailed off. Sensing she wanted to change the subject, Mitchell asked, "You got any other brothers or sisters, besides, uh...?" "Roger... No, only him, and I think he's all there was ever supposed to be, only him," she said quietly, under her breath, as though speaking to herself. Marsha sounded so sad that without thinking Mitchell took hold of her hand, and they began to walk again. As cars approached from behind, they would move onto the soft shoulder until the vehicle sped by, then went back to walk on the asphalt lip of the Old Highway. Reaching the stately Lakeside Hotel, they stopped at the whitewashed, split rail fence to look, and to listen. Appearing as fireflies, thousands of tiny, winking lights had been wound through the limbs and around the trunks of the old oak trees that lined both sides of the long hotel driveway. Soft music, played by the live band on the hotel patio, wafted softly over the fairyland-like grounds. The scent of pine mingled with the sweet odor of blooming lilac bushes. Listening, the flickering light reflecting in the liquid pools of her dark brown eyes, "Oh, Mitchie," cocking her head, squeezing his hand, "it's so beautiful!" "Marsha," feeling a catch in his heart, tentatively putting his arm across her shoulders, "you're beautiful." Finding it hard to speak, yet, oddly, "So beautiful!" the words came without thought. The words "So beautiful" inscribed in her heart, Marsha moved deeper, closer into the hollow of Mitchell's shoulder. Marsha's face turned to Mitchell's face and the brushing, light touch of their lips generated a sweet mental shock that passed from one to the other. Parting a fraction, their lips touched again, softly, warmly, devoid of passion, yet lovingly, and Marsha felt the thrill of this, her first kiss, as it traversed body and soul... Their closed eyes opened, and in the semi-darkness of this starlit, moonlit night each looked wondrously at the flickering fireflies in the dark pools of the eyes of the other. "Mitchie." Bewildered by the emotion she felt, Marsha forced her mouth from his. "God, Mitchie," catching

BECOMING her breath, "we just met each other!"

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Having no response, wanting more than anything to kiss Marsha again, unaware of her desire to be kissed again, Mitchell's heart was thumping so wildly he was sure she would hear, and hearing the words, taking the words "we just met each other" as a reprimand for kissing her this soon after first meeting, reluctantly taking his arm from about her shoulders, hesitating, looking, listening for another moment or two, the two turned from the overwhelming beauty of this place and the firefly-lit night and continued walking. Norman and Shelly were so far ahead they were out of sight. Walking without speaking, at a complete loss for words, finally, finding his voice, "Where do you live? Here, in the country, I mean." "Yes, I know. In Lakeside." Taking hold of her hand, "I'm glad it's so far away." "No, it's not really all that far," tightening her fingers about his, "not when you get used to it." "You come into town every night?" "No, not every night. You?" "Well, yeah. What else is there to do here at night?" "Outside of picking up girls, nothing, I guess." "Jeeze, Marcie," once again taking something she said as a reprimand, "Normie'n'me don't do that all the time," he said defensively, although that was exactly what they'd tried to do each night, and for that matter, each day since arriving in Union Pier. "It's just that you'n'Shelly looked so cute Normie'n'me, we just kind'a..." Thinking, I have to be so careful about what I say, "I know, Mitch. I was just kidding." Walking hand in hand, both were quiet a few minutes. "What's your dad do?" "Daddy and Mother have a small package-liquor store on Division Street. What's yours do?" "He's a photographer." "A photographer! No kidding!" "Yeah. The studio's on Kedzie. He used to do portraits, but all the parents wanted their daughters to look like Shirley Temple, and they were driving him nuts, so he switched to commercial photography and now, instead'a kids, the studio's usually full'a coffins." Looking at him questioningly, "Coffins?" "Yeah. This company that makes them, they're my dad's best customer and the place is almost always loaded with 'em."

BECOMING Wishing he'd put his arm around her again and, maybe, kiss her again, "You and Norman go to school together?" "Yeah." Trying to work up the nerve to put his arm around her again and, maybe, kiss her again, "We're sophomores at Harrison," he said. "How's about you?" Changing the subject, "Do you work after school?" she asked.

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"Yeah, little stuff. I deliver this once a week newspaper and do some deliveries for Sam, uh, the grocer, but I'm going to find a real job when school starts again." "Can't you work for your dad, at the studio?" "I do sometimes, to clean up the place, but him'n'me don't always get along so great... How's 'bout you?" "No, I don't have to work." Her voice taking that odd inflection again, "Mother gives me plenty... of money." "No, I don't mean 'do you work?' What I mean is, what school do you go to? Are you a freshie?" "Uh," hesitating, "no, I'm not a freshie." He'd thought she was probably fourteen and a freshman in high school. "You're not going into your second year, too, are you?" "Well, no..." Knowing she had to tell him if she wanted to see him again, and she did want to see him again, badly, hesitating, Marsha took a few more steps before saying, "I'm still in grammar school." "Huh?" Looking at her, "Marcie," he asked, "how old are you?" Hesitating again, "Uh, twelve... but I'll be thirteen in just two months!" Although he was twenty-one days from his fifteenth birthday, Mitchell considered himself to be fifteen, and the fact that Marsha was not yet thirteen, even though her birthday was only two months away, still made her only twelve years old. As people become older, the difference between their ages shrink. If one is forty, fifty, or older, two years, five years, or even ten years is not that great a difference, but the difference between thirteen and fifteen--almost thirteen and almost fifteen--at least in the mind of this almost-fifteen-year-old boy--is the difference between a man and a child. "Uh," dropping her hand, "you're only twelve years old!" "No! I'm not only twelve years old!" she answered angrily. "I told you, I'm almost thirteen!" "Yeah!" Mitchell snapped back. "And that still makes you just twelve! Jesus!" Forgetting he'd always been bigger than any of his friends until recently, when they'd begun to catch up. "What the hell do they feed you guys on the north side?" "Chopped liver and motzie!" Poking him in the chest. "The same stuff they feed you guys on the west side, you big jerk! Look, I live real close by here and you don't have to walk this baby home!"

BECOMING A bit sorry for his outburst, "Nah, it's okay, I don't mind walking you all the way." "Well I do mind," she began to run, "and I don't want you to!" "Okay, if that's the way you want it." "Yeah, I do!" "Hey, Marcie," he called, "tell Norman I'll wait for him here." "Hey, Mitchell," she called back, "drop dead, you big jerk!"

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Spotting a boulder next to a picket fence, he sat down. Twelve years old! He still couldn't believe it, and visualizing how beautiful Marsha had looked with the fireflies reflected in her eyes, Only twelve years old! Touching his finger to his lips, remembering the feel of their kiss, sensing...? Sensing the weight of loneliness in his stomach, Mitchell felt as though he'd lost something he'd just found. As though he had lost something that could, possibly, be very important in his life. Whistling. Hearing whistling, he pulled himself up and wearily walked until he saw the approaching shadow of his friend. "Hey, Normie!" "Mitchie!" Running, Norman stopped when they came abreast. "What happened? I thought you two were getting along great, then she came running home all by herself and told me to tell you that you're a big jerk, and that I should tell you that she said for you to drop dead. What happened? You try to feel her up, or somethin'?" "No, I didn't try to feel her up!" "So? Don't keep me in suspense, what happened?" "Normie, did you know they're only twelve?" "Shelly shaid she's shirteen... Uh," speaking slowly, "Shelly-said-she's-thirteen." Stifling laughter, "Maybe Shelly's thirteen, but Marsha's only twelve." "Too young, huh?" "For me, yeah." Sighing, "Yeah, me, too, I guess. Anyway, they live too far away." Passing the Lakside Hotel, Mitchell saw that nothing had changed. The firefly lights still twinkled and music still mingled with the sweet aroma of pine and lilac... But yet, everything seemed to be different... to be less beautiful than it had. When they reached the Lipensky cottage, "See you in the morning, Mitch!" Running again, Norman waved

BECOMING over his shoulder. Watching till he was out of sight, Mitchell walked up the flagstone path.

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A few minutes later, lying in bed, still thinking of Marsha, Okay, so she's thirteen, conceding the two months until she actually is, I like her, so what hell! Thinking, Think I'll look for her tomorrow when I'm in town and tell her I'm sorry... But what am I sorry about? That she's only twelve and that a twelve-year-old girl has no right to look as good as she looks...? But, he further thought, Does she really look all that good or is it just that she's the only girl that I've met so far this summer that I like? Shit! Throwing his body onto his other side, he caused the cot's steel casters to grind on the wood deck, waking... "Mi-tchie!" Larry whined. "Stop making noise or I'm tell-ing!" Mitchell didn't answer, and in a moment heard the even breathing of his brother asleep. He looked at the stars through the porch screen, and listened to the chirping of the crickets... and soon joined his brother in sleep. * The next night Norman and Mitchell walked back and forth constantly, from the Palladium to the bowling alley, and back again... But the girls didn't come to town. On the night after, the boys made the rounds five times. On the third night they went from the Palladium to the Union Pier Bowl and back twice. When Mitchell was in town, Marsha wasn't. By the fifth night meeting Marsha seemed like it had never happened, and when they did walk from the Palladium to the bowling alley they were on the prowl, looking for other girls to meet. Having received the decree from her brother, via her mother, that a thirteen-year-old--a not quite thirteen-year-old--girl was much too young to be roaming Union Pier at night with all the wolves--meaning Mitchell--around, Marsha was allowed to go to town during daylight hours only. When Marsha was in town, Mitchell wasn't. Twice, while walking to Lakeside from Union Pier, Marsha had seen Mitchell through the screened porch and had wanted to knock on the door to tell him she wasn't angry anymore... ...But she didn't. 23 Tower of Babble Chicago is a hodgepodge of language.

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At any time, hanging onto the overhead strap, swaying with the motion of a crowded Loop El, you might hear the spoken language of any number of countries. Tuning your ears and listening to the two elderly men sitting in front of you, "Damn him!" says one. The other, speaking in Polish, "Psha krev!" while angrily waving his arms. Listening to the two middle-aged women in the seat to the left, "Es waren sehr viele leute in der bank," talking in German. There was the man and woman in the seat to the right, "Mein zon gait chsnah obbin!" speaking Yiddish, from anywhere in the world. But then a phenomenon took place. Added to the mishmash of talk from around the world, and beyond, came a host of new languages spoken of, by, and between the kids: There is Ig-pay-atan-lay--Pig Latin. There is Kraflin Karp--Franklin Park. And also there is Kuk-I-nun Tut-U-tut--King Tut. Hanging onto that same strap, on the same Loop El, in addition to Polish, German, Russian, Lithuanian, Spanish, Yiddish, and a host of multitudinous tongues, you might also hear... "My ig-bay other-bay is a ain-pay in the utt-bay!" Meaning, in Pig Latin, "My big brother is a pain in the butt!" Self explanatory, this language spoken by one thirteen-year-old girl to another on the Douglas Park El speeding along the overhead tracks to the Loop. "Ho, nam! Kate a kool! That droub's tog trag tits!" In Kraflin Karp, meaning Franklin Park pronounced backwards, which is the way this language is spoken, meaning, "Oh man! Take a look! That broad's got great tits!" Oh, by the way, in Kraflin Karp there is absolutely no way to disguise the word tits, nor would any self-respecting west side guy ever want to. "Oy togga gib sa!" From one of two sixteen-year-old punks standing outside of Sally's Ribs on Ogden and St. Louis to Big Rosalind Feigenbaum, who was on her way into Sally's to pick up a double order. "I gotta a big ass, huh?" Closing her meaty fist around the five-dollar roll of quarters that was to pay for the two large slabs of baby-back ribs, French fries and baked beans, "Oy gib kumush!" she said, meaning, "You big schmuck!" as she whacked him on the side of the head. "Ow!" the guy said, meaning, "Ow!" because in any language Ow! is Ow! Teen-age girls who had constantly failed spelling tests throughout grammar school, and even in high school, and still had to use a dictionary to spell dictionary could properly rattle off King Tut at machine-gun speed. Teen-age guys, whose attention span lasted no more than a momentary glance at a bit of white flesh from a partially exposed thigh or breast, or a padded, high-pointed brassiere beneath a tight-fitting angora sweater passing in the hallway, could easily understand the seemingly incomprehensible jumble of King Tut, which is spoken by adding a 'U' to consonants and using the proper, phonetic enunciation of all vowels. Leg, for instance, would be pronounced, lul-E-gug Frank Parminter, still at the kitchen table drinking his after dinner cup of coffee, stopping in mid-swallow stared at his son. "Yeah, Mum-I-tut'chie, they're lul-O-kuk'in at Mum-E like I'm cuc-rur-azy."

BECOMING Meaning, "Yeah, Mitchie, they're looking at me like I'm crazy."

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Frank looked at Ida, who had been washing dishes, but had turned away from the sink and soapy water, from the sopping dishrag in her hand, which was dripping over her bare feet as she, too, looked at her son. Sitting in the living room, Myra and Walter Lipensky had each been reading a section of the Daily News. Hers now lay on her lap and his hung as a wilted flower, doubled over in his hands. "Nun-O-rur-mum, this'll tut-E-A-ch'em to tut-A-lul-kuk Y-I-dud-I sus, uh, H in fuf-rur-O-nun-tut of us, huh?" Meaning: "Norm, this'll teach'em to talk Yiddish in front of us, huh?" "Yeah!" Laughing. "O-kuk, I'll sus-E you tut-O-mum-o-rur-rur." Norman put the receiver on the cradle, smiled at his slack-jawed father and his wet-footed mother, stood, and left the kitchen. Across the yard, Mitchell also put the receiver on the cradle and he, too, smiled at his wide-eyed father and his open-mouthed mother, stood, and left the dining room. Walter Lipensky looked at Myra Lipensky. Frank Parminter looked at Ida Parminter. "What'd he say?" Myra asked Walter and Ida asked Frank. "Damned if I know!" Frank said to Ida and Walter said to Myra. Oh, by the way, in King Tut, it's pronounced tut-I-tut. 24 Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette November 23, 1949 For late November, for Chicago, it was a nice day. Radiating a bit of warmth, the sun shone in a brilliantly blue sky, and there was no wind. Norman Parminter, Big Rosalind Feigenbaum, Joey Solomon, Crazy Ronald (Mushuggi'witz) Muskowitz and Mitchell Lipensky, for some unknown reason, had decided to walk home together. On the corners of Cermack Road and Marshall Boulevard, three minutes after beginning their walk, the four almost had a parting of the way when they bumped into each other because Norman, Joey and Mitchell turned to the west as Rosalind and Ronald continued walking to the north. "We go this way, on Cermack," Mitchell said. "Guys," Rosalind said, "why walk on a dirty street when you can cut through the park?" "'Cause it's shorter," Norman said.

BECOMING "But it's prettier in the park," Rosalind said. "But it's faster this way," Joey said. "Bullshit!" Ronald said. "'Cause we stop at the Polack deli and buy pickles." Looking at Mitchell, "Pickles?" Ronald said. "Yeah! Ain't you never gone to the Polack deli? It's about the halfway between here and Kedzie." "Pickles, Lipensky?" "Yeah, Ron. They got just about the best kosher dill you ever tasted." Looking from boy to boy, "Let me get this straight," Ronald said. "Everyday you guys walk home on this dirty, noisy street rather'n cutting through the park so's you can eat pickles? Jesus!" Speaking to Rosalind, "and they call me crazy!" "Hey, for a nickel you get one about this big." Mitchell said, holding his hands about seven inches apart. "Yeah?" said Rosalind, "I'd love to see one that big!" Turning to her, "He's talking about a pickle, you dumb shit. And even if you had one this big," holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, "you wouldn't know what to do with it." "You mean one about the size of yours, Mushiggi-witz? The hell I wouldn't!" "The hell you would, Big Rosalind!" "So," Ronald asked, "you guys coming with us or not?" "How's come you an' Rosalind like to walk through the park so much?" Joey asked.

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Pretending to whisper in Joey's ear, but speaking loud enough for all to hear, "'Cause she lets me feel her up." Ronald said. "I heard that, Mushuggi-witz! You wish! You just wish I'd let you feel me up." "Hey, Big Rosalind, you just wish I wanted to feel you up, but if I did, I wouldn't know where your fat ends and your tits begin." Laughing hysterically at this friendly tirade, making the decision for the other two boys, "Okay," Norman said, "we'll go home your way." No sooner did they round the first bend and Cermack Road was out of sight, when, reaching beneath his jacket into his shirt pocket, taking out an unopened package of Chesterfields, stopping, "It's such a nice day." sitting on a park bench, "You guys do smoke, don't you?" Ronald asked "Yeah," Rosalind sat next to Ronald, "let's rest a minute."

BECOMING "Uh, no," Joey said, jerking his thumb towards Mitchell and Norman, "we don't smoke."

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Tapping the unopened package of Chesterfields on the back of his hand, pulling the red tab off, Ronald let the cellophane top flutter to the sidewalk. Tearing the tinfoil open, pushing up from the bottom, he propelled five cigarettes upward. Using his front teeth, pulling a cigarette out, Ronald then offered the package to Rosalind, who, taking one without hesitation, stuck it in her mouth, reached into her pocket, removed a book of matches, struck one, held the flame to Ronald's cigarette, then hers. Inhaling deeply, "Ahhh!" Sounding as though smoking a cigarette was the greatest enjoyment in the world, Rosalind and Ronald exhaled. Ronald offered the package to Joey. Joey looked at the cigarettes, then at Ronald, who wiggled the package in a go-ahead gesture. "Well..." hesitating, "okay," he took one. The pack of cigarettes was pointed towards Norman. "No, I'd better not; my mom'll kill me if she finds out." "Who's gonna tell her?" Ronald asked. "Do they smoke?" "Not her, but my dad does." "So, if your father smokes, why shouldn't you?" "Don't know. Guess I never really wanted to." "Norm, all the cool kids in high school smoke! Come on, stop acting like a baby!" Taking a deep drag, Ronald held the smoke in his lungs a moment, then with an enjoyable, "Ahhh!" exhaled through his nostrils. "Come on!" he coaxed. "You don't want to be kid all your life! It's real adult to smoke!" Convinced--somewhat convinced--Norman haltingly reached to the package, changed his mind, moved his hand away, then quickly, before changing his mind again, pulled a cigarette out of the package and jammed it into his mouth. "Hey, just hold it between your lips. Don't nigger-lip it!" Offering the package of Chesterfields to the third boy, "Mitch?" Walter smoked Chesterfields, too, and Mitchell had always admired the nonchalant way his father held the cigarette between his index and forefinger because it looked so masculine. Now, glad to have the opportunity, he reached to the pack, took a cigarette, rolled it lightly between his fingers, then, holding it just as his father did, put it between his lips, just as his father did. "Great! No chickens here!" Flicking the flywheel of his Zippo, Ronald passed the orange-tipped flame from boy to boy. Each taking a light, tentative puff, Joey and Norman held the smoke in their mouths a moment, then blew it out. Showing off, Mitchell inhaled deeply. The smoke went into his mouth and he tasted the bitterness of it. The smoke went down his throat and he felt the burning of it. The smoke entered his clean, pink lungs and his

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lungs rebelled and he began to cough and the stinging, burning smoke came up through his lungs, throat, mouth and nostrils. He coughed harder and his face turned red. He coughed harder still and the veins in his neck became pronounced. He coughed even harder and his eyes began to tear and, gasping, he bent at the waist trying to draw air into his lungs, trying to breathe. Norman pounded on his back but still he continued to cough... Till, finally, at last able to draw air downward, the harsh coughing changed to even harsher gagging and his stomach seemed to be reaching upward, into his throat... "Gaacchh!" Drool dribbling from his mouth, Norman, Joey, Ronald and Rosalind moved out of splattering range as Mitchell vomited lunch, breakfast, and last night's dinner... Gasping, gasping, till, finally able to draw a full complement of air into his lungs Mitchell was able to catch his breath. His eyes were red and his face, now that the redness had left it, was deathly white. Saliva hung from his mouth, mucus from his nose, and there was a wide, red smear of vomit on his chin. "Hey, Mitch," Ronald said, holding the package of Chesterfields forward, "that was really neat! Here, have another; your old one's kind'a soggy." The cigarette he'd dropped barely distinguishable under the plop of steaming vomit, "No thanks, not just now." * ..."Normie, you want to go for a sus-mum-O-kuk?" Dinner almost over, he'd answered the phone himself. "Yeah." Meeting in front of Mitchell's building, they walked one block south on Homan Avenue, to the candy stand in the El station, and for twenty cents each, Norman bought a package of Lucky Strikes and Mitchell a package of Chesterfields--the brands of choice of their fathers. When Norman returned home forty minutes later, feeling her son's head, "You're so pale!" Ida said. "You don't feel so good?" "No, Ma, my stomach's kind'a upset. I think I'll lay down for a while." Looking at Mitchell as he walked into the living room and flopped down on the sofa, "You look sick," Myra said. "You okay?" "Yeah, sure, Mom." Closing his eyes, he fought the nausea. On their way to school the next day they lit up, and spent the best part of the morning trying to control their stomachs. They lit up again on their way home that afternoon, and this time their stomachs behaved... more or less. The next morning their mouths felt like sewers. Within a month their fingers and teeth began to stain and they found themselves doing more and more coughing in the morning... But it's real cool to smoke, and Mitchell Lipensky and Norman Parminter felt like adults. 25

BECOMING Working: The Hawker Chicago, Illinois Maxwell Street: reminiscent of New York City's lower east side and European and mid-eastern bazaars.

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On any weekend, weather permitting, throngs of people from throughout the city would flock to Maxwell Street looking for a bargain, a deal, a "steal." Anything of dubious, doubtful quality, new or used, could be bought on Maxwell Street. Hubcaps for any automobile, tires of any size, car radios and home radios; shoes, boots, socks and underwear for men, women and children; watches and jewelry made of "gold" and real gold; bookends, lamps, carpets, rugs--"Persian" and "Oriental," and real Persian and Oriental. One might buy a record by anyone from Bing Crosby to Enrico Caruso... And when you got home and heard that that Bing's voice had a click throughout, what the hell were you going to do? Travel all the way back to Maxwell Street to get your ten cents back? There was luggage, gloves, hats and all type of clothing, new and used... and etceteras and etceteras of all kinds, and by any description, in any of the multitude of languages spoken up and down Maxwell Street... Junk! Lots and lots of junk. Peddlers sold from pushcarts that lined both sides of the narrow, cluttered street. But also, some of the more ambitious and/or affluent had been able to work their way off the curbs, into one or two of the small stores that were found on either side of the street, giving that person a full, seven-day-a-week business, rather than just a weekend business when the street was closed to cars and open to pedestrians and pushcarts only. ...An old record of Dick Powell singing, "I'm a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech and a hell of an engineer," wafted over the cold, windblown street. A bit of flying grit stinging his eye, rubbing it with the knuckle of one hand as, "Hey! Men's clothing here!" clasped in the other hand was a pair of blue gabardine trousers that he waved above his head as if a proudly held flag. "Hey! Men's clothing here!" the boy yelled. "Top quality! Get your new and used top quality clothes at Sollies!" Trying to be heard above the tumultuous din of the jam-packed, constantly-flowing street, the boy's voice would meld with those of a thousand other voices and become lost a few paces beyond the pushcart that sat on the curb opposite Joey Solomon's father's store. The inscription, hand painted in heavy, black lettering on the plate glass window read: SOLOMON & SONS, FINE MEN'S CLOTHING, and beneath, in smaller script: New & Used. If someone stopped to look at the jumble of second-hand slacks in the pushcart, or hesitated on his or her way past the pushcart, taking hold of his or her elbow, the boy had but one objective: to steer the man or woman through the SOLOMON & SONS doorway that was adjacent the five-foot-wide sidewalk. "Hey, Mister! Need a new suit?" Not waiting for an answer, "Have I got a deal for you! Look..." cupping his mouth with his hand, the boy whispered, conspiratorially, directly into the man's hairy ear, "we're overloaded with new suits. They came in a couple'a days ago from... well, I can't say where they're from, Mister. You know how it is, but I wan'a tell you they came in from: uh, someplace real good!" Giving the impression that, maybe, just maybe, the suits may be "hot," and don't you know everybody wants to buy good quality hot merchandise at hot merchandise prices. "Look, Mister, I can't say where we get our stuff." Again speaking in a conspiratorial tone, "You know how it is, but..." glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one was listening, "I can tell you that if you bought one'a these suits at Carson's or Field's it'd cost you forty-five, fifty bucks." The man attempted to pull away. "But here..." tightening his hold on the man's elbow, "but here at Sollies," cocking his head over his shoulder, "they're only..." whispering the words, "twenty-five, thirty bucks!"

BECOMING Moving back a step, still holding his elbow, taking the man with him, "An' I swear to you Mister, you ain't never seen such ho... uh, great suits. You don't think I'd lie to you, do you, Mister?"

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The man looked at the sincere sounding, good-looking young man and, obviously a newcomer to Maxwell Street, "No," he said shaking his head negatively. "I guess not." "No! Darn-tooten I wouldn't lie to you! Come on!" Backing up another step, "Wait'll you see 'em!" pulling the man closer to the door, bumping it open with his shoulder, "Don't be bashful! Come on! I promise, you'll love 'em!" With the man in tow, the two stepped over the threshold, into the overly warm, musty smelling store. "Joey!" the boy called. "I got a gentleman here that wants to see one'a them new suits!" "Thanks, Mitchie." Coming from behind a pipe rack bowed with the weight of fifty suits, "Mister," Joey Solomon, the youngest of the "& sons," said, "have I ever got a deal for you!" Replacing Mitchell's hand with his own, appraising the man with his well-practiced eye, "What are you, a thirty-eight regular?" Joey asked, steering him to another weight-bowed pipe rack. Going back to his place outside, "Hey! Sollies here!" the boy yelled, waving the two-legged flag. "New and used top quality men's clothing here! Get your best deal at Sollies! Hey, Mister! Yeah, you! Hey, have I ever got a deal for you!" 26 One More Time December 26, 1949 Myra awoke with an almost forgotten, but completely familiar pain in her lower abdomen. Not sure when the pain started, she didn't count, but waited till it subsided before, "Walt!" She pushed his shoulder, "Walter!" again, harder. Lifting his head from the warmth of the pillow, "Wazzit?" "Walt, the pains have started. I think it's time." Silent a moment, then comprehending what she'd said. "You sure?" Suddenly fully awake. "Your water?" "Yes, I'm pretty sure, but, no, my water hasn't broken yet." "How long do you think?" "Probably at least a couple of hours, maybe more. Who knows? But I'd rather be waiting at the hospital than here." Throwing the blanket back, uncovering herself and her husband, sitting on the edge of the bed, Myra easily found her strategically-placed house slippers. "Damn, it's cold!" Shivering, Walter looked at the luminous face of the Baby Ben. "Two-twenty! Jesus, Myra, why can't you go into labor at a sensible time, like say, seven p.m? That way dinner's over and I've had time to

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read the paper. Or if it's got to be at some ungodly time, then at least do it after five when we've got some heat up here." Sliding from his inside position, his feet, "Christ, it's cold!" touched the frigid floor. "Walt, I'm going to wake Mitchie, to let him know we're going." "Okay. You want to get into the toilet first?" Laboriously lifting herself from the bed, finding the wall switch, Myra turned the light on. Standing at the edge of the bed, pushing his arms through the sleeves of his bathrobe, though the fly of his pajamas was closed, Myra could not help but notice, "No, Walt, it looks like you've got to go more than me," that her husband had an erection. Glancing down, "Yeah, guess so," he pulled the robe closed. Turning lights on as she passed from room to room, Myra went from their room, opposite the bathroom, to Mitchell's at the front of the apartment. Shaking his shoulder, "Mitchie. Mitchie, honey," till he lifted his sleep-creased face from the crevice of the pillow. Opening his eyes, "Huh?" he closed them against the glare of the light. "Yeah, Mom?" Opening his eyes again, then closing them, he rubbed both with the palms of his hands. "What's wrong?' Turning onto his side, he looked at his mother, who was standing straight with her hands pushed against the small of her back, further accentuating the protrusion of her stomach. "Mitchie, it's time for me to go to the hospital." When Walter and Myra spoke of her pregnancy, they spoke in private, as though if they didn't say anything to him about it he wouldn't notice. "Hospital?" Playing dumb. "You've got to go to the hospital? What for?" Not sure if he's serious, "You know, Mitchie; to have a baby." "A baby?" Propping his head in the palm of his hand, looking at his mother innocently, "You're going to have another baby?" he asked. "Come on, Mitchie, you know I'm going to have a baby!" "How would I know, Mom? No one ever tells me nothin'!" "Anything!" correcting him. "And I'm sure your father or I told you something!" Although Myra was sure she hadn't. Suddenly, grasping her stomach, she sat on the edge of the bed. Alarmed, "Mom, You okay?" After a number of seconds, "Yes, Mitchie. It's a labor pain and I'll be fine in a minute. Her lips moving silently as she counted the seconds, closing her eyes against the pain, Myra's face went white. Waiting until she stopped counting, "No one ever told me anything, but somehow I guessed it." He rubbed her stomach. "A watermelon seed, huh?"

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Myra smiled. "Yeah, a watermelon seed." Becoming serious again, "Mitchie, you go back to sleep now, but when you wake later make breakfast for yourself and Larry and drop him off at ma's on your way to school. Dad'll call you if anything happens before you leave in the morning." "What if you have the baby while I'm in school? I won't know whether I have a new brother or a sister and if everything's okay till I get home, and that's hours away. Let me stay home today and take care of Larry here." "No! You can't afford to miss any school! Just do like I tell you. Okay?" "Yeah, okay! Only tell dad I'll call at ma's between classes to see if I have another brother or a sister, and for him to call just as soon as something happens." "Sure! Of course he'll call, just as soon as there's something to say. And bite your tongue, you're going to have a sister! Two boys are enough!" She patted his leg, was about to stand, but first leaned over and kissed his forehead. "No matter what, I'll talk to tonight, okay?" "Yeah, sure, Mom. Take it easy, and I hope it's a girl, too." * "Bubby, it's me, Mitchell." "Yes, mein kind," it's the third time he'd called, "I know." "Did my dad call yet?" "Yes, Mitchella, he just..." "What she have?" he asked excitedly. "Everything okay?" "Stop, listen to me! Walter, your father, he called to tell she didn't have the baby yet, but that..." "She didn't have the baby yet? Jesus Christ! How long's it take for a lady to have a kid?" "...Everything is okay, and it's just taking a little longer this time, and you should leave Larry here tonight and if you want you should sleep here tonight, too, if your father's not home." "Not home? You mean it could take all day?" "Nu, Mitchella, sometimes having a baby does take all day; sometimes even longer." "Okay, Bubby," he sighed. "I'll call again later." * "Mrs. Lipensky." The nurse leaned over the bed. "Myra!" Waking, her eyes opening, she stared at the ceiling, then lowered and with effort focused on the white-clad woman standing alongside the bed. "Mrs. Lipensky..."

BECOMING "Oh, thirsty," Myra whispered. Cranking the head of the bed up, the nurse held a glass with an angled glass straw to her lips. Myra leaned forward, inhaled a few drops, then let her head fall back onto the pillow. "Mrs. Lipensky, you have a new baby."

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"Baby?" Remembering, blinking her eyes, coming further out of the anesthesia, "Oh, yes!" Her eyes suddenly becoming animated, her pale face contorting with happy anticipation, "My baby, what is it?" A bit surprised at the "what is it" question rather than the "how is it" question, "You have the most beautiful, healthy..." Smiling expectantly... "...little boy." Her smile fading, Myra closed her eyes, tightly. "Mrs. Lipensky?" Her eyes remaining closed, she began to cry. "Mrs. Lipensky, would you like to see your baby now?" No answer. "Mrs. Lipensky, would you care to hold your baby?" Still, no answer... then, weakly, barely audible, "No." "Excuse me?" "No," Myra said, "I do not want to hold my baby." ...Watching for him, "Mitchella!" Jennie called from her porch the moment she saw him enter the yard. Waving, "She have it?" he called back. "Yes! A boy! You have another brother!" Fleeting thinking, A sister would be nice. But it was just a fleeting thought and, "Hooray," he shouted, "I got another brother!" "Myra, the baby's ab-so-lut-ely beautiful!" Turning from her husband, Myra stared at the wall. "You know how newborns are, uh, all wrinkly. Well, he isn't. His complexion is like peaches and cream." Waiting, Walter hoped his wife would respond... "And his hair! Are you sure it wasn't the milkman what done

BECOMING it?" No response. "He's got the curliest, most beautiful blonde hair you've ever seen." Still no response. "Every doctor and nurse in the hospital are going to see him, and they all say he's the most beautiful baby they've ever seen... Myra, please!" "It should have been a girl." Spoken softly, "What did you say?"

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Turning from the wall, looking at her husband, "It should have been a girl!" Myra repeated, louder. "A daughter! I want a daughter!" Verging on hysteria, "It should have been a girl!" Crying, "I already have two boys! It's not fair! I want a daughter!" Swallowing, blinking back his own tears, not because he had another son, but for his wife's anguish. Waiting a minute, "Myra," he said, "we've only picked girls' names. We've got to give the hospital a name for the birth certificate." Once again, no response. "Honey, please! What should I tell them? What do you want to name..." reluctant to say "him." "I don't care." "What do you mean, you don't care?" His empathy turning to anger, "Enough already, Myra!" Trying to contain his growing anger, "What name should I give them?" "I told you, Walter, I don't care! You name... it anything you want!" "Anything I want, eh! You really don't give a damn, eh?" "Right!" she shot back angrily. "You can have the privilege of naming your third son! You name it!" Thirty-six hours later, Myra's stubbornness had worn thin and she allowed herself to be coerced by her mother, sister and husband into seeing her baby for the first time. As soon as the infant was placed into her arms, as soon as the tip of the receiving blanket was pulled back revealing his cherub-like face, "Oh, my God!" Myra said, "He's beautiful!" and absolute motherly love took over. But for the baby, the damage had been done, and not knowing it was his father that named him, he never fully forgave his mother, although, really, it was her fault he was named... Morton Humphrey Lipensky. 27

BECOMING Walter and Myra 1950 In early 1950 the Park Studio underwent two changes.

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In February, the name was changed to Walter Lewis Studio, Inc. The name Lewis coming from Lewis Chevrolet on the northwest corner of Ogden and Homan because, for some unknown reason, Walter thought the name Lewis was a very business-like name. In April, Walter gambled on a new kind of a camera--actually a novelty--and he borrowed money from his father-in-law to buy one: a camera that shot double-image, full-color transparencies that must be viewed through a hand held, battery operated viewer. Three-Dimensional Photography. For commercial photography, three-dimensional photography was an instant success, and Walter Lewis Studio, Inc. became one of the first studios in the city of Chicago to offer, in addition to conventional black and white and four-color process photography... "3-D." The competition jumped on the 3-D bandwagon quickly, but not before Walter Lewis Studio, Inc. had the opportunity to take a few consequential clients away from two or three of the larger studios, and also, to build a substantial backlog of smaller clients. In July, the note to Mrs. Pincus, the surviving, previous owner of the Park Studio, was paid off. In September, needing space, and wanting to be nearer to the business, Walter Lewis Studio, Inc. relocated to a high-ceilinged, four-thousand-square-foot loft in an older, three-story building with an elevator on North Clark Street, just blocks from the Merchandise Mart, the Furniture Mart, and downtown Chicago. 28 Norman and Mitchell March 13, 1950 "Norman, I said no!" "Come on, Mitch, you'll love it!" "No, I don't really think so." After school... The sky was leaden and overcast. The sidewalks and streets were dry, but the ground of Douglas Park was covered with a crust of soot-blotched, melting snow. "Look, Mitch," taking a last drag, he flipped the cigarette into the snow, "you remember what our favorite games were when we were kids, don't you?"

BECOMING "Yeah, sure. Cops'n'robbers, cowboys'n'indians'n'soldiers. So?"

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"Yeah, you're right, soldiers! Only now we get to play with real guns." Glancing at Mitchell over his shoulder, "It'll be fun, and guess what?" Norman said, "We get paid, too." "Guns?" Looking at Norman, "They give us real guns, and pay us, too?" "Yeah, sure real guns! And pay us, uh," thinking, fishing, "five bucks for a couple of hours once a week. That's twenty bucks a month, and when we get to camp..." "Camp?" Mitchell cut in. "They send us to camp?" "Schmuck! That's what I've been trying to tell you! For two weeks every summer, and we get paid for it, something like, uh, seventy, seventy-five bucks." "But," softening, "you'n'me won't be seventeen till summer. How do we get in? Ain't we supposed to be at least seventeen or something?" "Seventeen, with a letter from your mom or dad. This guy I know, in R.O.T.C., joined and he's no older'n'us. This guy says all you gotta do is be big enough to look older, and you'n'me look like we're eighteen. Well, you look almost eighteen and me at least seventeen, and we do this: I write a letter for you saying I'm your dad and that you're seventeen and I give my permission for you to join, and you do the same for me." "That's stupid, Norm. What if they check?" "This guy I know says that this company is short of men and they don't check; least-ways they didn't check on him and the guy he joined with." "And you're sure they'll give us guns'n'stuff?" Us! Norman thought. "Like I told you, yeah. Well, they don't give us guns so we can bring 'em home and play with 'em. They loan 'em to us and we use 'em at the meetings and at camp." "Camp? What do we do at camp?" We! "This guy says he was talking to a guy that went last year, and he said they live in barracks and go on, uh, bivouac..." "Bivouac? What's bivouac?" "That's when you live in tents and play war games." "Like the red army against the white army, like in the movies?" "Yeah. And they give us blanks for the guns." "You think, maybe, I'd be able to get a .45?" "Yeah!" Knowing Mitchell's resolve was crumbling, "Maybe!" Norman would say anything to get him to join with him. "It's possible. Why not?" Walking slowly, the cigarettes the boys smoked making them feel older than their not-quite sixteen years.

BECOMING "Normie, all those times, when we were kids, when I tried talking you into doing stuff..." "Like hiding in the girls' toilet at Chader?"

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"Yeah." Laughing Mitchell poked him in the side with his elbow. "Like that and other stuff. You never did it because you said your mom would kill you." Norman poked him back. "Yeah, and she would have." "So how come now you want me to forge a letter so you can lie to the U.S. Army and join for four years without even asking your folks? And how come now you think your mom won't kill you when she finds out? Or, if I'm dumb enough to do it with you, why my mom'n'dad won't kill me, too?" "Mitchie, it's not the army, it's only the National Guard, and there's no war going on now and there ain't going to be any, and ain't they always talking about good learning experiences and stuff like that? And besides," looking at Mitchell, "once we're in, we're in, and if our folks threaten to go'n tell 'em we lied about out ages, we'll tell 'em we could go to jail for lying to the U.S. government..." "Huh?" His head snapping to the side to face his friend, "Jail?" "Nah, don't worry, they'd never do it because, first off, they wouldn't want us to go to jail, and also, they are patriotic and they'll be proud to have their sons in the National Guard." "Maybe!" "And besides," popping Mitchell on the shoulder, "we're too old for 'em to kill anymore." "Wavering, "Ehh, I don't know, Norm, you're the guy that's in R.O.T.C., not me. And you never did stuff I wanted you to." "Yeah, that's true," Norman smiled. "I was too smart." Reaching into his shirt pocket, removing a package of Luckys, pressing one up, he pulled it out with his teeth. Taking a book of matches from his coat pocket, Norman struck a match and, cupping his hands around the cigarette Humphrey Bogart style, lit it, took a deep drag, let the smoke stream from both nostrils, then, "Here," handed the matchbook to Mitchell. "What's'a matter," giving the matches back to Norman, "you out'a juice?" Taking the Zippo from his pants pocket, Mitchell pulled a cigarette from the nearly empty package in his shirt pocket, stuck it between his lips and lit it... Transforming him instantly, so he thought, from a boy to a man. "No!" Norman handed the matches back. "Read what it says." Taking it, looking at the small, folded square of cardboard: ADVENTURE EDUCATION ACTION JOIN THE U.S. NATIONAL GUARD "So, I've seen this a zillion times."

BECOMING "Yeah, but did you ever really read what it what it says? Go on, open it!"

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Shrugging his shoulders, opening the matchbook, Mitchell read aloud: "Summer vacation with pay. Earn while you learn. Be a man. Join your peacetime National Guard." Closing the matchbook, "So?" he handed it back to Norman. "So?" Come on, Mitch, it'll be fun... And I'll tell you something else, something it didn't say there. Something I know is more important to you then just about anything," jiggling the line. "Yeah, smart ass, what's that?" "What's that? Oh, nothing much, except... how's about girls?" Seeing the bait, "Girls?" the fish swam closer. "Yeah, girls!" Knowing his friend, Norman knew that when all logical arguments failed on Mitchell, mention... "Girls!" he repeated for emphasis. "We wear uniforms when we take the streetcar to the armory and when we go home. And, of course, we wear 'em all the time we're at camp, and when we get time off to go to town." Jiggling the line. "And you know how girls just love guys in uniform!" Jiggling. Coming closer, "They give us time off to go to town when we go to camp?" We! "Of course we get time off to go to town! And you've heard about girls that live near army bases! How they just love to fuck soldiers!" Closer now, nibbling at the bait. "And we're going to be those soldiers, huh?" "Yeah! And if we're ever going to get fucked," jiggling, jiggling, "it'll be then. You still want to get fucked, don't you?" The fish, the really stupid fish, struck at the bait, "Yeah!" and ran with the line. "Of course I still want to get fucked!" Setting the hook, "Okay, then," Norman said. "It's a sure thing! You'n'me are really going to get fucked in the National Guard." * A storm had blown into Chicago a few days earlier, but there was no wind on this day and the temperature stood at a comfortable 47 degrees. Though it did not feel it then, and Norman Parminter and Mitchell Lipensky had no way of knowing, another storm was building, a terrible storm, a storm that would take another three months to arrive. 29 Walter and Mitchell March 29, 1950 "Mom, Dad..."

BECOMING Walter continued to read the evening newspaper. Lowering her section of the paper, Myra looked at her son.

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He'd waited nervously for dinner to end, and had even surprised his mother by helping her clear the table and dry the dishes without being asked. Now that dinner was over and his parents were sitting, relaxed, reading the paper, perhaps now was the best time to tell them. "Uh, me'n'Norman," taking a deep breath, "have joined the National Guard." Standing back, he awaited the explosion, but... "Norman and I!" His mother surprised him by first correcting his grammar, then further surprising him, said, "Your father was in the National Guard years ago. Did you know that?" "He was?" More than just a little surprised, he looked at Walter. "No, I didn't know that! Really? You were really in the Guard, Dad?" "Huh?" Walter lowered the paper. "What did you say?" Not fully realizing what the National Guard was since the end of the war, somehow thinking of it as a grown-up extension of the Boy Scouts, "Walter," Myra said, "Mitchell has joined the National Guard." "Oh? Did you know I was in the Guard?" Walter asked his son. "No... Well, yeah, mom just told me. When was it?" "Years ago, I don't know, probably when I was, what? Seventeen, eighteen. I can't believe you didn't know that. Matter of fact, I've got a picture somewhere. Myra, where's that picture?" "I'm not sure, Walt." Going into the dining room, Myra opened the bottom drawer of the built-in hutch--the same hutch cabinet in which, in the recessed top, Mitchell still hid his, by then, vast collection of naked lady tracings, an eight-pager he'd bought from Ronald Muskowitz, and two really good issues of National Geographic--and removed a gray cardboard box, the type of box that originally may have held a man's suit. Returning to the sofa, she sat down, and her son, breathing a sigh of relief because the news of his enlistment, at least for the time being, had been accepted, sat down next to her. Removing the top of the cardboard box, Myra laid it on the cushion alongside of her. The box was chock-full of family pictures. Rummaging until she found what she was looking for, studying it for a long moment, she clicked her tongue twice at seeing her forty-four-year-old husband at the age of seventeen or eighteen, then handed the picture to her son. In faded tones of brown, the picture showed a young man standing in a shooters pose pointing a Colt .45. Completely surprised by Walter's appearance, Mitchell looked from the picture to his father--who was sitting upright, watching, waiting to see his son's reaction--and back at the picture. The young Walter was wearing an old-fashioned, circa World War One uniform. The khaki, high-peaked, tri-cornered hat was held snugly in place by means of a leather strap held snugly under the point of his chin. He had on a dark khaki tunic, a leather Sam Brown belt and holster, lighter colored khaki jodhpurs, and canvas puttees. Though Walter was handsome and extremely youthful appearing for his age, looking at him, his son, as most

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children, could only see an old person, and Mitchell could not equate the picture of this handsome, young soldier--whom, in a modern-day uniform would look very much like he himself looked--to the "old man" that was sitting across from him. He desperately wanted to say something to his father and his mind struggled to find the right words but, "Dad, you used to be so young," or, "Dad, you used to be so handsome," seemed to be more an insult than a compliment, so Mitchell hid the shock of seeing his father as a handsome, young soldier behind a bland expression and, unable to articulate what he really felt, looking at the picture, said, "Dad, uh," knowing he must say something, asked, "how come you never said anything about this before?" Disappointed by his son's rather insipid reaction, "Oh, I don't know," Walter answered. "It all was so long ago, I guess I just forgot." To him, the time spent in his childhood and as a young man seemed to be that of another person and that of another lifetime. Besides, he'd never even considered discussing his early life with his son. After all, how does one intelligently converse with a kid who'd rather read a Superman comic book than Moby Dick? Seeing this as an opportunity for her husband and son to have, for once, an enlightening, friendly conversation, thinking that, maybe, they would be better off alone than with her there, standing, Myra said, "Think I'll check on the kids." Feeling deserted, the man and boy watched as she left the room, as though now alone together they must find some basic dialogue, but really, it shouldn't be too hard now that the father and son finally had something in common to discuss, but... "Uh," searching for a way to break the protracted silence, "you weren't in the war, were you? Uh, the old one?" Sighing, "No, Mitchell, I was too young for 'the old one' and your grandmother wouldn't let me enlist, and I was too old to be drafted for 'the new one' but I could have enlisted anyway... But I had you and your mother to think about, so..." His words trailed off and a faraway, almost pained look came to Walter's face. "I don't know." He sighed again. "I guess maybe I was lucky to stay out of both of them." Said flatly, without conviction, Walter felt a strongly suppressed urge, as though he'd missed the two great adventures of his lifetime and instead had been relegated, for his entire life, into the drudgery of marriage and parenthood and everyday living. Seeing the dark look on his father's face and, as it almost always was, Mitchell thought this look of, what he perceived to be disappointment, was directed at him. He wanted to ask, "Dad, how were things with you when this picture was taken?" He wanted to ask, "Dad, did you like it in the Guard?" And because at his age even one year made a difference, "Dad, do you think you were seventeen or eighteen when this picture was taken?" Mitchell wanted to talk to his father because then, for the very first time in their lives, they did have something in common... But instead the boy felt the void of distance and years, and so said nothing. Walter also felt this thin thread of something in common, of some all but forgotten, familiar ground that he'd once tread upon that his son was now treading upon. At this time Walter did feel a strong need to talk to his eldest son about his own younger years, about the years before he became a husband and before he became a father, but... Walter looked at his son and said nothing. Mitchell looked at his father and he, too, said nothing.

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Neither the father nor the son volunteered to be the first to speak, and after a few inept, prolonged moments, Walter lifted the newspaper, hiding his face, but, not reading, he considered putting the paper down and asking his son if he'd like to talk to him awhile... But instead, crossing his legs, Walter angled his body away from the boy, seemingly dismissing both his son and the aborted conversation. Sitting on the edge of the sofa with a faded photo of a familiar stranger in his hands, Mitchell began to feel awkward... In a few moments he put the picture back into the box, put the cover on, stood, crossed the room and put the box back into the bottom drawer of the hutch... Giving the father an excuse for, once again, losing himself in the evening newspaper... Giving the son an excuse to leave the room. 30 The National Guard... April Through July, 1950 ...was not exactly as Norman had pictured it, although his guess was pretty close, if one considers being off by more than fifty percent, close. A buck-private's pay for each three-hour weekly drill session was $2.25; for the two weeks of summer training, $37.50. Again, contrary to Norman, Mitchell immediately discovered that in the Army, or, if you will, the National Guard, the surest way not to get what you want is to want it. The weekly sessions, though, were not too far off from what he'd expected, being comprised of formation and drill, formation and drill, then later in the evening, after a cigarette break, drill and formation. Remembering his training at Baylor Military School, the execution of the well-remembered drill commands came easy, and although the twenty-five-pound field pack he was made to wear on his back and the eight-and-a-half-pound Garand M1 rifle he was made to carry on his shoulder became heavier and heavier as the session ground on, Mitchell didn't mind because being, maybe, just a bit overweight, he considered the time spent in the armory as exercise that the government of the United States was paying for. May 17, 1950 "La-pimp-sky, Parminter! Front and center!" His head snapping forward, Jesus! Mitchell thought, What'd I do now? Stepping out of line, he glanced at Norman, four men to the right, who'd also stepped forward. They marched front and center, halting in front of Master Sergeant Raphael Martinez. "Paraaade rest! At ease!" Martinez called. "Dismissed!" The formation broke for their cigarette break, and along with it, Norman and Mitchell. "Whoa! Not you two fuckin' clowns! You come with me, I wanna talk to the two'a you."

BECOMING Following Martinez outside, they stood at attention.

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"Jesus Christ! At ease, for Christ's sake!" Taking a package of Luckys from his tunic pocket, Martinez pushed three upward, took one himself, then held the cigarettes forward. "You two guys..." Flicking his Zippo to life, he passed the flame around, "...for a couple'a fuckin' Jews are pretty good in there," nodding his head towards the drill floor. "How's come you fuckers do drill so good?" "I'm in R.O.T.C.," Norman replied. "My folks sent me to military school during the war." Rolling his eyes, "Military school! Ain't that sweet! Her mommy sent her to fuckin' military school durin' the war," mimicking Mitchell, who blushed. Master Sergeant Raphael Martinez reminded Mitchell of Frank Rizzo a little because he was small and wiry. But that was where the resemblance ended. The sergeant had straight, black hair cut into a military brush. He had dark, almost black, eyes and thick, scraggly eyebrows that jutted in all directions as though he'd purposely brushed them against their grain. His nose was long and thin, with large nostrils overgrown with coarse hair that mingled with a mustache so thick that it was impossible to tell where the nose hair ended and the mustache began. A jagged, white scar bisected his lift sideburn and ran downward, past his jaw onto his neck. Above the left pocket of his tunic were three rows of combat and campaign ribbons, including a Purple Heart. "You know," Martinez said, "it's really tough shit when my two best men are a couple'a fuckin' Jews." Taking a deep drag on the Lucky, he exhaled through his nostrils. Fascinated, Mitchell watched the sergeant's nose hair wave in the twin streams of gray smoke, as Norman, not sure what to make of the backhanded compliment, said, "No shit, Sarge, we're really that good, eh!" Martinez smiled. Obviously capped, in comparison to the rest of his teeth, his two front teeth were disproportionately white. "Hey, you fuckers, don't go gettin' all swell-headed; you ain't all that good! It's just that the rest'a them shit-heads..." motioning with his head again, "ain't no fuckin' good at all!" Taking another drag on the cigarette, "You two guys want to volunteer to be on my mortar squad." "Huh?" Not sure if this was a question or an order, "Uh, Sarge," Norman asked, "are you asking or telling?" "That's how it sounded to you, Parminter, like a question?" Not waiting for an answer, "Shit, no!" he said. "That weren't no question; that were a tell!" "A tell? I thought you asked if we wanted to volunteer to be on your mortar squad." "Like maybe it sounded like I'm askin', but you didn't understand me real proper-like. You two fuckers are on my mortar squad." Taking a deep draw on the cigarette, Martinez began to cough, hawked up some phlegm, turned his head to the right and with a loud Phflett! spit the glob onto the sidewalk where it landed with an audible splat... between a pair of glossy, spit-shined boots, leaving a silver tendril of sputum trailing across on mirrored toe. "Wha'the'fuck?" A hand reached forward, grabbed Martinez by the sleeve of his tunic and pulled him around. "Ya'fuckin'son'of'a'bitch!" The voice deep and gravely, "What the fuck ya think you're doin'?" Astonished, though the voice had sounded somewhat familiar to Mitchell, there was no mistaking the face and body.

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Leaning forward, clasping the soldier's fist, forcing the hand open, "What the fuck you callin' me?" Martinez said through clenched teeth. "You fat, fuckin' prick!" Bending the soldier's fingers, he jerked upward on the hand forcing the much larger man to step in even closer... Nearing nineteen years of age, Corporal, William "Skorp" Skorupski was 6'1", weighed 252 pounds and had a noticeable paunch. His shiny, pink scalp showing through closely-cropped, light blonde hair, Skorupski's complexion was deep red, as though he'd sat too close to a sun lamp for too long a time. His squat face was pocked with flat, red scars, the remnants of a hundred, or a thousand, ruptured pimples. Black, Mexican eyes stared into pale blue Polish eyes and the faces of both men underwent a startling change: The jagged, white scar became translucent red against the deep crimson of Martinez's anger-flushed face. Skorupski's face turned chalk white and the flattened pimple scars appeared to become accentuated, as if refilled with pus. "'Ey, Sarge, let up, man!" Standing on his toes, Skorupski attempted to go with the pressure being exerted on his fingers. "Oh, come on, Sarge, le'go! I'm fuckin' sorry! I didn't know it was you!" Releasing him with a shove, causing Skorupski to take two steps backward, "Don't you ever call me a son of a bitch!" Poking him in the chest, standing on tiptoes, attempting to bring his face to the level of Skorupski's. "Ever! You fuckin' hear me?" Backed against the steel handrail, "Yeah," opening and closing his hand, working the pained fingers, "sure, Sarge. I'm fuckin' sorry. Like I said, I didn't know it was you. Okay?" Looking over the shorter man's head, noticing Mitchell, squinting, staring at him, "Hey, don't I know you from someplace?" Rather hoping Skorupski didn't remember him, "No, I don't think so," Mitchell said. "I'd remember if I know you." "I d'know, you look real familiar." Still staring, trying to remember, "Like maybe you're someone I used to know." A loud, shrill whistle signaled the end of the break. "Come on, time to get back." Flipping his cigarette with a trailing tail of sparks, "You two guys hang around after the drill. I wanna talk to you some more." Glancing at Skorupski, Martinez rushed into the armory. Flipping their cigarettes also, the boys followed Martinez inside. Scratching his head, Skorupski watched Mitchell's back, then he, too, rushed inside. Nine-thirty, the session over. "Sarge," Martinez, Norman and Mitchell, once again outside, "what's a mortar squad do?" Enunciating each syllable, purposely mispronouncing his name, "La-pimp-sky, you sure are one dumb cocksucker, ain't'j'ya?" Sighing, bringing his eyes back to Martinez, "Yeah, Sarge, if you say so." "La-pimp-sky, a mortar squad carries the mortar and ammo."

BECOMING "Yeah, Sarge, I know that, but what'd'they do after that?" "Do? I told'j'ya, they..."

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"I mean, yeah, I know they carry the mortar and stuff! But let's say we're in a battle, a real battle, where would we be?" "Up shit creek, La-pimp-sky," he laughed. "Up shit creek!" "What he wants to know is, would we be functioning as an advance unit or as rear support?" "Advance unit? Rear support? Jesus, Parminter, you really did learn something in R.O.T.C. after all, didn't'j'ya? Parminter, I wouldn't trust the two'a you fuckers behind me with a pea shooter." Drawing on his cigarette, becoming serious, "Look, we ain't a weapons company, but Captain Trainer wants a mortar squad for McCoy, so's it really don't make a flyin' fuck where the two'a you'd be in a real battle 'cause this is just for the duration of McCoy. I need six guys for the squad, an' seein' as you two seem to have some kind'a half-assed kind'a prior trainin', I'm gonna make the two'a you squad leaders." "Squad leaders!" Looking at Norman, Mitchell's eyebrows went up. "We're gonna haul the gun!" he said, not unhappily, thinking he and Norman might be exempt from the long marches he knew were a part of maneuvers. "How do we do it," he asked hopefully. "By truck?" "First off, a mortar ain't no fuckin' gun!" Martinez corrected. "An' no, you dumb shit, you don't go by truck! What the fuck you think? You think the Army's the fuckin' Chicago Transit Authority? You're gonna march, just like the rest'a them fuckers." "The mortar; how much does it weigh?" Norman asked. "The tub's twenty-seven pounds and the base, thirty." "How'll we lug it?" "I figure you'd start off with the tube, and Parminter here, the base. Then, if you guys want, you can switch off during the march." "The tube? How?" "Over your fuckin' shoulder and the base'll hook onto your buddy's field pack." "Sarge, the tube and base, a full field pack, and an M1? Ain't that just a little too much?" "You dumb shit, La-pimp-sky! How the fuck you think you'd be able to march holdin' the tube and a fuckin' M1? The two'a you'll be issued .45s." "No shit!" Glancing at Norman, Mitchell's face broke into a broad smile. "Really, Sarge? I'm going to be issued a .45? A real .45!" "Sure a real .45! You think the Army'd give you a fuckin' toy gun?" "We get to shoot 'em and everything, huh!" Thinking these two were underage, now thinking that Mitchell was even younger than he'd first thought,

BECOMING looking at him quizzically, "They ain't no fuckin' cap pistols, but, yeah, you'll get to shoot 'em." Turning to Norman, poking his thumb in Mitchell's direction, "What the fuck's wrong with him?"

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"Nothin', Sarge. It's just that..." knowing it sounded stupid, "him'n'me were talking, before we joined here, and he said that he hoped he'd be able to get a .45, uh, to use." Looking skyward, "Jesus," Martinez said. "Give me strength! What a bunch of fuckin', baby pussies! La-pimp-sky, if you ever found yourself in a real battle you'd sure want to trade that fuckin' .45 for an M1 with a bayonet fast enough." Holding the low burning stub of his cigarette between the darkly nicotine-stained fingernails of his thumb and forefinger, drawing deeply on the last half-inch, he flicked the ember in the air. "Yeah, well I'm glad we don't have to worry about whether or not I'd want an M1 over a .45, 'cause fortunately there ain't no war going on now." "Yeah, La-pimp-sky, thank God there ain't no war goin' on now, 'cause I don't know where we'd be if this country had to rely on a bunch'a dumb fuckers like the two'a you!" June 25, 1950 The North Korean Army crosses the 38th parallel. The Military Disease A strange, almost immediate phenomenon takes place affecting most men as they cross from civilian to military life. Within hours of stepping from the comparatively relaxed ease and social structure of life as a civilian into the highly disciplined, well-ordered life of the military, though the man may be well educated, a second-year engineering student or a third-year economics major, single or married, with or without children, a regular or merely fulfilling his military obligation, an enlisted man or a draftee... Once that man crosses the line from civilian to military he, almost always, becomes infected with the "military disease." As warm air rises and bubbles float upward, the new inductee, intellectually, goes in the opposite direction and literately drops to the lowest possible level. What is this military disease? It is not physical. Its meaning no longer the meaning, the military disease can best be described in a word, in one word: FUCK, and the derivatives of that word: FUCKED, FUCKER, and most especially, FUCKING. Normally intelligent men whose harshest expletive in civilian life might be a reserved "Damn," find themselves saying, without being aware, or if they are aware, without the slightest qualm, "Oh, fuck! That fucker just stepped on my fuckin' shoe and I'll be fucked if I didn't just polish 'em!" Usually, with most men, the corrective remedy is a short dose of civilian life, or a few minutes with the opposite sex. When there is no mixed company, or a hint of civilian life, the military disease runs rampant.

BECOMING Camp McCoy, Sparta, Wisconsin July 27 Through August 3, 1950

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The gray brick building housing the armory and the 33rd Infantry Division covered a full quarter-block on the southwest corner of Chicago's Madison and Rockwell streets. At precisely 0730 hours on the hot, muggy morning of Saturday, July 27, 1950, the drivers of a convoy of thirty-seven khaki and field-green camouflaged troop carriers turned the keys and stepped on the accelerators starting their Ford and International Harvester motors amidst a roaring and spewing of noxious gray exhaust. Thirty seconds later, the lead vehicle pulled away from the curb with a jerk, jolting the eighteen National Guard troopers sitting on wooden benches on either side of the canvas-covered truck. The early morning trip through the West Side into the Loop encountered minimal traffic and arrived at Union Station at 0817 hours. With another jolt, the trucks stopped in their assigned disembarkation area. Jumping from his seat in the cab, the corporal assigned to each truck went behind the truck and, with an echoing clatter, "Fall in!" dropped the tailgate. Swinging their olive-green, canvas duffel bags before them, the troopers lowered themselves off the truck and, facing the corporal, formed a double column. "Tench, hup!" Bodies straighten. Heels snap together with toes at a 45-degree angle. "Dress right, dress!" Heads turn to the right, right arms extend, touching the shoulder of the next man. "Tench, hup!" Arms drop, heads snap forward. "Ri-ight face! Grab your bags!" Lifted off the ground, the troopers hoist the bags to their left shoulders. "For-ward harch! Hup, two, three, four! Hup, two, three, four!" Approximately 672 soldiers formed 56 squads of 12 men each that comprised platoons Able, Baker, Charlie and Dog, which comprised about fifty percent of the Third Battalion of the First Regiment of the 33rd Armored Division, which merged with the second half of the battalion--from a south side armory--that even then were marching from the opposite end of the parking lot, into the train depot, through the gates and onto the outer platform. Shoe leather slapping on concrete echoed as almost three-thousand boot-clad feet marched in place until they could file through the two bottleneck entries on either side of forty coaches of the train going northward... Through Chicago... Past Rockford... Out of Illinois... Into Wisconsin, where...

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Two-hundred, forty-eight miles later, the train stopped to unload its military cargo at Sparta, Wisconsin, where the entire corps once again was loaded into troop carriers for the final twenty-eight-mile ride to the U.S. Army training facility at Camp McCoy... Where the convoy aligned along white-painted, concrete curbs. Ignitions turned off and, as though echoing, the clattering tailgates dropped in a semblance of unison. Disembarking, the troops gawked at their new surroundings for a moment, until they're called to... "Shit!" Dropping his duffel bag off the rear of the truck, Mitchell squatted a moment looking about, then followed it down. "I'm glad that's over. What a trip!" Bringing his arms together in front of his chest, making fists, he tightened then relaxed the muscles of his arms, back, chest and legs. "Yeah, me, too!" Following Mitchell, Norman stretched, then pressed his fists into the small of his back. The entire movement, from the armory on the west side of Chicago to this place in southern Wisconsin, had taken slightly under six hours, and now they might as well have been on the moon as here, in this camp, in their neighboring state. From where they stood they could see row upon row of Quonset-like barracks. Each structure was separated from side to side by ten feet of well-maintained grass, and by 12 feet of black macadam that went from the front of each row of structures to the rear of the next row of structures. Turning about, looking in the opposite direction, was an enormous parade ground with a wood-tiered, white-painted review stand, and beyond, what appeared to be endless miles of plushly wooded, rolling hills. The broiling sun shone in a cloudless sky. Countless swarms of gnats circled in mindless formations and the oppressive, mid-afternoon air fairly steamed with humidity and seemed to be alive with the urgent buzz of flies and mosquitoes. "Fall in! Fall in! This ain't no fuckin' vacation! Fall the fuck in!" Within minutes each contingent was marched to their assigned barracks, and throughout camp thousands of men were issued the same orders: "Take your bunks in the same order as parade formation; column one to the right and column two to the left. Stow your gear under the bunk, take a piss if you gotta, and reassemble for chow in ten minutes. Dismissed!" Before this weekend was over, the first and second battalions of the 33rd Division, U.S. National Guard, consisting of approximately four thousand enlisted men, officers and equipment, will arrive and occupy Camp McCoy for two weeks of field maneuvers and military training. Korea... ...was constantly on the minds of the officers and older enlisted men, most of whom were World War Two veterans. Rumors abounded and scuttlebutt ran rampant. "Hey, j'ya hear? We're goin' to fuckin' Korea!" "Bullshit!" "Ain't no bullshit! I heard it from a guy that knows a guy that's a clerk for Captain Thompson, who's on Colonel Black's staff, who's best friends with General Penston's valet."

BECOMING "Bullshit! We got better'n four-hundred-thousand troops in the regular army and before they'd send this fuckin', half-assed know-nothin' greenhorn division they'll pull some'a them fuckers outta Japan an' West Germany and send them!" "Bullshit!"

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"Hey, j'ya hear? They're extendin' this here trainin' exercise to fuckin' three months an' then they're shippin' our asses right over to fuckin' Korea! I wouldn't bullshit ya, man!" "Bullshit!" "We're getting' activated!" "Hey, dip-shit, even if fuckin' Eisenhower did activate us, by the time they finish trainin' this here fuckin' weekend warrior army, the fuckin' Marines'n'regulars'll mop the place up with them fuckin' gooks, an' it'll be over before we even get there." "Bullshit!" "Yeah, man, we'll bomb the livin' shit outta them yella, mother-fuckin', nip bastards an' never even have'ta step foot in the fuckin', stinkin' place." "They ain't no fuckin' nips, they're fuckin' Koreans." "Japs, Koreans, same fuckin' difference; they're all nips!" "Hey, I hear ol' Ike's gonna drop a A-bomb on them fuckin', slanty-eyed, commie, gook, sons'a'bitchin' bastards." "Bullshit!" "G'bye good ol' U-S-of-A an' hello fuckin' South Pacific!" "Bullshit!" "How the fuck ya say 'fuck' in Korean?" "Dumb, asshole, shit: fuckee, fuckee, suckee, suckee." For the younger troops, the kids who turned the radio dial when the news came on, the punks whose only interest in the newspaper was the sports and movie section, the radio schedule and funnies, Korea and the real concept of war was still a comic book and a movie where the good guys always win and the bad guys always lose and God, God is always on the side of us "good, red-blooded Americans." Norman Parminter and Mitchell Lipensky certainly fell within the punk category. They didn't want to be activated, but if it did happen, "What the fuck can we do about it?" Norman had said. "And really," Mitchell had replied, "it is the South Pacific, after all! And what could be so terrible? It might even be fun; no more school for a while, and soldiers in uniform always have girls to fuck around with. And when it's over, say in, oh, about six months on the outside, and we do come home and go back to school, well fuck the football team! You'n'me, pal, we'll be real heroes. Oh, yeah!

BECOMING And once again, a vigorous, emphatic... Bullshit! * "Don't...

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"...take no silverware!" A burly, sweating soldier wearing a white chef's hat and a grimy T-shirt with hand-painted corporal stripes on both sleeves yelled as each group of men came within hearing distance. "Ya ain't gonna be getting' nothin' you'll need silverware for, just sandwiches an' milk! Don't take no fuckin' silverware!" Looking beyond the long rows of stainless steel steam tables, Mitchell saw a half-dozen men sweating over the scouring of huge pots and pans and the mopping of the linoleum-covered floor. Must be regulars, he stupidly thought. "Okay, fall in!" Hardly finished with their peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches, the men of Charlie Company were reassembled, marched back to their barracks, and shown the proper way to stow their gear in the wooden trunks at the end of each bunk, and the Army way to make that bunk. The bunks were horizontal springs on a steel frame with a three-inch thick mattress. On the top of each mattress was a thin pillow, a wrinkled, folded sheet, a pillowcase and a musty smelling, Army-issue olive green blanket. "Here, you can bounce a quarter off it, see?" Showing them how, Martinez had made a bunk and, when dropped, the quarter bounced twice. "This is how them bunks is to be made, an' to be sure, we'll be havin' inspections every mornin' before chow at..." hesitating, smiling, he said, "0530" "Five-fuckin'-thirty! Sarge, we gotta be up an' have these here fuckin' beds made by five-fuckin'-thirty?" PFC Jason Linville moaned. "Yeah, Linville, an' not only that, but you gotta be shaved'n'dressed in the uniform of the day, an' this here barracks an' grounds all gotta be policed, too!" "Jesus!" a high-pitched voice squeaked. "When the fuck's reveille?" Not having to look to see who'd spoken, "Caraboolad, you fuckin' A-rab! What the fuck you worryin' about? I hear all you fuckin' A-rabs pack their tents and skedaddle before daylight..." A few men laughed. "...before the cops get there to see what you pricks swiped the night before." "I ain't no fuckin' A-rab, Sarge! I told you a thousand times I'm Armenian!" "Don't mean a flyin' fuck to me; to me you're all A-rabs... 0445!" There was silence for a moment, then the men realized what he'd said, and another voice moaned, "4:45! We gotta get up at a quarter-to-fuckin' five?"

BECOMING "Yeah, you gotta! An' see how nice the U.S. Army is to give you fuckers all that time to do all that stuff before chow... Oh, by the way..." as though it were an afterthought, "when you assemble it'll be with your pieces, 'cause I'm gonna inspect them, too. An' you better be on time 'cause chow's at 0530." The rest of that afternoon, till chow call at 1730 hours, 5:30, was spent in camp orientation.

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Supper was comprised of tough, semi-dry roast beef, peas, mashed potatoes with thick, brown gravy, fresh salad with a selection of dressings consisting of French dressing, bread and butter, milk or coffee, and vanilla ice cream sandwiches... all of which Mitchell Lipensky ate with great zeal. After supper, until lights out at 2100 hours, squads were assigned and their duties outlined. The newly formed five-man mortar squad that Mitchell and Norman had "volunteered" for was given the designation of Charlie-Zebra-Two. Norman was assigned as squad leader with Mitchell as second in command. The weapons had been sent ahead via military truck and now, as the serial numbers were called, each man stepped forward to receive the Garand M1 rifle assigned to him at the time of his first training session in the armory in Chicago. Side arms were also issued to those men receiving special assignments. "Li-pimp-sky, Parminter, front an' center!" Handing it to him, "Here," looking at Mitchell, "An' you remember," Martinez said, "this ain't a fuckin' toy." Felling a thrill as Martinez handed him a burnished, brown leather holster wrapped within a web belt containing a U.S. Army issue Colt .45, automatic pistol. "Yeah, Sarge. Thanks." Going to his cot, pulling the flap open, he removed the pistol. Even though there was no clip in the handle, pointing it downward nonetheless, he pulled the slide to be sure there wasn't a round in the chamber, then let it slide forward with a sharp, metallic sklickk. Hefting the gun in his hand, enjoying the weight and feel, "Hey, Sarge," he asked. "When we gonna get the mortar?" "Them weapons'll be issued you guys in the field, an' you'll get your indoctrination on 'em then, too... Now listen up!" addressing the entire barracks. "You fuckers got about an hour till lights out, so I suggest you field-strip them M1s an' make sure they'll pass inspection tomorrow mornin'." Going to his partitioned quarters at the far end of the barracks, "Oh, yeah," turning about, smiling evilly, "almost forgot." Martinez said, "You guys that ain't done it yet, better check tomorrow's duty roster before lights out." Stepping inside, closing the door behind him, he immediately heard the rush of feet as fifty men rushed to the bulletin board and, within seconds, as each man found his name, the groans from those assigned work details: KP, guard and field-latrine duties for tomorrow, for their first full day at Camp McCoy. "Sarge," knocking on the door, "it's Lipensky'n'Parminter." "Yeah, what'd'ya want?" He knew what they wanted. "Sarge, what do we do?" "'Bout what?" "'Bout tomorrow's work detail."

BECOMING "Go to bed!" "Go to bed?" "Yeah! That's what I fuckin' said. Get in the fuckin' sack!" Wearing only U.S. Army-issue skivvies, Mitchell lay with the blanket covering to his waist. His hands crossed beneath his head, waiting, he stared at the ceiling... Waiting... Waiting... It started. Taps. The sad, melodic sound of the bugle wafted throughout the camp. Hanging on air, it seemed to echo as a second bugle, at the far end of the sprawling compound, began a scant second after the first. He remembered, and this sad, sweet, all but forgotten memory of his childhood returned. Closing his eyes, thinking, When I open my eyes I'll be nine years old, and at Baylor. Taps: Day is done. Gone the sun. From the lake, from the hills, from the sky. Mitchell opened his eyes. But he was not nine years old, nor was he at Baylor Military School. He looked to the right and looked to the left.

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In the vague, muted moonlight he saw the two rows of cots and heard the breathing and rustling of fifty men... He closed his eyes again.... * "Hey! Hey, you! Par-min-ter!" "Wha, wh'sa matter?" Jarred awake by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder, he opened his eyes, then closed them against the harsh glare of a bright flashlight. "Par-min-ter, get your ass up!" "Huh? I ain't Parminter!" Jerking his thumb to the right, "He's there." Leaving his face, the light moved to the strip of adhesive tape on the bed frame, then up again, to the clipboard held in the man's hand. "Oh, yeah, you're Li... Li-pin..." Pulling the blanket over his head, "Lipensky." "Yeah," Pulling the blanket down again. "Lip, uh, whatever the fuck your name is, get your ass up, I want

BECOMING you, too!" Shaking him again, "You up?" "Yeah! Yeah, already! I'm up!" The soldier pulled the blanket completely off. Wearing only underwear, Mitchell shivered in the cool night air. "I wanna see your fuckin' feet on the fuckin' deck!" Sitting up, shifting his body to the side of the cot, putting both feet onto the floor, "Okay, see!" "Yeah! Get ready an' report to the mess in ten minutes! You hear?" Not waiting for a reply, the light left Mitchell's face and, traveling four bunks down the line, "Par-min-ter, get your ass up!" *

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The closer they came, the more pronounced the sounds became: The clanging and scraping of pots and pans; the movement of feet on wooden decking; the thunking of heavy refrigerator doors; harshly given orders; swearing, talking, and the delicious aroma of... "Jesus, but that coffee smells good!" His apprehension over KP momentarily overcome by the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. Holding the screen door open, giving Mitchell first entry, "Yeah, you're right." "Well, well, well, if it ain't my ol' pal, Lipensky!" "Oh, shit!" Hearing the booming voice, he stopped walking. "That's that guy that had the run-in with Martinez." Norman said. "Come on in, Mitchie, don't be bashful. We're ol' pals." "How's he know you?" Norman asked as they began the walk around the barrier of stainless-steel steam tables that separated the kitchen from the general mess area. "That's Skorupski. I was hoping he wouldn't remember me." "Who the hell's Skorupski?" "A schmuck, a real schmuck I went to Baylor with." A white chef's hat sitting squarely atop his head, "Imagine that!" Skorupski stood behind a huge black range stirring a large pot of oatmeal with a long-handled spoon. His bulging stomach hung over a tightly-tied, dirty apron and a food-smeared T-shirt stretched across his overly ample chest. "I thought I knew you when I saw you that time with Martinez, only it took me a little while till I remembered who you was. Ain't too many guys around as pretty as my ol' Jew pal Lipensky." "Uh-oh." Norman said from the corner of his mouth. "Grab a cup'a'jo if you want." The chef's hat wiggling, Skorupski motioned with his head towards a large

BECOMING spigoted pot sitting on a low fire at the far end of the second range.

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Each taking a cup from a rack on a table, going to the range, the boys took turns holding it under the steaming spigot. "Maybe it won't be so bad." Norman whispered. "If he knew you when you were kids, maybe he'll give us some easy stuff to do." "I don't think so." Mitchell looked at Skorupski, who was still stirring oatmeal. "He's a prick, and besides, he hates Jews." "You!" Pointing the dripping spoon at Norman, "put one'a them trays," pointing to a stack of large, deep trays that were sitting on the sink, "into the steam table," pointing, "there." "Yeah, sure." Going to the sink, Norman took a tray, went to the steam table and fitted it into the opening that Skorupski was pointing to, but the boiling water moved the buoyant tray off the retaining lips and turned it sideways, causing it to sink on its side to the depth of the boiling water. He attempted to fit the now hot tray into the opening, but, again, it floated off. Watching, amused, "Hold it down!" Steam fogging his glasses, wincing in pain as the water burned his fingers, Norman attempted to hold two sides of the tray as Skorupski, using pot holders, the muscles of his arms bulging with the weight, lifted the oatmeal off the stove and carried it to the steam table. Tipping the large pot, he let the lumpy contents splash into the tray, weighing it down, but also, purposely splattering Norman's bare arms and clean fatigues with molten oatmeal. Helplessly, Norman looked at Mitchell, who, shrugging his shoulders silently mouthed, "He's a prick!" Tossing the pot in the sink with a loud clatter, Skorupski yelled, "Wash it!" to Norman, then turning to Mitchell, "You! I wanna talk to you!" Following him outside, he waited as Skorupski took a crumpled package of Camels from his right sock, lit one, then, jabbing a finger into Mitchell's chest said, "What the fuck you doin' here?" "What do you mean, what the fuck am I doin' here?" "Just what I said! Jews don't volunteer to join the fuckin' Army. You kike, fuckers go to fuckin' college to become fuckin' lawyers'n'doctors'n'fuckin'officers!" he said vehemently. "Skorp..." "While you're in this here place," vaguely motioning about, "it's Corporal Skorupski to you, asshole!" "Yeah, Corporal Skorupski. First off, I'm too young to go to college, and secondly it ain't none of your fuckin' business why I'm here, but I'll tell you anyway! I'm here because I fuckin' wanna be here!" "You sheeny, cocksucker! I hope they ship your fuckin' ass to Korea and them fuckin' gook bastards blow it to fuckin' pieces... You ever see that other asshole, your dago buddy, Rizzo?" "Yeah, I spent some time with him last year." "In his neighborhood?"

BECOMING "Yeah, in his neighborhood." "It's a wonder them fuckin' wops didn't tear your head off and shove it up your sheeny ass." "Yeah, a couple of 'em tried," exaggerating just a bit, "and Frankie'n'me me beat the shit out of 'em."

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"Oh, yeah, Lipensky, I'll just bet you beat the shit out of 'em." Taking a deep draw on the cigarette, he smiled. "Actually, you have no idea how glad I am to see you an' your buddy in there." Cocking his head backward, "He's a Jew, too, ain't he? Well, seein' as I know you so well, I'm gonna give you'n'your pal the best jobs I got." Taking a final drag on the cigarette, Skorupski flipped it into the darkness. "Uh-oh," looking at his watch. "0430. Come on, Lipensky, time to put your ass to work." Inside, Norman had been put to work by one of the other mess officers and, still at the sink, up to his elbows in soap suds, he was trying to keep even with a growing mountain of dirty pots and pans. Opening a refrigerator door, reaching inside, "Lipensky, start fryin'!" Skorupski began tossing three-pound packages of bacon at Mitchell, who, unaware that they were coming his way, missed the first two. "Or, bein' as it ain't kosher an' you are maybe you can't." Glaring at him, "Nah, I love bacon!" Mitchell said, catching the next ten packages thrown. The fat sizzling and popping in all directions, causing pinpoints of pain to course up and down his bare arms, the thin slices of bacon, some of it burned and brittle and some of it pink and practically raw, were scooped off the griddle--to make room for more--and thrown into a serving tray until all 36 pounds were set into the steam table between the oatmeal tray and a tray of watery, scrambled eggs. "You clowns..." speaking to this day's complement of eight kitchen helpers--two each from four of the eight platoons that this mess would feed--"better grab some chow an' take a crap if you gotta, 'cause in a few minutes the troops'll be stormin' through here an' then you fuckers won't even have time to take a piss." As the three mess non-coms served the meal, the eight orderlies scoured the pots and pans. Cups, glasses, silverware and the compartmentalized metal trays were put into a steam washer, washed, removed while hot and put back on the racks for the men still coming thorough the line. After each meal the floor was swept and tables scrubbed. After dinner, the stove and steam tables would be scoured from top to bottom and the entire mess swept and swabbed so that when the next day's crew of cooks and KP orderlies came on duty everything was shipshape. 0632. "You two!" Crooking his finger, "Follow me!" Skorupski led Norman and Mitchell to the rear of the mess hall and outside, where... Sitting in the drab morning light were two milk crates and one large, galvanized washtub. On the top of each milk crate was a potato peeler, and in the dirt, centered behind the crates... "Holy shit!" Centered behind the milk crates were more potatoes than either boy had ever thought existed. "Fill that tub with water," pointing to a water hose attached to a spigot. "Peel them spuds an' when the tub gets full dump the water and haul 'em inside so's we can cut'n'cook 'em."

BECOMING Mitchell and Norman looked at each other, the mountain of potatoes and, finally, Skorupski. "All of 'em?" they both asked incredulously.

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"Yeah! Bet your ass, all of 'em! An' you'd better get your asses in gear 'cause," glancing at his watch, "it's 0637 an' we gotta have them spuds cookin' in a couple'a hours." Turning away, Skorupski looked back. "Oh, yeah! An' be sure to dig the fuckin' eyes out! I hate spuds full'a fuckin' eyes." * Their faces, necks and arms were sunburned and covered with smears and blotches of white potato starch from where they'd swatted at flies and mosquitoes. The heat of the July sun radiating through the pants, shirts and fatigue hats they wore, they would have moved to the shade, but there was no shade. Their hands and fingers were nicked in a dozen places from the unwieldy potato peelers and, at the same time, stiff from starch and wrinkled from water. Their backs, shoulders and legs ached from sitting hunched on the low wooden milk crates and... "Damn it!" Standing, Norman pulled a sliver from the seat of his pants. "This thing's killing my ass!" They sat angled towards each other with the tub to their front and the potatoes to their rear. As neither boy wanted to look at the remaining pile, they'd reach blindly for a potato, peel it, dig the eyes out, toss it into the tub, rinse their hands, swat at a fly, scratch a mosquito bite, and reach for another potato. "Shit," Mitchell moaned, "how much more we gotta do?" "I don't wanna look." Poking his head through the door, "Hey, you!" Skorupski yelled, "Get some'a them spuds in here, on the double!" Standing, painfully straightening their backs, each grasping a handle, tilting the tub, pouring most of the water out, the boys carried the near-filled tub into the steamy kitchen. "Dump 'em here!" The potatoes spilled into the double sink, "Hey, you'n'you!" Skorupski called on two other men, "Quarter 'em!" to cut the potatoes into quarters. "You, two!" pointing at Norman and Mitchell. "Back outside!" Going back outside, "Oh, shit!" they couldn't help but see the remaining potato pile. "Oh, shit!" they moaned in unison. "Oh, fuck!" 1115: The mess crew had lunch. 1145: The first of the troops stormed through the door. After the last soldier left the mess hall and the last of the after-lunch duties were performed, "You two," crooking his finger again, Skorupski pointed to the door, "Follow me!" and walked outside. "Seein' as you two shit-heads..." he said, smiling, "done such a great job this mornin', I just naturally figured that you'd just love to do it again." Both thinking, You son-of-a-bitch! each said, "Oh, no!"

BECOMING

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Because the mountain of potatoes that had so laboriously, so slowly, diminished that morning had, once again, sprung from the bare earth. 1505 (3:05 p.m.) Standing, Mitchell stretched, and... Pop! "Huh?" Norman looked up. "What the hell was that?" Looking at his left wrist, flexing it again... Pop! Doing the same with his right wrist... Pop! "What the hell you doin'?" "Don't know, Normie. Every time I do this..." leaning closer, he flexed first the right... pop... then... pop... his left wrist and his bones made a popping sound. "Maybe it's because of the way I've been holdin' the peeler'n'potatoes." Sitting in the torrid sun, feeling hatred for Skorupski, his entire body had been tensed and for the past two hours he'd held both the peeler and potatoes tightly, and he'd also held his jaw clenched and now, feeling the tension, opening his mouth, Mitchell moved his lower jaw to the right... pop... and to the left... pop. "Jesus, Mitchie, you sound kind'a like popcorn. Does it hurt?" "Actually, no," popping again, "it doesn't hurt at all." If he didn't do it, possibly it would have gone away. But the more he popped the more he was compelled to pop and when he didn't pop he felt a kind of tension in his wrists and jaw. By the time he finally went to bed that night, humming Yankee Doodle, discovering a new talent, Mitchell was able to accompany himself with his bones. July 12, 1950 "Fall in! Tench-hup!" As though the shadow of an echo, three other voices gave identical commands within a micro-second of each other. "Dress right, dress! Right shoulder, arms!" The stocks of their rifles snapped into position on their right shoulders, the barrels all pointed at precisely the same upward angle. "Riiiight, face!"

BECOMING

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Two hundred soldiers turned, their heavy-soled combat boots pivoting to the right, their left feet snapped into place at a 45-degree angle. "Forward, harch! Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four!" Four hundred feet lifting in near perfect unison, the fifty men of the third platoon, wearing full field packs, marched from their barracks... "Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four!" with Master Sargent Rafael Martinez counting cadence, "Hup-two-three-four!" as did master sergeants Zeke Potter for the first platoon, Stewart Lipari the second and Kevin Sloan the fourth. The four platoons separated by twenty paces, each sergeant was positioned precisely three paces to the left of the center points of each of their double column of soldiers. "Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four!" Their voices distinct to the men of their respective platoons, together, the four voices melded into an echoing, harmonious mode. "Column leeeft, harch!" Potter called as the first platoon reached the bisecting road. The entire platoon, turning to the left, pivoted at the same point in the road, "Column leeeft, harch!" as did the second, third and fourth platoons. The voices of the four sergeants and the beat of the men's feet blending as one, the men of the third battalion marched out of Camp McCoy. Twelve miles to the south, the three-day bivouac destination was a beautiful open field surrounded by low, sparsely wooded rolling hills. "You had a good home when you left!" Martinez called. "You're right!" the troops returned. "Your Mama was there when you left!" "You're right!" "Sound off!" "One, two!" "Sound off!" "Three, four!" "Cadence count!" "One, two, three, four--one, two... Three, four!" From the black macadam of the camp onto the dirt road going south, "Hup-two-three-four!" The day was hot, bright and dry, and soon a light cloud of brown dust hung over the marching army

BECOMING "La-pimp-ski!" "Huh?" Almost losing his step, "Yes, Sir!" "Don't call me Sir, an' pick up the cadence!" "Cadence? Me?" "Your name's La-pimp-ski, ain't it?" "Lipensky!" "That's what I said, La-pimp-ski! Pick up the fuckin' cadence!" "Uh," hesitantly, thinking. "Well, La-pimp-ski, we're waiting!" "Uh," tentatively, "If we go, we're gonna be," If we go we're gonna be!" Gaining confidence, "The toughest fighting company!" "The toughest fighting company!" Louder, lifting his head, "Sound off!" "One, two!" "Sound off!" Louder. "Three, four!" Even louder. "Cadence count!" "One, two, three, four--one, two... Three, four!" *

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As the morning lengthened the heat of the sun became more intense and it radiated and magnified beneath the plastic-lined steel helmets and perspiration streamed down the men's faces. The snug-fitted field packs did not allow for evaporation and sweat pooled uncomfortably around the back of the belted fatigues. "Hup-two-three-four! Left shoulder, arms!" Thankfully, the weapons were shifted from their aching right shoulders to their left. "Hup-two-three-four!" Two hours out. After slightly more than six miles on this fairly level road, some of the men were beginning to limp.

BECOMING "Hup-two-three-four!" "Fuck, ain't they never gonna rest us?" PFC, Walt Klickner whispered from the corner of his mouth. "Hup-two-three-four!" "My fuckin' feet are killin' me," PFC Stephen Stanislawski muttered under his breath. "Hup-two-three-four!" "I'm diein'a thirst!" "Hup-two-three-four!" "Jesus, I gotta piss!" Looking to his right, "Quit your bitchin'!" Martinez yelled

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"Oy, gevalt!" Carrying the twenty-seven-pound mortar tube, he was thankful that Norman had suggested pinning folded handkerchiefs--by using safety pins from his Army issue sewing kit--under the shoulders of his fatigue jacket. The weight of the tub felt as though it was in the process of crushing his shoulder, but at least the skin had not been rubbed raw. Norman had also come up with the idea of Doctor Scholl's cushioned foot and heel pads--that they'd brought from home--so although his feet ached from this forced march he, as of yet, had not worn up a blister. The two anxiously awaited the words "Platoon halt!" echoed from sergeant to sergeant down the long column. "Finally!" "Thank God!" "No shit!" "Left face!" "Oy, vey!" "Order arms!" There was a shuffling of feet and the disorganized clunking of steel-covered rifle butts as they're lifted off aching shoulders and wearily set onto the rock-strewn ground. "I didn't tell you fuckers 'at ease,' did I!" Glaring at his platoon, Martinez angrily commanded, "Tench hup!" Bodies stiffened, heels snapped together, rifle butts pressed against the toes of their right boots, faces facing forward, all eyes looked straight ahead. "You look like a bunch'a goddamned pussies!" Walking the double column from end to end, Martinez looked at each man individually. "Okay, do it right this time! Right shoulder, arms!" Those of the platoon with rifles went through the four positions of the command.

BECOMING "Order arms!" Reversing the positions, the entire platoon stood at attention. "Parade, rest!"

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Left legs moved smartly 30 inches to the left, left arms snapped across the small of their backs. Right arms went straight forward, moving the rifle barrel to an angle perpendicular to their bodies. Standing at attention, facing forward, the sergeant's eyes shifted from right to left, then, "Tench, hup!" and before the men could perform the command, "At ease!" Sighing collectively, the men relaxed. "Okay, we're going to take a 15-minute break. Take a piss if ya gotta, an' light up, but don't get too relaxed, 'cause we still got..." hesitating, Martinez smiled, "more'n six miles to go." "Six miles! We still got six fuckin' miles to go!" "We only done less'n half way? Shit, Sarg!" "I ain't gonna fuckin' make it!" Waiting until the moans and groans stopped, "Like I was sayin', we still got more'n six miles to go, an' we ain't gonna stop again till we get there. Chow's gonna be there, waitin'! You guys getting' hungry?" "Does a whore's pussy smell like Limburger cheese?" "Yeah, it sure do!" one of the guys in the line answered. "Okay, take it easy a couple'a minutes, the rest'a the march'll be a snap for you. "Tench, hup!" And again, before the troops had a chance to come to attention, "Dismissed!" Scattering in all directions, the men looked for someplace to urinate, relieve their bowels, and/or find some shade and have a smoke. Not telling them, the sergeants didn't want their men to know that since leaving camp at 0700 hours, in little more than three hours the column had actually covered nearly eight miles and that the worst of the march was behind them. "Fall in!" "Shit! That couldn't have been fifteen minutes!" Slowly, painfully, the men forced themselves off the ground and out of whatever shade they'd found along this dusty road. "Shit, six miles to go!" "Fuck! Like the man said, more'n six miles to go." "Quit'j'ya bitchin'! Fall in! Tench, hup! Dress right, dress! Tench, hup! Right shoulder, arms! Riiiight, face!

BECOMING Forward, harch! Hup-two-three-four, hup-two-three!" Within an hour, hearing the groans, "Over hill, over dale," Martinez began to sing in a strong, unwavering voice. "Okay, you guys, pick it up! Over hill over dale..." A few of the men sang... "We will hit the dusty trail..." One by one, more voices joining in... "...as those caissons keep rolling along."

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Now, the entire platoon singing as one voice, "For it's hi, hi hee in the field artillery, shout out your numbers loud and strong!" Their backs straightening, their heads coming up, their feet lifting higher and coming down surer, "For where 'ere we go, you will always know, that those caissons, keep rolling along!" "Over hill, over dale..." The singing picked up by the first, second and fourth platoons... "...we will hit the dusty trail, as those caissons keep rolling along. For it's hi, hi, hee in the field artillery, shout out your numbers loud and strong! For where 'ere we go, you will always know, that those caissons, keep rolling along!" "Look smart, we're almost there! Hup-two-three-four!" How's that possible? Glancing at each other, thinking, How's that possible? We couldn't have gone more'n six miles in an hour and a half! Yet, as the column marched into a clearing, the odors of hot food suddenly weighed heavier than the dust that lined Mitchell and Norman's nostrils. "Platoon, halt! Left, face! Order, arms! At ease!" A collective sigh was heard as the men of the four platoons simultaneously received and executed the given orders. "Hey, we made it!" Relaxing, the men of the third platoon grinned at each other. "We really fuckin' made it!" Martinez, though, continued standing at parade rest, and as the men realized that he was watching them, straightening their backs, they stopped talking. Speaking in a low, menacing tone, "I just wanna tell you," Martinez said, "that for a bunch'a pussies, you fuckers..." As the smiles on the faces of the men faded, the sergeant's frown unexpectedly turned upward. "...did real good! Drop your gear where you're standin' an' grab some chow! Dismissed!"

BECOMING "Yeah!" The field mess unit: Cooked on base, the food was transported to the bivouac area by truck and kept hot in butane-heated steam tables.

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There are two alternating, non-commissioned duty cooks. One remained in the bivouac area for lunch, supper and overnight for breakfast. The duty cook was relieved after breakfast when the chow wagon came from base with that day's lunch and the relieving duty cook. The company mess was in the northern perimeter of the campground, beneath a camouflaged tent cover. "Well, well, well, if it ain't my two favorite Jew boys! Hungry, Mitchie?" "Yeah," holding his tray forward, waiting for Skorupski to drop a ladle of chocolate pudding into the one remaining empty compartment, "damned hungry!" "Shit! I'd taken bets the two'a you kikes would'a never made it all the way on your own. Come on, tell ol' Skorp the truth. You two fuckers passed out an' a truck had'a haul your worthless asses up here, huh?" Smiling, he looked for approval from the man standing behind Norman and Mitchell, but none came. "Oh, no, wait! I'll bet your ol' man called the base commander an' they brought you fuckers here in one'a them nice open Jeeps. Almost like the convertibles all you sheenies drive around in back home, huh?" "Yeah, sure, Skorupski, you fuckin' Polack prick. My ol' man's a great pal of General Macarthur!" Norman said angrily. "How'd you get up here?" Curling his upper lip contemptuously, "You fat-ass fuck!" "Polack prick? Fat-ass fuck, huh? You sheeny cocksucker, I'm gonna put'j'ya on report for insubordination to a non-com!" "Do whatever the fuck you want! Just give me some goddamned chow!" "Yeah," the man behind Norman complained, "quit holdin' up the fuckin' line, you got lots'a hungry men here!" After a long, forced march, the men were fed a choice meal, and this day's menu consisted of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed cauliflower, fresh green salad, biscuits and chocolate pudding. Scooping a heaping ladle of pudding from the serving tray, "Here, Lipensky," Skorupski purposely dropped it, half into the empty compartment and half onto the cauliflower. "Whoops, sorry 'bout that, Mitchie... Next!" Norman moved up a step. Digging another overflowing ladle of pudding out of the deep tray, Skorupski slapped it onto Norman's tray, but, most of it missing the tray, splashed onto Norman's hand and splattered over the front of his tunic. "Whoops, sorry 'bout that, too, Normie... Next!" The two glared at each other until, "Come on, Parminter," the man behind nudged Norman. "Fuck 'em. Move your ass an' give the rest of us a chance at the fuckin' chow." "Yeah, sure." Turning away, Norman followed Mitchell to a table. "That prick!" Dropping his tray, looking back, staring at Skorupski, "That fuckin' asshole!" Wiping the pudding from between his fingers with a napkin, Norman then tried to blot it off his olive-green tunic, but only succeeded in rubbing the chocolate in where it showed as a large, brown stain. "Shit!" Stepping over the bench, he sat between Caraboolad and

BECOMING Mitchell.

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"Know what, Normie?" In all the years he'd know him, Mitchell had never seen his friend that angry. Trying to calm him down, "I'll bet this ain't half bad." Spearing a piece of cauliflower, putting it in his mouth, he chewed. "Umm, good shit!" Smiling wanly, "I believe it, Lipensky," Norman said. "Only you'd like chocolate-covered cauliflower." "I do believe that putz has invented something here." Stabbing another, larger piece of cauliflower, Mitchell held it up. "Think I'll call it a cauliflowercicle. Mmm, yummy!" Turning his fork upside down, the chunk of cauliflower slipped off and fell into the pudding with a sickly, wet plop. * The bivouac area for the men of Able, Baker, Charlie and Dog platoons was on a low-slung, grass-swept saddle valley surrounded by gentle, rolling hills. The immediate staging area was a quarter mile of freshly mown prairie grass that had been hacked down just days before by a team of Army regulars. The lighter green stubble inside the mown perimeter and the knee-high grass outside was dotted with thousands of deeper green circles where, throughout the years, herds of grazing cattle had left countless deposits of manure that had further fertilized the already rich soil. On the crest of a hill about two-thirds of a mile to the south, silhouetted against the cloudless sky, was a large herd of grazing cattle that had been moved out of the way of this invading army by the dairy combine that leased this land from the U.S. Army. Waiting for Martinez' call that would signal the end of lunch and the start of that afternoon's training exercises, that Norman and Mitchell both looked forward to--training for the firing of the mortar that they'd so laboriously hauled all this distance. Sitting, smoking, their backs resting against the trunk of a tree, the boys watched as a team of regulars dropped two-man tents off the back of a truck. "Mitch, will you please stop that!" "Huh? Oh, sorry." He'd been absently flexing his wrists, popping the joints. "Even when we were kids at Baylor everyone knew he was a schmuck. Would you believe me'n'Frankie thought, 'cause he was the oldest kid there, that he'd know all about girls and what they have here," pointing to his crotch. "Skorupski?" Norman asked incredulously, "You really thought that asshole, son of a bitch knew enough about anything to tell you anything?" "At least he told me'n'Frank what it's called." "Oh, yeah?" Recalling the day Mitchell came home from Baylor and the conversation on their way to the Douglas Theatre. "He's the one you learned it from, huh? Skorupski's the guy that told you 'bout pricks'n'cunts?" "Yeah, and would you believe he's so stupid he told us that if you suck on a shvartzer lady's tit you'd get chocolate milk? And the asshole really believed it! He even showed Frankie'n'me how he beats his meat." "Skorupski showed you?"

BECOMING "Yeah! He whipped his dick out and started doing it." Norman could not believe that any guy would do that. "And he had a boner?" "No, not at first, but he sure got one fast enough." "Yeah, that I believe! He's probably a homo, too."

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"Yeah, no shit, he probably is! And for a guy as old as he was, he didn't know a fuckin' thing about fuckin'." "Shit, Lipensky, for guys as old as we are now, we still don't know a fuckin' thing about fuckin'." "Yeah," he sighed, "we don't know much more now then we did then, but least- ways we don't go 'round handin' out a bunch'a bullshit." "Jesus!" Actually, Mitchell felt that regardless of his size and rank, he should have done something about Skorupski's anti-Semitic slurs. "I'd love to find some way to get even with that fucker." "Yeah, me, too." Taking one last drag on the cigarette, Norman ground it out on a rock then field stripped the butt. "I'd love to think of a way to fix that anti-Semitic, Polack bastard's ass." Leaning his head against the tree, Norman stared vacantly at the higher grass as it undulated in the slight breeze... "Hey!" Sitting up suddenly, he looked at Mitchell. "What did you say?" "Huh?" Looking at his friend, "Nothin'. I didn't say nothin'." "Yeah, Mitchie, you did. Not now, but before." Thinking a moment, "I don't know what I said before. Why?" "I... Maybe I got an idea." Standing, he went to the outer perimeter of the mown area, walked into the higher, wavering grass and, seemingly looking for something, stopped. "Yeah!" "Normie, what the hell are you..." "Fall in! Third platoon fall in!" Lifting himself off the ground, joining Norman as he walked toward the forming double column, "What's your idea?" "I think I know how we can do it." "Do what?" "I'll tell you later." Standing at ease alongside the gear they'd dropped when dismissed for lunch, "See them tents!" Martinez said, jerking his thumb towards the mound of green canvas. "I want the pairs'a'you," pointing to two men at a time, "you'n'you, pairing each man with the man directly next to him, "to grab one'a them tents an' bring it here.... You two, Klickner'n'Tannascolli, drop your tent here." Martinez paced two yards. "You two, Ryan'n'Linville,

BECOMING here. Parminter'n'Stanislawski, here." "Hey, Sarge, why can't Parminter'n'me double up?" "Ain't that sweet, La-pimp-sky! You two wanna sleep together, maybe do a little butt fuckin'." Some of the men laughed. "This ain't the fuckin' Y.M.C.A., La-pimp-sky. You do like I said! Oak'n'Cleary, an'," smiling, "Caraboolad'n'La-pimp-sky, here."

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"Oy, vey." Mitchell groaned jokingly. "Shit, Sarge, you really gonna make a Jewish guy sleep with a fuckin' A-rab?" Smiling, "I thought you'd like that, La-pimp-sky. Pretty good idea, eh? Puttin' a Jew an A-rab together; just like the United Nations. You fuckers gotta learn to live together, like the rest'a the fuckin' civilized world." Glaring at the sergeant, "I ain't no fuckin' A-rab! I told'j'ya, I'm a..." "Yeah, yeah, yeah! We know what ya are, an' if I say you're a fuckin' A-rab, then Goddamnit, you're a fuckin' A-rab! Ferris'n'Hoeckle here!" Within an hour, two evenly spaced rows of tents were erected, with each man's gear stowed neatly inside. By order of Captain Trainor, the six-man mortar squad had been reduced to four men consisting of Mitchell, who, by way of walkie-talkie, hypothetically, was to receive and repeat firing coordinates to Norman, who, hypothetically, was to find them on a grid map, make the proper elevation settings on the sighting device and, when ready, give Mitchell the order to fire, and he, hypothetically, was to drop the two-and-a-half-pound, six-millimeter projectile into the tube, where it would make contact with a firing pin, that, with a loud ping, would fire the round out of the tube where it goes up, arches in the air, drops, lands, and explodes, hypothetically, someplace, hopefully, within the general vicinity of the ordered firing site. Ferris and Linville were to be ammo carriers, moving back and forth from the, hypothetical, ammo dump to the mortar site wearing pocketed ammo vests holding ten projectiles each. "What if one'a them fuckers goes off?" "Then, Linville," Martinez smiled his wicked smile. "your mama becomes a rich woman." "My G.I. insurance?" "Yeah, Linville. Your G.I. Insurance." "Fuck that! Better my mama should stay poor." "Okay, you two guys, kind'a, know how it's done." Spoken to Norman and Mitchell. "I want you to head up there..." Martinez pointed to a high knoll about eight-hundred yards away, "an' dig in." "You go with 'em," pointing to Linville and Ferris. "Leave the vests there an' haul ass back here. If we do get the order to fire--an' I really doubt we will--then it'll be, at the most, a couple'a rounds, so it don't make no sense for the four'a you fuckers to lay around there soakin' up the sun on Uncle's time. An' remember, there's supposed to be gooks dug in there somewhere, so the four'a you stay low an' don't bunch up!"

BECOMING He looked at his watch. "Okay! Go, go!"

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Running in a low crouch, carrying the tub nestled in his arms, the weight of it, combined with his precarious posture, all but caused him to fall flat on his face. The base strapped to his back, Norman followed Mitchell, and Linville and Ferris, their rifles at "port," held close to their chests to keep the heavy vests from bouncing too badly, followed closely behind. "Stagger yourself!" Martinez yelled through cupped hands. "God-damn-it! One round could'a killed all'a you fuckers! Stagger yourselves, an get your fuckin' asses down!" Crouching even lower, the four men fanned away from each other. * Looking skyward, taking the helmet off, swiping his sleeve across his forehead, "Think Martinez forgot we're here?" As instructed, they'd dug a shallow foxhole on the ridge of the shadeless knoll, set and leveled the mortar, and, as they'd been instructed not to break radio silence, they had been waiting for two hours, listening for their walkie-talkie to crackle to life. The heat of the sun unmerciful in a cloudless sky, their fatigues drenched in perspiration, as utterly uncomfortable as they were, in answer to Mitchell's question, Norman said... "I gotta shit!" And, speaking the knowledge that had been handed down from generation to generation, "Normie," Mitchell answered, "If you gotta go, you gotta go." "Yeah, sure, and I know what'll happen soon as I get started. Sure as shit the sarge'll call and I'll be stuck with my pants down!" Grimacing, he bit his lower lip. "Fuck it! I can't wait." Grabbing the G.I. shovel, he crawled out of the foxhole, went a few yards and, on both knees urgently scrabbled at the earth, clearing a small area of the high grass so that it wouldn't stick his anus or tickle his scrotum. Finished, lowering his pants... "Do you mind?" ...and underpants, he squatted. Turning away, "No, s'okay, go right ahead." Facing in the opposite direction, Mitchell could clearly hear the liquid sounds that emanated from Norman's bowels. "Damn it!" Turning, Mitchell looked at Norman, who was still squatting with his pants and underpants bunched around his combat boots, looking inside his helmet. "What's the matter now?" "Your remember Martinez telling us to be sure to carry toilet paper in the webbing of our helmet liners, just in case?" "Yeah, sure. You forgot to?" "No, schmuck, I didn't forget to!" Reaching into his helmet, removing a sodden mess, he held it forward for Mitchell to see, then making a fist, moisture from his perspiration squirted from between and ran through his clenched fingers. "Got any you can spare?"

BECOMING "Sure, pal," he smiled. "But it'll cost you." "Cost me?" "Yeah, say, uh, tonight's dessert." "Lipensky, you dick!" "Only kidding." Taking his helmet off, he looked inside.

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The neatly folded half-inch-thick pad of toilet paper, that he'd put beneath the webbing before the start of the march this morning, had soaked up better than eight hours of perspiration and, also, was a saturated mass of unusable tissue. "Sorry, mine won't work too good either." Removing it, he squeezed, letting the moisture trickle over his fist. "What'll I do?" "Beats me, Norm." Giggling, "Shame you don't have a corn cob." "Don't be so fuckin' funny. This is serious. How'm I supposed to wipe my ass?" Shading his eyes, looking about, "Leaves," Mitchell said. Looking also, "Leaves?" Norman asked. "Ain't no trees for a mile! I don't see a fuckin' tree anyplace! Do you?" "No, schmuck, not tree leaves. Weed leaves." "Mitch, please, if you see anything, bring it to me!" Thoroughly enjoying the situation, "Hey, Norm?" Becoming thoroughly exasperated, "Mitchell, what?" "You know what Northern toilet paper's motto is, don't you?" Beyond embarrassment, getting tired of squatting with his pants bunched around his combat boots, "Goddamnit, Mitchell, find me something already!" Giggling, "Okay," crawling out of the foxhole, "keep your, uh..." giggling again, "pants on. But you do know what their motto is, don't you?" Sighing, "Whose fuckin' motto?" Slithering to a low-growing mound of milkweed, carefully ripping the dark-green leaves off, "Northern toilet paper's motto." "No!" Sighing again, "I do not know what Northern toilet paper's motto is. Pleeese tell me." Finding another weed, taking those leaves, too, giggling once more, "Your shit is our bread and butter."

BECOMING "Huh? Oh, come on!"

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"Yeah, Norm. 'Your shit is our bread and butter.' Really, it's their motto!" Now laughing aloud. "I wouldn't shit you!" Whether he did see humor in the situation or whether he was merely humoring him, laughing, too. "Very fuckin' funny." Crawling back, handing him a fistful of leaves, "Pee-U! Parminter, you stink!" "You think maybe you're a rosebud?" Grabbing the leaves, "Ouch! Lipensky, you dick, these things got thistles." "Well, yeah!" Laughing so hard he could barely speak, "What the hell you think I am, the fuckin' A&P?" "Schmuck!" Laughing so hard he had to keep himself from falling over backwards by supporting himself with his back-stretched arms. "How the hell's a guy supposed to wipe his ass with leaves with thistles?" "Don't know, Normie." Lying on the ground with tears streaming from his eyes, laughing so hard he could hardly speak, "I got another one, Normie." "Oh, shit!" Crying, too. "Another what?" "Another motto: You're..." wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands, "You're in the groove with Northern Tissue!" "I said it before and I'll say it again: Lipensky, you're a dick!" Standing, Norman stepped out of his pants and G.I.-issue shorts. Squatting again, he wiped himself with the shorts, threw them away as far as possible, stood again and put his pants back on. "Charlie-Zebra-Two!" The walkie-talkie crackled to life. "Charlie-Zebra-Two! From Charlie-Zebra-One! Come in Goddamnit!" Scurrying to the foxhole, grabbing the walkie-talkie, smashing it against his ear, pressing the transmit button, "Charlie-Zebra-One," Mitchell said, "from uh, Charlie-Zebra-Two, over." "Charlie-Zebra-Two!" Martinez screamed. "Wha' the fuck you two fuckin' clowns doin' up there, dancin'? I tol' ya to keep your fuckin' heads down an' it looks like you're doin' a fuckin' war dance! Over!" "Charlie-Zebra-One from Charlie-Zebra-Two... No, we ain't doin' no war dance, but, Parminter, uh"--not knowing the word defecate and rather sure the word poop wasn't exactly U.S. Army issue--"hadda shit... Over." The walkie-talkie silent a moment, then, "Charlie-Zebra-Two," remembering the many times when he had to defecate under adverse conditions, "excuse noted... Fold up an' come home." "Charlie-Zebra-One. Did you say come home? Over." "That's what I said, Zebra-Two. Come the fuck home." "We ain't gonna get to shoot the mortar? Uh, over."

BECOMING "No, you ain't 'gonna get to shoot the mortar'! Over." "Charlie-Zebra-One. How's 'bout the ammo?"

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Not a person of infinite patience, "Jesus K-rist! Do I gotta tell you two fuckers everything?" The walkie-talkie crackling again, "Fold up the fuckin' mortar, put the fuckin' ammo vests on an' get your fuckin' asses back here on the fuckin' double! Fuckin' over an' fuckin' out!" Though he wasn't holding the walkie-talkie and was minimally a yard and a half away, his voice carrying, hearing Martinez scream, "Is the sarge mad?" Norman asked. "Sounds like he's kind'a mad." "Nah, he just wants us to'get our fuckin' asses there on the fuckin' fuckin' double! 'Fuckin' over an' fuckin' out'!" "Well, gee," Norman said facetiously. "I sure hate leavin' the fuckin' Ritz here." Putting the mortar rounds back in the vest pockets, "Me, too, but you do know what the man said, Mister Parminter?" Detaching the tube from the base, "I'm not too sure, Mister Lipensky, what did the man say?" "The man said, 'Get your fuckin' asses back on the fuckin' fuckin' double'!" "Jeeze, on the double fuckin' double yet!" Each wearing a mortar vest, the boys walked leisurely down the hill. "Norm, I forgot to ask. About your idea? Skorupski, remember?" * Commencing 0600 the next day, the entire twenty-four hours was to be spent in combat drills, weaponry indoctrination under combat conditions and nighttime maneuvers. This evening before was to be devoted to the cleaning of weapons and checking of equipment. An early bedtime was suggested and most of the men, exhausted by the march and maneuvers, needed no coaxing. With the exception of a few that were not yet ready for sleep and those having extra duty, all were in their tents sleeping--or attempting to sleep--on the blanket-covered earth. "Sarge, me'n'Lipensky's been looking for you." In the mess tent, drinking one last cup of coffee, smoking one last cigarette, looking up as the boys approached, "So, I ain't been hidin'." "Sarge," Norman asked, "how's it work here?" motioning about the recently cleaned and vacated mess tent." "What the fuck you mean, 'how's it work here?'" "Mind if we get some coffee?" "Sure. It ain't mine. Help yourself." Taking cups from the rack, they poured themselves coffee.

BECOMING "Sarge," seating himself directly across from Martinez, "the non-com in charge here..." Norman again motioned about the huge tent. "Does he sleep here, with the rest'a the guys?"

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"Yeah. He'll be relieved tomorrow when the chow wagon comes from camp with lunch, then the new guy has duty till he's relieved at 0900 the next day. Why? You guys thinkin' of strikin' for cook?" "You kiddin', Sarge? Ol' Lipensky here'd eat up all the profits." "Not if chow's anything like tonight." "Wha'z'a'matter, La-pimp-sky, you don't like liver'n'onions?" "That's what they call it, huh? A little tough, wasn't it? Kind'a like the sole off an old boot." "Sarge," Norman asked, "where's the mess non-com sleep?" Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, "There's a tent behind the mess that's his." "He sleep alone? I mean, anyone share the tent with him?" "If we were under real field conditions there's be two non-com cooks sharin' the tent, but here, he's all by himself." Thinking, So far, so good. Remembering how they'd been woken the morning he and Mitchell had KP, "How's he get up?" Norman asked. "The sentry wake him?" Martinez had been a few men down the line when Norman and Mitchell had the run-in with Skorupski. Suspecting these questions had something to do with that, "Nah, he get his self up. Why all the fuckin' questions?" Thinking, Yeah! "Oh, nothin' Sarge, Just curious, that's all." Taking a sip of coffee, spilling the rest onto the grass, "Guess we'd better not drink too much'a this stuff if we wanna sleep tonight." Looking at Mitchell, "Come on, Mitch, let's hit the hay... Night, Sarge, and thanks." * "What the hell was that about?" "My idea. Come on!" "So, is it going to work? You wanna let me in on it?" "Look, I can't slug it out with Skorupski, 'cause big as he is, if he falls on me he'll squish me. Besides, there's gotta be something in the regulations about fighting a non-com, so anything we do to that fat prick gotta be, uh, kind'a sneaky." "Sneaky's good. You got a sneaky idea?" "Oh, yeah." Norman smiled. "You bet'ch'ya... Come on." "Come on where? Where we going?"

BECOMING "Jeeze, Lipensky. You ask so many questions."

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Making a short loop through camp, returning, following Norman to behind the mess tent, "Why'd we come back here?" "Had to wait till Martinez left so we could get these." Handing one to Mitchell. "Come on." "Where we going?" "The latrines." "The latrines! Why, you gotta shit again?" "No," Norman said, "I don't gotta shit again!" "Yeah," taking one, "knew they'd be here," he gave one to Mitchell. Though it was scarcely twilight, and though most of the troopers were asleep, not all were, but no one noticed two privates walking through camp carrying shovels and pails. "Come on!" Butting his butt with a pail, coaxing him to move faster, "We gotta find enough to fill these pails before it gets too dark." Passing the outer perimeter of the mown area, "Find some what before it gets too dark?" "Bullshit." "What'd I say?" "No." Norman laughed. "We're looking for bullshit." "We're out here looking for bullshit?" "Yep," Norman said, "that's what I said. We're looking for bullshit." "Real live bullshit?" "Don't know how alive it is, but... Yeah, here we go." Putting the pail down, Norman shoveled a large, flat, dry plop of cow manure, laid it across the top of the pail and punched it in half with the tip of the shovel, causing it to fall into his bucket. "I can't believe it! We're really looking for bullshit! Why?" "Look, we both want to even up with Skorupski, right?" "Yeah, sure." "Well, I've thought about a, uh, sneaky way to do it, and the great thing is, it's so sneaky that he'll never guess that we--or, for that matter, anyone--did it."

BECOMING "What? Did it, what? What the hell we doin' with shit?" "Giving it to your pal, Skorupski." "Okay," Mitchell said dubiously, "if you say so."

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Not understanding, but more than willing to join any venture that would give him the opportunity to even up with Skorupski, especially if he didn't get caught, Mitchell also began to look for cow plops. Soon both buckets were filled to overflowing with lumpy, dry cow manure. "Okay, now what?" There was still a smidgen of light, and still, two privates with shovels and pails might as well have been invisible. "Follow me," Norman said. Pausing at the duty cook's tent, they heard the loud drone of Skorupski's snoring. "Now what?" Mitchell asked. "Come, Igor." "Yah-voll, Herr, Doc-tor Franken-shtine." Going to the mobile water tank alongside the mess, placing his bucket beneath the spigot, "Find me something to stir with." Norman turned the handle, allowing a dribble of water. Taking but a moment to find a tent stake, "This do?" "Ack, so, Igor!" Taking the stake, he began to stir, but the lumpy contents within the buck were still too dry. "Herr, Doc-tor Franken-shtine, could use a bissle more blood, perhaps." "Ack, so." Turning the handle, allowing a thin stream of water to run into the bucket, he stirred... And the dry manure reactivated and an earthy, "I'd say it looks about right, don't it?" pungent odor erupted from the bucket. "As an expert on bullshit, I do tend to agree with you." Moving his pail aside, Norman placed Mitchell's under the spigot. "Mmmm! My dear, what is that divine essence?" "La cowshit... Now look," Norman whispered, "It's got to look like a cow really shit there, so when you dump it out, kind'a let it plop, kind'a naturally, so it kind'a spreads out, kind'a, you know, like kind'a shitty." "Yeah," Mitchell grinned. "Kind'a like a cow with diarrhea." "Yeah, just like."

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Using their best U.S. Army stealth, the two crept to the tent, listened to Skorupski's snoring a moment, then, glancing about, seeing no one, Norman knelt, tilted the bucket and emptied the gloppy, reconstituted contents slightly outside, and in the exact center of the tent's pyramid-shaped opening. Forming a mound of manure, Mitchell, without the slightest hesitation, did the same. Rinsing the buckets, they replaced them. They brought the shovels back to the latrine, and, so long as they were there, the boys relieved themselves. "See you in the morning, eh." "Yeah, Mitch, if not sooner." Removing his boots outside the tent, Mitchell crawled through his side of the opening, laid down on the blanket-covered earth and pulled the blanket over himself. There was a rustling as Caraboolad turned his back to him... and emitted a loud ejection of stomach gas. Caraboolad, Mitchell thought, you fuckin' A-rab! * At 0344, Corporal William, Skorp, Skorupski, as his mental alarm did on most mornings--if he hadn't been drinking the night before--awoke him a minute before going off. Slapping the plunger on the clock so it wouldn't ring, he stretched, farted, and wondered, Wha' the fuck's that awful, shitty smell? But passing it off as his own awful, shitty smell, as he did every morning, fondling his urine-swollen penis, that had worked its way through the slit of his G.I.-issue boxer shorts, as always, enjoying the feel of his hand, throwing the blanket back, sitting up, pulling the bottom blanket to under his buttocks, spreading his legs from side to side, thinking of the sight, feel, and smell of the one female he'd copulated with: his heavy-set, big-busted, hairy, hairy-crotched first cousin--once again thinking, Jesus, I stink--taking about a minute, Corporal William, Skorp, Skorupski worked the flesh of his penis until he ejaculated onto the grass between his spread thighs. Not wanting to put his still-engorged, still-seeping penis back into his already urine-stained shorts, Corporal Skorupski, with his elongated penis dangling through the slit of his U.S. Army-issue shorts, crawled through the opening of the tent on his hands and knees, and... "Huh?" Stinky-smelly-slimy? Wet? On his hands! On his knees! On his penis! "Huh? Shit? Shit! How'd a fuckin' cow get in this fuckin' camp? Shit!" The sentries wearily marching the perimeter looked in the direction of the shouting, but as it stopped within seconds, shrugging their shoulders, continued their monotonous patrol. Norman, Mitchell and Martinez awoke, listened to, "Shit! How'd a fuckin' cow get into this fuckin' camp? Shit!" smiled and went back to sleep. Tedium and realization Mitchell marched a four-hour late night watch, and had KP once again, fortunately not with Skorupski, but

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unfortunately it was on the day he was to fire his sidearm, so he never had the opportunity to shoot his beloved .45, or for that matter anything else, because the troops were not given liberty, so neither boy had any idea of how potent they may have been to the girls of Sparta, Wisconsin, who somehow lived through the ordeal of never meeting either of them. By the time the two-week period at Camp McCoy was finished, Norman and Mitchell had had more than their share of playing soldier, and the thought of Korea and what it really meant had frighteningly begun to sink in. July 22, 1950 "Fall in! Tench hup! Dress right dress! Tench hup! Right-shoulder arms! Left face! Forward harch!" The entire command was to pass in review, then board the trucks that would take them to the trains that would return them to their respective armories. "Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four!" The command, accompanied by the stirring music of the Camp McCoy band, marched the perimeter of the parade ground. Passing the commanding officer, camp officers and their guests in the review stand... "Eyes, right!" heads and eyes snapped to the right. After the second progression around the parade ground, the command broke into individual companies that formed row upon row of helmeted, armed soldiers. Speaking through an echoing microphone, "Men," the commanding officer said, "the Thirty-Third Division is being activated!" There was a rustle and stirring within the ranks. "Quiet down!" the platoon sergeants whispered from the corners of their mouths. "Take it easy! You're at parade rest! Shut up!" Within seconds all eyes and ears strained forward. "You will return to your homes to put your affairs in order," the commanding officer continued, "and will be issued further orders within the next thirty days." Hesitating a moment, "...It has been brought to my attention that a goodly number of men in the Thirty-third are underage." Leaning forward, Norman and Mitchell glanced at each other. "By directive of the Commander, U.S. Army, Washington, D.C., any enlisted man under the age of seventeen years must step forward and be honorably separated, unless otherwise directed by his commanding officer, from this now-activated military force." Pausing once again, he looked from one end of this standing army to the other. "Your company officers will take your names upon arrival at your regimental armory and the processing of your discharges will commence immediately." Pausing once again, his eyes again swept the entire complement. "To the rest of you men, may God bless you and return you safely to your families." Snapping to attention, he saluted. "Tench-hup! Present arms!" The salute was returned.

BECOMING Dropping his arm to his side, doing a smart about face, the commanding officer returned to his seat. *

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After ten, three-hour weekly drill sessions and one, two-week summer training camp, Mitchell Lipensky and Norman Parminter were honorably discharged from the U.S. Army, and in the future, for the record, Norman and Mitchell were considered to be veterans of the Korean War. Norman was one month past his sixteenth birthday and Mitchell approximately one month from his sixteenth birthday. 31 Union Pier, Michigan Ina August 18, 1950 "Yeah she does! She's got great tits! But Ina? Ina Dorfmann!" Pulling the raft ashore, they were sitting near water's edge with their backs resting against the warm, rubberized canvas. "Come on, Norm," Mitchell argued, "she ain't all that bad." "Jesus, you really are hard-up. You know what this is, don't you? It's a, uh, what'ch'a'ma'call..." thinking, "a compulsion." "Okay, sure, call it whatever you want, but don't it bother you?" "That I ain't been laid? Sure it does, you know it does. But when I do, it sure as hell ain't gonna be with a broad like Ina Dorfmann." Two girls walking the shoreline approached from the north. As the girls came closer, as though on cue, the boys stopped talking and, as boys do, appraised them. One girl, the blonde, was short and dumpy and beyond all consideration. The other, a familiar, deeply-tanned, pretty brunette, was tall and skinny, and if not for her knobby knees, would have no shape at all. Evaluating both girls negatively, Norman and Mitchell waited for the girls to pass before continuing their conversation regarding the fucking of one Ina Dorfmann. As they passed, the dark girl looked at the boys over her shoulder, took a few more steps, then, stopping turning back, "Mitchie, Normie, hi!" she said to both boys, but standing directly before him, was obviously speaking to Mitchell only. Taking a moment to remember the girl's name, Mitchell recognized her as that kid from last summer, and even if she was pretty, skinny as she was, she most certainly was not his type.

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Besides, if she was too young for him last summer she was too young for him this summer, especially now that he was a "Korean War vet." Besides, at the moment he had more important things on his mind. So, "Yeah, hi," he said, rudely bringing his attention back to Norman, who, remembering the girl, but not her name, "Hi," nodded his head at her. Looking as though she wanted to say something, but very well recognizing the signs of dismissal, frowning, "Drop dead, you big jerk!" she said, and with an angry toss of her stubby ponytail, turning away, the girl continued the walk with her friend. "She's that girl from last summer, Isn't she?" Watching their wide and narrow backsides, "Yeah," Mitchell said. "So, you gonna do it?" Still watching the thinner of the backsides, sensing a sudden, soft pang of loneliness in the pit of his stomach, taking a moment for him to fathom Norman's question, "Yeah," he said, instantly forgetting the girl. "I'm babysitting at Doc Liebman's tonight, and if I can find Ina, I'm going to ask if she'd like to keep me company." "The Liebmans won't mind you having a girl there?" Rationalizing, "You've been there with me." "Yeah, Mitch, but I'm a guy. Do you really think they won't mind if you have a girl there when you babysit?" "Nah," stretching the truth a bit. "I've asked if they mind if I have a friend to keep me company, and they said so long as I listen for and pay attention to Jerry they don't care." He never asked, though, if the friend could be a girl. Their parents able to rent the same cottages they had the year before, having their accumulated weekly and training camp pay, the boys thought they'd have enough money to last through the summer, then, in the fall, when school started, when they entered their junior year, they would look for part-time jobs. * Standing above her, "Ina, hi!" his back was to the sun. Turning from her stomach onto her back, shading her eyes from the sun, "Oh!" Having spoken to him only in passing, feeling flattered that a boy as handsome and standoffish as Mitchell Lipensky, the Mitchell Lipensky, would even stop by to say hello, "Hi, Mitchie!" Sitting up quickly, moving to the side of her blanket, making room for him, "Sit down, why don't'j'ya." "Yeah, thanks." Sitting, the first time this close, he looked at her. Already sixteen, Ina was almost six months older than Mitchell. She had peroxide-bleached, streaky blonde hair. Her face was round with small, dark-brown eyes, a turned-up nose with red-tinged, scaly nostrils due to blowing and rubbing because of allergies. Her forehead, chin and chest were dotted with pin-head-size sun blisters and, though not fat, Ina was fleshy with thick thighs, a somewhat flabby stomach and... Mitchell's eyes went from her rather homely face to the creaming swellings at the top of her bathing suit, to... Oh, God! Ina's soft-looking, delectable breasts, and even then, in the middle of the day, even there, on this

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crowded beach, he unwittingly obtained a full-fledged erection just thinking that, Maybe, tonight, he might, just might, be able to look at, touch, and suckle on those... Oh, God, he thought, she's got great tits! Forcing his eyes from her chest to her face, "Ina," not sure how to ask. "I'm, uh, babysitting tonight," he said bluntly, "and was wondering if, uh, if you're not doing anything, if you'd like to, uh, come on over and keep me company." Ina, too, looked... At Mitchell's green eyes, darkly tanned, scrumptious face, and her eyes shifted downward, to--wearing a yellow, brief-type bathing suit, sitting cross-legged as he was--Ina saw the tubular impression of his engorged penis under the tight-fitting, glossy material and she, also, thought of what she knew she would look at, touch, and suckle on tonight, so, "Yeah, Mitchie," looking at his face, "that sounds like fun. You wanna pick me up, or..." Knowing that most parents frown at their babysitters having company, especially opposite sex company, and most especially opposite sex company that looked like she knew she was going to look that night. "...or should I kind'a, you know, just kind'a come over later?" Surprised, She's going to! actually shocked that she'd agreed. "Yeah," he said, "if you don't mind just, uh, just kind'a come over." * The Liebmans had been gone almost an hour and Jerry, their three-year-old son, was sound asleep in the rear bedroom. Having given Ina exact directions to the cottage, he asked if she'd get there about eight. Where is she? At eight forty-five, beginning to think Ina had changed her mind, hearing footsteps on the wooden stairs, not waiting for her to knock, Mitchell rushed to the door, pulled it open and, seeing Ina simultaneously felt relief because she did come, fear because she did come, and a very rapidly heightening sense of anticipation because on this night, without a doubt, he, finally, really... I'm finally, really going to see what a cunt looks like. Which actually, oddly enough, took precedence over intercourse... although, not by much. Wearing a light-blue, scooped-neck blouse that showed off her very ample cleavage, brown leather thongs and short--very short--jagged-cut Levi's, "Hi'ya, Mitchie!" Ina said. "Dis must be d'place, eh?" "Yeah," swallowing nervously. "Dis am d'place." Moving aside, "Come in." Mitchell's eyes followed the movement of Ina's ample posterior as she walked into the room, and--the sway of her buttocks caused the pink, elastic band of her panties to show over the swell of her ample left buttock as it moved in and out under the cut-off thigh of her Levi's, and--excited, hell, more than excited by the movement of this thin piece of pink fabric, he swallowed again. "Nice cottage, Mitch. How many kids they have?" "Just one, Jerry. He's three and asleep and he never, ever gets up and the Liebmans went to a movie in Michigan City and won't be back till after eleven!" he said quickly, as if trying to convince Ina that it was safe for them to do whatever his imagination and her morality would allow. Taken back, expecting just a little more... suavity from a "man" as experienced as Mitchell Lipensky--the Mitchell Lipensky--Ina said nothing in response, and... "Uh..." Suddenly inarticulate, at a complete loss for words, he could think of nothing to say, but... "Uh, you look real nice tonight, Ina."

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Which, coincidently, was exactly the right thing to say because with a girl as insecure as Ina Dorfmann a little flattery went a long way. "So do you, Mitchie. But then again you always look nice." Blushing, "Thanks." Going to the console radio, he turned it on and appropriately, "I want to be loved with inspiration," the Andrews Sisters sang. "I want to be loved, starting tonight." Walking to the sofa, "Ina, why don't we..." sitting in the middle--Gina's trick--so wherever Ina sat she'd be within easy reach, "sit down." "No." "No?" He blinked his eyes. "No." Sensing his... Actually pleasantly surprised at his shyness. Surprised also at knowing that she, more so then he, would be in charge of the situation. Holding her hands forward, wiggling her fingers in a "come here" motion, "You come here!" As Gina, Ina knew the best way to loosen a guy up was to get him onto his feet, moving body to body. "Let's dance." "No," shaking his head. "I'm not such a good dancer." Her hands beckoning to him, "Sure you are!" "No. Believe me, I am not such a good dancer." "Baloney!" Moving to the sofa, purposely letting her blouse gape open, Ina bent forward and, although she was wearing a brassiere, all but the nipples on the long, hanging, double flow of breast flesh was visible. Taking him by both hands, she pulled Mitchell--whose eyes, naturally, were glued to her breasts--onto his feet and into her arms. Moving her body against his, "Anyone can dance," she said. "See, it's easy." Thinking, Oh, God, it's like Gina all over again. Only Ina smells like coconuts and doesn't have green teeth. Feeling the soft push of her breasts against his chest, And she's got tits, really got tits! One of those perpetually late people, Ina knew that she was late getting to the cottage and not wanting to waste more time, "See, Mitchie," putting both arms about his waist, pressing her body against his, "it ain't hard..." Looking at his face, running the tip of her tongue over her lips, smiling, feeling "it" against her thighs, "uh, dancing, that is." Watching the movement of Ina's tongue, catching the meaning of what, he thought, she really meant, moving his hands from her ample hips to her ample buttocks, grinding his pubis onto her pubis, wanting that tongue, putting his mouth over her mouth, kissing Ina he drew, and in response Ina drew, too... with such force that it was his tongue rather then hers that was drawn outward and deeply inward as, moving his hand beneath the bottom of her loose-fitting blouse, he fumbled with the small... How the hell do you undo this damn thing? clasp of her brassiere, then, too fuckin' complicated, he slipped his hand under the strap, around and upward and... Oh, God! A soft, very ample breast filled his hand, overflowing his hand, and. reversing the vacuums hold on his tongue, Ina's tongue was drawn into his mouth. "Mmmm!" Pulling her mouth from his. "Don't want to waste any time do you, baby? Go close the blinds."

BECOMING Moaning, "Mmmm. No, baby," as he felt the rougher surface of her nipple between the tips of his fingers, "you feel so nice I don't wanna move."

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"Yeah, baby, go on, an' you can come right back." For emphasis she squeezed the hand holding her breast. "I want'j'ya, too." Not sure if Ina meant that she wanted him to close the blinds, or if she wanted him as he wanted her. Nonetheless, reluctantly moving his hand from beneath her brassiere, from beneath her blouse, rushing to the window, he twisted the rod that turned the wooden slats downward, then... Well aware of the prominent bulge poking from beneath his jeans, remembering how proud Frankie had been of it, standing straight upward, he turned back to Ina who, having moved to the sofa, was now reclining against a heavily padded armrest. Dropping next to her, looking at Ina's face a moment, lifting her blouse from the bottom, snagging the undersides of the 38C cups with his index fingers, pulling upward, "My, God, Ina," he whispered passionately, staring at her sloping breasts, "you're so beautiful!" His words further exciting her, Ina closed her eyes in anticipation of the sweet, prickling sensation she knew would be coming at any second. As though his gaze a caress, as he watched, Ina's large, flat, dark-brown areolae began to tighten, and a moment before totally abandoning himself to lust, Tits got to be one of God's greatest miracles! Mitchell thought as, moving his head forward, holding the warm, soft weight of a breast from beneath, savoring the sweet/salt taste of her flesh, he touched the tip of his tongue to the tightly puckered projection of an areola that now stood stiffly upward, then, closing his lips around it... Moaning softly, Ina pressed his head to her breast, as... Concurrently, as if having the same thought at the same time, each tried, single-handedly, to unbutton the impossible to unbutton--especially in that position--steel buttons of the other's Levi's without relinquishing his hand-held mouth-hold on her breast and her hand-hold on his head. But being in a better position, or, more the likely, because Ina Dorfmann had more experience at popping someone else's steel buttons in any position, Ina had Mitchell's popped first, then the next and the next, then fishing through the slit of his Jockey shorts, freed his straining penis, and... It had been sixteen months since Mitchell had been held by a female hand, so when Ina wrapped hers around him, her touch, plus the thought of being touched, there, again, by a real girl, in combination with what he held within his mouth, and hand... Don't come! Do not come! forced him to concentrate to keep from an immediate ejaculation and the barely-contained spark traveled, instantaneously, from penis to brain--upper brain--and back again causing a singular spasmodic jerk and, Whew, he didn't. But having to touch her "there," too, God-damned, fuckin' buttons! He quit fumbling with the button and attempted to wedge his hand between the fringe of Ina's cut-off Levi's and her thigh, but, tight to begin with, sitting as she was, the bulk of her thigh strained against the tightly-stretched denim causing an impenetrable barrier so, abandoning "the hand up her thigh approach," he returned to the god-damned button! Knowing where he wanted to go, wanting him there just about--well, hardly--as much as he wanted to be there, sucking her abdomen in... Finally! Finally, the top button, then the next two were unbuttoned and, turning his wrist outward, gliding his palm down her soft stomach, reaching beneath the elastic band of her panties, stopping momentarily to feel the rough dampness of Ina's pubic hair, then...Where is it? Taking a few seconds to find the part of her labia,

BECOMING Mitchell probed until his finger slid into the wet, Oh, God! very wet furrow of Ina's vagina. Their mouths coming together again, her hand, his finger and their two tongues moved concordantly, till... "Ina?" Looking into her face, feeling her warm breath on his. "Yeah?" Looking into his face, feeling his warm breath on hers. "Uh," hardly daring to ask, "will you, uh, take your clothes off?"

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At that moment feeling something akin to love for this boy, "Yeah," she said without a moments hesitation, "if you take yours off, too." At that moment feeling something akin to love for this girl, "Yeah!" Hardly able to believe it, "You bet!" Pulling his finger from her vagina, standing, wanting her to see him naked, and, Oh, yeah! Wanting to see Ina naked, too! You bet! Pulling his shirt over his head, dropping it onto the sofa, he unbuckled his belt and as the steel Levi's buttons had already been unbuttoned, lowered his pants along with his underpants--and because he hadn't removed his shoes--stood with his pants and underpants bunched about his ankles... with his erection jutting inches from her face. Fighting the urge to hold him, to put him into her mouth, "Mitchie," she said, "you've got a really nice dick, you know?" "An' you've got the most beautiful t..." his breath catching, watching, he stopped speaking as Ina lifted her buttocks and, slowly, teasingly, began to wiggle out of her jagged-cut, cut-off Levi's, as Mitchell, quivering penis jutting straight forward, stared, first at the tangle of Ina's curly, dark-brown pubic hair, then, as she slowly, teasingly, lowered her shorts even further and... I'm going to see it! Oh, God! Here it... Slam! A car door. Ina and Mitchell looked to the window. Slam! Another car door. "Uh-Oh!" With the superhuman speed that God sometimes grants to those who are about to be found out, Mitchell, pushing his penis downward, pulled his pants and underpants up, jammed his shirt over his head and quickly, so quickly, buttoned the all-but-impossible to button--especially at times like these--"Fuckin' buttons!" As, standing, Ina pulled her jagged-cut, cut-off Levi's, along with her panties, up around her ample waist, buttoned the steel buttons and both she and he dropped onto the sofa again, on either side of the sofa, but as the doorknob turned, "Uh-Oh!" Ina remembered that her breasts were hanging out of the bottom of her, "Thank God!" still-hooked brassiere, and quickly, so quickly, reaching under her blouse, grasping a cup in each hand pulled down, popping her breasts back into their size 38C cups, then sat back again, as was Mitchell, in wide-eyed innocence as the front door swung open and Doctor and Mrs. Liebman stepped into their warm, sexually odoriferous living room. "Oh, hi," Mitchell said, forcing his well-practiced, innocent smile, "you're home early." The adults stood quietly a long moment, looking at them.

BECOMING "Yes," Doctor Liebman finally said, "Mrs. Liebman became ill in the theatre."

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As Mrs. Liebman went to the rear of the cottage to check on her son, Doctor Liebman moved to the easy chair opposite the sofa and, standing behind it, resting his tightly clenched fists on its high back, looked closely at Mitchell. Outside of a long forgotten but vaguely familiar pungent odor in the room, he couldn't say for certain that these two were doing anything more than heavy petting, but even heavy petting was more, much more, than he'd ever expected to find. "How's Jerry," he asked with a tinge of anger to his voice. "He didn't give you any trouble, did he?" "Nah. He's an angel, like always. No trouble at all." Glancing at his wife, who'd returned to the room, hesitating, he looked from Ina to Mitchell. "It's not your fault that Mrs. Liebman became ill, so we're going to pay you for the entire evening." Reaching into his pocket, Doctor Liebman removed a gold plated $-sign money clip, took a dollar from it and, stretching over the back of the chair, handed it to him. Reaching for the dollar, "Thanks, Doc." Standing, with Ina following, they walked to the door. Mitchell opened it and as they stepped outside, "Call me whenever you wanna go out again, okay?" "Sure I will, Mitchell." He looked at Ina. "Goodnight, uh...?" "Oh, sorry; Ina." Mitchell said. "Yes, Ina!" the doctor repeated, and forcing a smile, closed the door. "Whew! Well, Mitch, there goes another satisfied customer." "Yeah, they really like me." "Maybe they did, but somehow, I don't think they're real happy with you right now, and I doubt you'll be hearin' from 'em again, leastwise not for a long time." "You think they think we were, uh, you know?" "Yeah, I'm sure they think 'we were.' Didn't you see the looks on their faces?" "Nah. They looked like they always look, kind'a." Mitchell looked upward, at a brilliant three-quarter moon and clusters of brightly shining stars, and desperate to go someplace, anyplace where he and Ina could be alone to pick up where they'd left off, "Jeeze, Ina," he said cheerfully, "It's great night! How's about I get a blanket an' you'n'me go on down to the beach." The last time Ina went to the beach with a boy at night he'd gotten sand on the tip of his "Redi-wet" and it hurt like hell. "Nah, I don't feel like goin' to the beach," she said, instantly deflating his carnally inflated bubble, "but how's 'bout we take a ride to a place I know?" His father had promised to teach him how to drive after his sixteenth birthday, which was still six days away, and Mitchell did not want to admit that he couldn't drive, or, for that matter, that he was not quite sixteen. "Uh, my dad couldn't make it out this weekend," he lied, "an' the car's not here."

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"Nah," starting across the Old Highway, "I didn't mean your car." Going to a blue, two-door, 1950 Pontiac, "I got ours." Opening the driver-side door, 'Come on," Ina said, "get in." Yeah! Opening the door, he slid into the Dorfmann family car; a car littered with fabric swatch-books that completely covered the back seat. On the dashboard was a profusion of crumpled memos, matchbooks, empty crumpled cigarette packages and a steel flashlight held onto the metal dashboard by a magnet. Turning the key, bringing the motor to life, "My, ol' man's a salesman," Ina said as she popped the clutch, shifted from neutral to first and, with a jolt, began to drive. "an' all that crap back there's his samples." The condition of this car, though, so long as it gets them to where they're going, "Where we goin'?" was the last thing on his mind. "Oh, I got a place." Looking at Ina in profile, I sure hope that her idea of a place is the same as my idea of a place. But he didn't have to worry because, just about as anxious to pick up where they'd left off as Mitchell, her idea of a place was exactly the same as his idea of a place and after a five-minute drive... Tires crunched on gravel as the Pontiac steered off the asphalt of the Old Highway onto a dirt road leading to a wide view-site on a high bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. The one car there was parked on the far northern end of the pad, so, driving to the far southern end, stopping, turning the motor and lights off, Ina set the handbrake. The moon and a silvery tail of moonlight reflecting on the still water forty feet below, looking at the panoramic scene through the bug-splattered, dirty windshield, "Ina, it's beautiful!" Mitchell said, then asked, "You've been here before?" And, Schmuck, he thought, feeling stupid the moment the words left his mouth. She drove here! Of course she's been here before! Not quite knowing how to pick up where they'd left off in the Liebman's living room, turning towards Ina, laying his arm across her shoulders he was working up the nerve to kiss her when, turning to Mitchell, she kissed him and, his passion immediately reinflated, his free hand instantly going to beneath her blouse... "Wait, Mitchie." Yanking the blouse over her head, reaching behind her back, unclasping the three hooks, Ina pulled her arms through the straps and, tossing the blouse and brassiere over her head, onto the back seat, turning towards Mitchell, Ina threw her shoulders back proudly jutting her 38C--now that she was sitting upright--more than just slightly sagging breasts forward. Moonlight streaming through the Pontiac's windshield lightening the car's interior... Though Mitchell had, Oh, yeah, seen and, Oh, yeah! appreciated Ina's breasts at the Liebman cottage, her blouse and brassiere had not actually been taken off, but now they were and he plainly, Oh, yeah! saw her totally exposed chest and, God, he thought, she's got grrr-eat tits. But, of course, to Mitchell Lipensky, in this position, anyone's tits would be "grrr-eat tits"--excluding his mother, of course--and hardly believing that he was truly here, in this place, with this girl, in this situation, for the moment he could only stare at... In the defused moonlight Ina's dark areolae appeared to be almost black in contrast to the stark white flesh of her breasts, made to appear even whiter against the darkly shadowed tan of her chest and... Leaning forward, putting his forehead onto her chest, lifting, holding a breast in each hand, he enveloped his face within the soft, warm flesh.

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Enjoying the sensation of his cool hands and warm breath, closing her eyes, Ina leaned against the car door. With the so warm, so soft mounds of flesh pressed against either side of his face a memory resurrected, a memory he'd unknowingly played in his subconscious mind since he was seven years old: Lou Ann, on the bed, her breasts splayed across her chest, her large, dark nipples--so like Ina's--being palpitated between the fingers of Sal Diamond, just as he himself was now doing. The prank Dominick Diamond had played on his newly married brother in 1941, using Mitchell to bait his brother, did make a profound impression on the then-seven-year-old boy and had, throughout the years, been the catalyst for Mitchell Lipensky's premature and near-constant preoccupation with sex and now, at that moment, Mitchell's mind transformed Ina to Lou Ann and himself to Sal Diamond and... No! He'd fantasized doing this for too many years to be anyone but himself, and in just a minute he was going to do what he'd fantasized, and masturbated to since he was nine years old... But no! Thinking, Fucking and seeing a cunt might not be all I want to do! He was surprised when the rest of the mental picture from that day in 1941 came to mind: the picture of Sal's head between Lou Ann's thighs. Moving his face from between Ina's breasts, holding both forward, kissing one then the other with rapidly accelerating passion, he drew one, then the other now-elongated nipple into his mouth and, holding the underside of the breast in one hand and the cone of hardened flesh between his suckling lips, his other hand dropped to Ina's thighs. In the unflattering light of day Ina Dorfmann's thighs were thick, dimpled and heavy. But in romantic moonlight, even in bug-splattered romantic moonlight, Ina Dorfmann's thighs were soft, smooth, inviting, and most importantly, available. "Mitchie," holding a restraining hand against his chest, "wait. I'll help you." Ina Dofmann was normally of a, to say the least, lustful nature, and the thought of actually being with Mitchell Lipensky, along with his contagious, accelerated passion, carried Ina to an even higher degree of urgency than normal and, sitting up, lifting her lower body, she popped the buttons and pushed her shorts, along with her panties, down her legs where they fell off, alongside the brake peddle. Oh, God! She's here! Mitchell thought. She's here! Naked! A real, live, naked girl is here and we're going to fuck! Really going to fuck! Now was as if, and indeed, a sexual fantasy had come to life from out his dreams and to be sure that this was not yet another fantasy--not that he wouldn't have done it if this were a fantasy--he brought his hand to the tri-section of Ina's thighs and twined his fingers through the coarse hair there. Sixteen months ago, when he and Gina had been naked together, he'd been in a drunken fog and when he tried to visualize what Gina had looked like nude--although, in the pitch-black room and later, in the dark hallway, he'd never really seen what she looked like nude--he could not remember. He could not even remember what she'd felt like, or, for that matter, what "it" felt like when she did what she did to him with her mouth. All he clearly remembered about Gina was that she was ugly and skinny and had green teeth, and Mitchell had all but erased the experience from his mind and considered this, now, as the first time that he was with a girl, this way. Mitchell looked at Ina through the light of the bug-splattered windshield: at her sloping, milk-white breasts; at the areolae of her large, dark nipples; at the, albeit shadowed, triangle of her pubic hair... And in the excess of his passion thought Ina Dorfmann was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, and, in a way, being the only girl he had ever seen fully nude, she was, so... "Ina," he said hoarsely, "you are so

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Ina Dorfmann rarely, if ever, heard the words "you are so beautiful," but Mitchell had said them! Twice, in fact! Once in the Liebman cottage--actually, he was also about to tell her that she had beautiful breasts when they'd heard the slamming of a car door outside--and then here... And, sensing her vagina saturating, becoming even, if possible, wetter, and wondering if she was leaking onto the front seat of her father's 1950 Pontiac, she squeezed her thighs together, as... Seeing Ina naked, wanting to be naked with her, having an urge to feel as much of her naked body against his naked body as possible--within the confines of the front seat of a 1950 Pontiac--pulling his shirt off, he tossed it onto the clutch, unbuttoning his jeans, pushing his underpants off at the same time, he wiggled out of both. Watching him undress, "Mitchie," taking hold of his stiffly-standing penis, in an excess of passion, "you're beautiful, too." Ina said. "All over!" He saw a hand--not his hand--holding his penis, and the hand was cold and, Oh, God! "That feels so good!" Sitting with her back angled against the driver-side door with her feet under the driver-side console, his penis still held within Ina's cold hand, Mitchell angled his body to hers. Knowing from past experience that in this position, in times such as this, most boys abandoned any thought of foreplay, fully expecting him to place himself into position for insertion and intercourse, "Hold it a second." turning to the right, straightening her back, giving herself enough room to lift her right leg, stretching it to the side, Ina placed Mitchell between her thighs and in position to insert his penis into her, Oh, yeah, more-than-ready vagina, but instead... Not altogether ambivalent over the fact that Ina had just opened her thighs to his sight, two things had happened: First, a large cloud, the forerunner of a summer squall, had darkened the moon darkening the interior of the car and secondly, intently watching the jiggling of Ina's breasts rather than the opening and stretching of her thighs, feeling he'd, at least temporarily, lost the opportunity, Ina's crotch was now flush against his hip and he couldn't see "it," so instead, putting his arms around her waist, pulling their bare chests together, feeling the warm push of her breasts, "Oh, God!" he said aloud as the pliable flesh bore through the layers of Mitchell's sexually starved psyche. "Oh, my God!" Wanting foreplay rather than just a quickie, as most guys do, further impressed Ina and she began to manipulate the sheath of skin that covers the hard core... As he, in turn, rubbing the palm of his hand over the coarse, damp hair at the V of her crotch, Mitchell searched for a moment or two until, even in this awkward position, finding the orifice, his finger slid between Ina's thick lips into her ultra-slick wetness and... Feeling his hand there and his finger there, widening her thighs even further, her encircling hand going up and down, squeezing and loosening, expecting it, looking for it, Ina's thumb played over the tip of Mitchell's penis till soon she felt the droplet of semen that, with her help, had worked its way up and through his urethra, and the feel of the slippery semen that then covered his glans made her even hotter and... Whispering, "Oh-my-God, Ina!" Looking as Mitchell looked, Ina would have taken bets that he'd have had plenty of experience with girls and she had been surprised early in the evening when she'd learned of his complete inexperience. Ina well knew what was about to happen, but thought, If he comes now it'll be a snap to get it up again--especially knowing what she planned on doing because she especially loved the feeling of a limp penis growing less limp within

BECOMING her mouth--an' then, maybe--not that the feeling a limp penis becoming less limp within her mouth didn't always cause her to orgasm, too--he'll last long enough for me to come, too--again--So... "Oh-my-God, Ina!"

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He wanted to savor this long-awaited, long-desired experience for as long as possible, and as much as, Oh, yeah! he sure did love the feeling of her fondling, he knew that if she didn't stop now, right now, he would climax, so, somehow, finding some hidden source of self control, "Please, Ina, stop!" Mitchell took hold of her hand and shoved it, along with his near unbending penis, between his thighs and clamped both in an unmovable grip and, screwing his eyes shut, thinking for the second time tonight: Don't come! Don't come! Do not come! And only when the all-but-uncontrollable urge passed, did he open his eyes. "Almost came, huh?" Breathing heavily, "Yeah," he admitted. "Almost." The scene of Sal Diamond's head between Lou Ann's thighs still pictured within his mind, knowing there was something else he wanted to do, feeling he then had his ejaculatory problem under control, loosening his thighs he freed Ina's hand, along with his penis. "Lay back some, can you?" Kissing her mouth, "I want to kiss you," his lips grazing her neck, "here..." lowering his head, lingering, kissing, a number of times, first one, then the other breast, "and here," stretching his finger even deeper into Ina's vaginal canal, speaking hoarsely, passionately, "...and here." Thinking she knew what he meant, He's gonna eat me! "Yeah, Mitchie!" Her voice no less passionate, "Do it!" The night was suddenly splintered by a ragged bolt of lightening, and seconds later the sky opened. Feeling rain on her head and face and he on his back, relinquishing their positions as slightly as possible, trying to move no more than the needed hand, each rolled a window closed. Bringing his attention--and hand--back to where they had been seconds ago, willing to do it again, hell, finding the kissing of Ina's breasts to be about as enjoyable a task as he'd ever preformed, returning to her breasts, once again kissing each a number of times, his lips trailed past her chest, onto her soft, actually rather mushy, stomach, over her navel and onto the outer fringe of pubic hair... where they hesitated because--being very cognizant of odors--because of a, albeit, not thoroughly unpleasant odor but a strong odor nonetheless, he halted, also, because being this close to it, the movement of his finger within Ina's vagina caused a squishing sound that he could actually hear, and also, in this position his neck was beginning to hurt, but what stopped him, what stopped him cold was that suddenly... Because the orifice of Ina's vagina was stretched in preparation for intercourse and flooded with readying fluid, in order to feel the pressure of his finger, Ina had kept her thighs and vaginal muscle constricted, and expecting, anticipating his tongue, waiting for the sweet sensation that she so wanted, that she had never experienced because no guy had ever done it to her, for her, Ina loosened her thighs and vaginal muscle... and due to the excessive fluid within her vagina, the sudden release of internal pressure caused... A loud, fart-like sound emitted from Ina's vagina that she might not have heard, but being as close as he was, Mitchell sure heard, and... Feeling the shift in his body, Ina opened her eyes as...

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Changing his mind about doing the "Sal Diamond and Lou Ann thing," straightening his back, Mitchell sat up. Damn-it! Slightly angry with him because, Shit! How come guys don't wanna eat me like I wanna eat them? She thought, Screw 'im! Let him do the work for a change! Reclining on her elbows, shifting, lifting her body, she laid her buttocks across his lap, and bending her right leg, putting her right foot at an angle on the seat between his right hip and the car door, by stretching her left leg onto the passenger-side floor, Ina was able to lay back with her head lying on the seat, beneath the steering wheel. The rain outside in combination with the heavy breathing inside had caused a heavy cast of fog to cover the windows and, in the obliterated moonlight, what lay flat on the seat and across his lap lay wholly in a dark shadow, and though he could not see all that he wanted to see, the fact that a girl's completely naked body was completely open to his hands and mouth--not making him too unhappy with this position. "Ina, lift up a second, can you?" Reaching beneath her buttocks, he pulled his cramped penis out from under and placed it, standing straight up, pressed between her right hip and his stomach. Mitchell Lipensky looked at Ina Dorfmann and still, in whatever light there was, was able to see her darkly accentuated aureole against the stark white of her breasts, and the black shadow of her crotch in contrast to the flesh of her stomach and thighs. Concentrating on Ina's crotch, spreading her labia with his left hand, turning his right hand upward, feeling a heightening thrill, he inserted his index finger. In Ina's mind, and most always so, she was the one doing all the work with the guy doing all the enjoying--not, mind you, that she did not enjoy the results of her labor. But this time, lying on her back, closing her eyes, she's doing all the enjoying and the guy's doing all the work. Work? Ah, yes! It's a tough job but someone's got to do it. Shifting slightly, Ina's left breast rolled off her chest and hung, looking downward at the clutch, brake and accelerator. Her right breast, propped by the fabric-covered seat, standing somewhat upward, appeared to be gazing at Mitchell. Completely impassioned once again--not, mind you, that a little thing like a "cunt-fart" would ever disimpassion him--bending forward, he drew the staring nipple into his mouth... But after a few seconds the awkward position caused a crick in his neck, so he sat up, and because his index finger felt lost--and indeed it was--within the depth and breadth of Ina's sexually prepared, extended vagina, Hummm? Thinking, Wonder if I can get another one in? All of his knuckles and most of his hand wet from the abundant secretion, on the next outward trip Mitchell was easily able to insert his number one finger. Having two fingers in Ina's vagina aroused him even further, only now it had become more than just sexual, it had become experimental, a learning experience, if you will, so... Plenty of room in there, he thought, maybe one more. And put his number three finger in. "Mmmm!" Clenching her teeth, Ina began to squirm. Having no way of knowing what, where or why, but with his small finger bent back and his middle three fingers inserted upside down, filling Ina's vagina, touching and caressing everything, sexually, that there was to touch and caress--including, in this position, the highly erogenous zone on the roof of her vagina, that on Ina was located midway between her clitoris and urethral opening, that in the past only she had paid attention to--a whole lot of attention--Mitchell had no place to put his thumb, so it accidentally fondled the little protruding button of highly sensory flesh at the top cleft of her vagina that... Due to the position of his hand, the pumping motion of his three fingers and the dandling touch on her hypertrophied clitoris, along with the scientifically, still-unknown G spot, caused a sensation that Ina had never before felt, and she began to rotate her hips, putting syncopated, rolling pressure against the erotically satisfying movement of Mitchell's fingers, and the more than satisfying caress of his thumb. Forgetting that just a few minutes earlier she'd thought him wholly inexperienced, "Mitchie," she said,

BECOMING breathing the words rather than saying the words, "emmm, where'd you, ahhh, learn to do this?"

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At that moment, not actually cognizant of the thought, Mitchell realized that in sex, for him, it was just as important to give as to receive and was ecstatic in the knowledge that he was doing something to Ina that she, too, was enjoying, and--though he had no way of knowing just how much she was enjoying what he was, albeit, unknowingly, doing--having no idea of what it was that he was doing, he said nothing. "Oh, God, that feels so nice!" Constricting and relaxing her thighs and vaginal muscle while gyrating her pelvis in harmonized movement with the pressure of his fingers, and the touch of his thumb, "Mmmm!" rolling her head from side to side... Taking hold of his hand, moving his hand and fingers at her desired speed, her breathing coming harder... faster, now oscillating her buttocks and hips, now... Also rubbing against, and putting a silken, oh, so sweet pressure against her hip and his stomach-entrapped, upstanding penis... Mitchell was so absorbed in Ina's passion that he did not realize that now he, too, was pumping his pelvis, and, of course, did not know of, nor take notice of the spasmodic tightening and loosening within her vagina as Ina's intensely strong orgasm began, but suddenly did realize that it was not only her raspy breathing he heard but his also, and even under the weight of her buttocks, Mitchell arched his pelvis upward and this time unwilling, unable to stop himself, laying his head back on the seat he closed his eyes as, "Mmmm! God!" his voluminous... More often than not, due to her date's lack of staying power, consideration, or most likely a combination of both, Ina's sexual dalliances were consummated by her own hand in the privacy of her bedroom, and now, completely satiated, relaxing, Ina loosened her thighs, and if she did realize, made no comment as... Mitchell's ejaculations arched upward, then dropped and splattered on her thighs, stomach and, looking much like melted droplets of vanilla ice cream, onto the dark-blue metal dashboard of Mister Dorfmann's 1950 Pontiac. As his breathing and pulse rate returned to normal, the realization of what had happened hit him and, angry at himself for "coming" that way, and not even getting to see "it," Mitchell looked at Ina and, even in the dull moonlight, her face did not look nearly as appealing as it had a few seconds ago. As a matter of fact, he thought, she looks really shitty! Also, suddenly his wrist hurt terribly so, pulling it free with a wet, suction sound, opening and closing his fist a number of times to get the circulation flowing, he wiped both sides of his hand on the seat. Still lying across his lap with her eyes closed and her thighs spread, Ina looked almost as though she were asleep. Tilting his head downward, he tried to see between her thighs, but it was much too dark there. Looking up, he noticed the flashlight on the cluttered, now semen-splattered dashboard... and the hint of an idea came to mind. Mitchell looked at Ina's face again. Her eyes were still closed and, Hmmm, she sleeping? Yeah, maybe! It sure looks like she's sleeping. He looked at the flashlight. Nah! His eyes flicked back to Ina, and back at the flashlight. Shaking his head negatively, Nah! But, But if she is asleep, maybe I can still get to see it. Making the decision... Slowly... Moving slowly, moving his arm only because he did not want to wake her, reaching to the flashlight, he grasped, and pulled. Holding a moment, the strong magnet released with a slight jerk. He looked at her face once again and, her eyes still closed, Ina hadn't moved.

BECOMING Holding the flashlight, he waited... Still, she did not move.

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Tilting his head to the right, looking down, slowly, carefully so as not to touch her, positioning the flashlight, taking a deep breath, he pushed the button, and... Light seemingly filling the car, several things simultaneously happened: Thinking a cop was shining his flashlight through the window--as had happened oh, so many times in the past--Ina's instantaneous reaction was to open her eyes and bring her head up, and... Ina's reaction to the light drawing his immediate attention, releasing the button, the light went off as... Bonk! Ina's forehead smashed into the hard plastic steering wheel, bounced off and fell back onto the seat. "Ina?" said softly. No answer. "Ina," said a bit louder. "Ina?" Still, no response... Waiting another moment, pushing the button, shining the light onto her face, "Oh, my God!" Swallowing, he blinked his eyes rapidly, for... Her tongue lolling from the corner of her drooling mouth, Ina Dorfmann's head lay flat on the seat. Staring upward, blankly, her eyes were open, and crossed. "Ina?" Thinking she's dead, "Ina!" And not only dead, "Ina, I'm sorry!" but that he was responsible. That he'd killed her! "Ina," shaking her shoulder, "I'm sorry!" Apologizing for killing her, he shook her shoulder even harder... and watched as her jiggling breasts flopped back and forth with the motion. "I'm sorry!" "Ummm." She moaned. She's not dead! Relieved that she wasn't dead, "Ina, I'm sorry!" She moved her head. I didn't kill her! Relieved that he hadn't killed her, "I'm sorry!" She blinked her eyes. Looking skyward, thinking, Oh, God, thank you, God! Overjoyed because Ina was alive and that he had not killed her, "I'm sorry." turning the flashlight off, he put it back on the dashboard. "Oh, God," holding her head in her hands. "I've got such a headache!" Turning, moving off Mitchell, sitting up, Ina faced forward.

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Relieved to see her sit up, and move her by-then unbearably hot and heavy buttocks off his lap, thinking he was thinking, I'm sorry, but actually whispering it, "I'm sorry," he muttered one last time as, reaching to the floorboard, hastily slipping his feet through his Jockey shorts and jeans, he pulled both up to his waist, then, grabbing his shirt off the driver-side floorboard, Mitchell pulled it over his head, as... Trying to figure out, What happened? "What happened?" Ina asked. Buttoning his fly, cinching his belt, he didn't answer. Ina knew that she was naked and that he was naked, and felt the rapidly evaporating moisture in and on her crotch and the familiar stretched feeling within her vagina, and in her still-muddled mind thought, He screwed me. Which in itself would not have bothered her, except, Why, all of a sudden do I have a headache? And, Why in the hell does he keep apologizing? And also, "Mitchie," she asked, feeling her forehead, "How'd I get this goose-egg?" Now thinking, The flashlight was a really stupid thing to do! Trying to think, What should I tell her? Trying to think of a, somewhat, plausible answer, She don't remember the flashlight. Stretching over the seat, reaching to the back, reclaiming her brassiere and blouse, Ina slipped her arms through the straps, adjusted her breasts into the cups, fastened the hooks, then, looking at him, "So," she asked suspiciously, "how'd I get this bump on my head?" "Uh, I don't know," he said, looking away, "I guess you, uh," telling the truth, "kind'a bumped it." Bending forward, reaching for her shorts and panties, "Ouch!" her forehead grazed the steering wheel. Slipping both onto her feet, arching her body upward, Ina pulled both over her hips. "I bumped my head? How, Mitchie? On what?" He thought a moment, Maybe I ought'a just tell the truth, and figuring the truth, some of it at least, might be the way to go. So, "On the steering wheel," he said. As though this was the only logical answer, which in fact it was, Ina simply said, "Oh." Except, she thought, he just saw me bump my head on the steering wheel. And Ina Dorfmann, the girl that would screw just about anyone, thought Mitchell Lipensky did...? She didn't know what, but she did think that this boy--this boy that she felt something akin to love for an hour ago--did something to her. Fresh air replacing fetid air, Ina rolled her window open, turned the key in the ignition starting the motor, turned the defroster on, and while waiting for a hole of clear glass to appear, "You know, Mitch," she said, looking across the seat at him. "I've never been out with a guy like you before." Catching the inflection in her voice, not knowing if this was meant as a compliment--which it most certainly was not--and not knowing how to respond in either case, he said nothing. "Yeah, Mitch," Ina said as, wincing, she touched the bump on her forehead. "You know I've gone out with lots'a guys, an' lots of 'em have done... well, you know, 'it' to me. But, Mitch, you're the only one that's ever apologized." Putting her father's 1950 Pontiac into reverse, then forward, Ina Dorfmann drove off the dirt road of the view site onto the Old Highway.

BECOMING 32 Working: The Free Enterprise System September Through December, 1950 Fifth period: Second of three crowded, 55-minute lunch periods at Harrison High.

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Norman and Mitchell had followed the line of kids waiting their turn to buy a hot lunch, or in their case, pop and chocolate milk at five cents each, plus a two-cent bottle deposit. Upending the pint bottle, Norman drank the last of the chocolate milk, put the bottle on the tray, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and tilted his chair back. Sitting on the opposite side of the long lunch table, Mitchell loudly slurped the last few drops of Orange Crush through the straw, "Urpp!" belched and, "So, we still gonna look for a job on the way home?" sat back, too. "Yeah," sighing, "guess we gotta." "Only if we wanna have money we gotta, and these..." Looking up, Mitchell watched as a pretty, dark-complected girl wearing a tight-fitting, pink angora sweater, and carrying a lunch tray came abreast of the table. Catching, the girl's and Mitchell's eyes held until she passed. "And these," continuing what he'd been saying, "junior girls don't come too cheap." Facing the opposite direction, Norman watched the movement of the girl's well-rounded posterior under her black, calf-length skirt. "Yeah," sighing longingly. "I guess." They had finished their brown-bagged lunches of two sandwiches and an apple for Norman, and two sandwiches and a package of Twinkies for Mitchell, who was absently watching a boy across the aisle. Through eating, going to the garbage can at the head of the table, the boy dumped a paper bag, a Hostess cupcake wrapper, and an empty Coke bottle into the can. Looking down the length of their table, Mitchell counted three bottles left by previous occupants whom, not quite as neat or as considerate as the boy across the aisle, did not want to take the time, or found it too demeaning, to stand in line for a measly two-cent bottle deposit refund. Looking about the huge lunchroom, he saw that there were dozens of empty bottles that had been left on the tables waiting for the kitchen helpers to gather between this period and the next, when the women went from table to table pushing stainless-steel carts, wiping the tables clean of the residue left by the departed students, and also, collecting the unreturned bottles. Mitchell's gaze shifted to the short line of students waiting in line for their two- cent deposit. Leaving the Orange Crush bottle, going to the nearest garbage can, dropping his bag and Twinkie wrapper inside, looking down, reaching into the can, he removed three bottles. Picking up a tray that a departed student had left on a table, going back to Norman he put the three bottles, along with his and Norman's and the other three bottles that had been left on their table, onto the tray. "What the hell you doing?" "I got an idea, Norm." Going to the next table, picking up two empties, he put them onto the tray also, and

BECOMING within minutes, "Norm," he asked, pointing to the full tray, "how many bottles do I have here?" "Five times seven," Norman said. "Thirty-five. So what?" "So what? Hey, Parminter, get off your ass; we've just gone into business!" Staring at him, "Don't be stupid! They won't let us do it!" "Yeah? Why?" "Why? Why? I don't know why! Because..." trying to think of a reason, "just because." "Wait!" Pointing to the girl in the pink angora sweater, who had just finished her lunch. "Watch this." Standing, the girl didn't even bother to take her tray, but left all: tray, dish, silverware, and her milk bottle. "See? She's too snobby to stand in line for a lousy two-cents, or maybe she's in a hurry and doesn't have time..." "Or, maybe," Norman added, "she's just a lazy slob."

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"Yeah, that, too. But whatever, she's paid her two cents and the lunchroom owes two cents to whoever returns that bottle." Standing, "Okay," still doubtful, "let's see what happens." Balancing two trays of thirty-five bottles each, uniformly made milk bottles on the bottom and unevenly shaped soda bottles on the top, Norman and Mitchell stood in line just minutes before the sixth period bell rang. "Hi." Putting his trays on the counter before the white-haired lady sitting on a high stool behind an old fashioned cash register, "Here you are, Ma'am," he said, smiling. "Thought maybe we'd save you some time and help out by bringing some'a the bottles back ourselves." Returning the smile, "Well, ain't that nice'a you sonny!" Knowing exactly how many bottles a tray held, reaching into the cash-register drawer, she handed Mitchell a dollar bill and four dimes. "What an idea, Norm!" Standing in the hallway seconds before the bell rang. "We'd have to work... what? Almost two'n a half hours to make this much." "Yeah," still dubious, "but I don't know, Mitch. It seems too easy." The sixth period bell rang. "Anyway, got'a get to study hall!" Trying to beat the second bell, beginning to run, "See you later." Norman called over his shoulder. Watching his friend run, rationalizing, Gym? Shit! I'll never make it on time! Ah, what the hell! Going back into the lunchroom, Mitchell made an additional five dollars and sixty-cents. Having only gym and study hall, making about ten dollars each, working both periods, the next day the boys cut sixth period.

BECOMING After school, walking home through Douglas Park, smoking, each felt the roll of singles in their pockets. "Know what?" Norman laughed. "We can't afford to cut anymore." "Yeah, you're right. Remember 'Earn while you learn'? Who'd'a thought it?"

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In a high school the size of Harrison, the unpaid, pre-paid bottle deposits for the three lunch periods amounted to, on a weekly average, in excess of five hundred dollars. The one standing order for all cafeteria workers had always been, "Get all the bottles from all the garbage cans!" The only real loss of refund money, before, had been due to the garbage cans. But the amount of money lost for missed bottles buried in the lunchroom garbage cans was minimal, and an estimated loss of less than ten percent was, begrudgingly, acceptable... Before! In the past, not being greedy... not being too greedy, knowing that something had to show up on the books, some--most--of this unaccounted money had been split between the vice principle and lunchroom manager, Mister Leland Masako, and the principle of Harrison Techenical High School, Mister Donald Bryer. This windfall usually amounted in the neighborhood of two hundred, undeclared, dollars a week, each, which was far in excess of Mister Bryer and Masako's weekly Board of Education salaries, which had, literally, put the Bryer and Masako families in another neighborhood. The boys had considered cutting both their fourth and sixth period classes, but hard argument and good reasoning on the part of Norman had convinced Mitchell that cutting would be a sure way to be stopped. But even so, allowing sheer greed to be overcome by common sense, the take home for each boy was in excess of fifty dollars a week, which was almost three times more than they would have earned with part time jobs after tax deductions... in a fraction of the time, which, because it was school afterall, they must put in anyway. But alas, as is true in all good things, no sooner does a guy find a way to make a buck than imitators begin to crawl out of the woodwork and the boys soon began to have competition. But, because they were the first, they were the two major collectors, daily filling one of the long lunchroom tables from end to end with hundreds of empties sitting on trays waiting to be "schlepped" to the old lady at the cash register for refund. Within days the boys discovered that they had loyal patrons whom, on their way out of the lunchroom, would actually go out of their way to pass the table to drop their empties off. Because of the volume of their business, Mitchell and Norman soon became "employers," employing Big Rosalind Feigenbaum and Ronald (Mushuggi'witz) Muskowitz as schleppers being paid ten percent per tray, and also, Pat Maggipanto, a school tough guy who always took three lunch periods anyway, but then got paid two bucks per period to baby sit their table--to be sure none of the bottles were swiped by the competition--during fifth and, yeah, okay, fourth and sixth periods occasionally. With Norman and Mitchell, and a host of minor collectors collecting bottles daily, the loss of income was deeply felt by Bryer and Masako, but so long as the boys were not cutting their classes on a regular basis, the principle and vice principle did not know how to stop the young entrepreneurs without revealing their own embezzlement. After almost four months of greatly reduced extra income, the highly mortgaged homes of both men were on the brink of foreclosure and they knew that some way, somehow, they had to stop all of the bottle collectors, and they had to start with the Kings of Empties. On Thursday, December 14, 1950, at precisely 1:22 p.m., a runner came into the seventh period civics class of Norman Parminter and Mitchell Lipensky, whom, coincidentally, had this one class together. "Parminter..."

BECOMING Looking up from the open book on his desk, "Yes, Sir?" "Lipensky... Lipensky!"

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Behind the open, propped book on his desk, his head slipping from the palm of his hand, his eyes opening, "Huh?" "You two! Mister Bryer wants to see you..." Uh-Oh! Thought Norman. "...on the double!" Glancing at Norman, "Oh, shit!" Mitchell muttered under his breath. * With humbly bowed heads and wildly thumping hearts, the boys stood before the highly polished, oak desk of the fearsome, eminently exalted, god-like personage of Mister Donald Bryer, the principle of Harrison Technical High School. Tall and thin with a narrow face, pinched nose, muddy gray eyes, and the remnants of a disappearing head of sandy-colored hair, sitting with his back to the window, hunched over his desk looking through the contents of first one, then a second file folder, as if comparing one to the other, Mister Bryer's head moved from side to side as he looked from file to file. Ominously muttering, "Hmmm!" and, "Uh-huh!" every few seconds the principle would look up, into the distraught faces of Norman and Mitchell, and, Tch-tch-tch, click his tongue. A study in terror, the boys stood above the principle looking at the top of his bent head, and the reflection of light from the overhead fixture that shone through the long strands of hair that Bryer had combed from left to right in a vain effort to cover his balding pate. Finally, closing the files, putting them together, dramatically tapping their sides on the edge of his desk, looking up, Bryer's muddy gray eyes stared first at one, then the other of the two terrorized boys. "You two hoodlums," he said in a flat, unemotional voice, "have been stealing from the lunchroom." "Stealing? Well..." Mitchell nervously cleared his throat, "I wouldn't call it steal..." "And," Bryer cut him off, "I thought I'd talk to you before I call the police." "Stealing? Police? Excuse me, Mister Bryer." Finding his voice, "Stealing what?" Norman asked. "Parminter, you do not speak to me in that tone of voice!" "Sorry, Mister Bryer, but I thought you said that Mitch'n'me have been stealing money from the lunchroom." "So I did!" he said emphatically. "And so you have!" "No, Sir, we have not!" Turning his wilting gaze from Norman to Mitchell, "Oh, and what do you call it, Lipensky, when you illicitly return merchandise that isn't yours..." Speaking in a normal tone of voice, Bryer now roared, "and get paid for it? Huh, Lipensky? Just what in the hell do you call it?"

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Mitchell stared at the stone-like face and horrific gray eyes of the principle a moment, then his gaze wilted and his eyes dropped. "Well, Lipensky?" Bryer's gaze, though, did not wilt, and he now added an impatient tapping of his fingernails on the hard wood desktop. "I'm waiting..." tapping, "for your answer!" tapping, "If it's not stealing," tapping, "what do you call it, Lipensky?" tapping... tapping. "Free enterprise." "Huh?" Amazed at his friend's simple, brilliant answer, Norman's head snapped to the left. Knowing his blustery, bluffing theatrics had paid off on Lipensky, about to lay into Parminter, Bryer had turned his attention to the other boy, but, Free enterprise? Turning back to Mitchell, "Free enterprise?" The words dredged up from God knows where, surprising even himself, feeling total confidence with this answer, remembering, May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Staring back at the principle, "Yes, sir! That's what we in America call it: Free enterprise!" His eyes boring into the boy, "Free enterprise, Lipensky?" the principle shouted. His stomach jumping, outwardly Mitchell did not flinch. Rather surprised that his bluster was no longer rattling the boy, "What the hell's this got to do with free enterprise, Lipensky?" Still going with the sheep-as-a-lamb theory, "In civics, Mister Olensky said our economy, the American economy is based..." Mitchell said, proudly, proving that he'd learned something, "on the free enterprise system, and that what me'n...uh, Norman'n' I did, was to see an opportunity and apply the, uh, theory of free enterprise." Rather sure that Mitchell had slept through that lesson, Norman bit his lip in a near futile attempt to keep from laughing. "Yes, Lipensky," Bryer said disgustedly, "I'm sure if you and your people..." the corner of his lip curling scornfully, "only learn one thing in America, it is bound to be the free enterprise system... and how to make money!" "Mister Bryer," more cognizant of anti-Semitism than Mitchell, catching the barb, actually a bit shocked by the fact that his principle would make such a remark, "the fact that Mitch'n'me are Jewish has nothing to do with this," Norman said. "You are still talking about the bottles, aren't you?" "Yes, Parminter, I am still talking about the bottles! And that the two of you have been cutting your classes to do your, uh, collecting. And one thing more..." Fishing, trying to find anything that would once again fluster these two, lying. "It's been brought to my attention that the two of you have been taking bottles, without permission, from girls and freshmen... smaller freshmen, and cashing them in yourself." "Okay, yeah, we've cut a couple'a classes a couple'a times to work in the lunchroom," shocked at the allegation, "but Mister Bryer, I swear..." Angrily cutting him off, "Mister Bryer," Norman said, "we've never taken so much as one bottle from anyone who didn't want us to have it! And if you've got anyone that says we have, we'd like to hear him say that to our faces! And if someone pays a two-cent deposit for a bottle and doesn't want the bother of standing in line

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to bring that bottle back, then, being as this is America, and, according to our civics teacher, if, in fact, we do operate under the free enterprise system, if that bottle is paid for and if that person does not want to bring it back him or herself and we do, then why shouldn't we get the two cents?" "Why?" Becoming red in the face, Bryer slammed his fist onto the desk. "I'll tell you why!" Thinking, Smart-ass kikes, he paused, trying to think of a plausible reason... "Because the Board of Education does not give Christmas bonuses, this extra money, the refund money, that you two have been stealing, is saved in a special fund to give to the poor old ladies that work in the lunchroom as a Christmas bonus! That's why!" Bryer looked from boy to boy, hoping they bought this story because he wanted, very badly, to end this conversation. "Enough!" His mounting anger apparent, "I don't owe you two any explanation! The collecting of all bottles is to be stopped as of today! As for cutting classes," this said out of habit, "I want the two of you to have a parent here, tomorrow!" The principle made a dismissing motion with his hand, but neither boy moved. "Parminter, Lipensky," he said, "this conversation is over!" Not buying the little-old-lady story, thinking of the loss of money, but also, about cutting classes, with a C average, "My dad's a businessman who does believe in the free enterprise system, and I don't know about Mister Parminter," glancing at Norman, "but I do know my father will want to talk to you about this!" Once again thinking of the sheep/lamb theory, bluffing, Mitchell added, "So I'm sure he'll be here tomorrow!" Looking at the boys a moment, "Hold it!" swiveling his chair around, looking out the window, thinking, Lipensky's old man just might object to us teaching one thing--god damned free enterprise system--and when his kid's got an opportunity to practice what we preach, we... I won't let him do it. And who the hell knows who these Jews know? Mentally calculating how much money he and Masako had put into their pockets each day, not counting school holidays and vacations, Jesus, almost $7,200 a year, each, times... Christ! Thinking of the years they've been partners in this, I sure as hell don't want anyone from downtown coming here and doing a lunchroom audit on unpaid, goddamned two-cent deposits, for Christ's sake! His mind shifted to... Jesus Christ! Internal Revenue and, shuddering, Mister Donald Bryer thought of all the taxes he hadn't paid. Okay, pulling his thoughts together, these two sure as hell aren't going to tell their parents they've been cutting classes to do this, but if I make them haul a parent in, sure as hell the shit'll hit the fan. Rotating the chair, forcing a smile, "Tell you what," he said, "if you two agree to stop your, uh, little illicit business I'll pass on seeing your parents, and irregardless, I'm sending a memo to the lunch room staff anyway telling them that deposits are to be refunded two-cents at a time, only!" Looking at Mitchell, who nodded his head affirmatively, "Okay," Norman said begrudgingly, "what choice do we have?" Shrugging his shoulders, "Yeah, I guess." Mitchell agreed. * "You were bluffing about your dad, weren't you?" "I'm not sure." Crumpling the empty package, he tossed it into the snow before lighting a Chesterfield. "My dad thinks that what you'n'me have been doing is really neat." Mitchell had told Walter that the collection of bottles was his idea, which, it was, and his father was proud of him, so Mitchell had thought, for the first time in his life, which was also true. "You tell him you were cutting to do it?"

BECOMING "Shit, Normie, it was only gym!" "Yeah, except for all the times you cut fourth, and that was math." "Nah," smiling, "that I didn't tell him."

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'Yeah, I bet!" Norman smiled. "My mom would've killed me if she found out I was cutting anything for any reason." "Yeah, but think about it; since we started in the lunchroom I haven't ditched a day, not once in almost four months." "Yeah, Lipensky, you couldn't afford to miss a day's school." "That's true." "Norm, the more I think about it the more I think there's something really fishy about the story Bryer gave us about the lunchroom ladies getting Christmas bonuses from the bottle money." "Why?" Norman flipped his cigarette into a shoveled mound of snow alongside the sidewalk. "You think he's bullshitted us? You think, maybe, he's keeping the money himself?" "All I know is he sure changed his mind fast enough when he thought my dad would want to talk to him." Thinking a moment, "Yeah, I think what he told us is bullshit, and I also think the prick's rooking the lunch room. How's 'bout you?" Thinking a second, "That Bryer's rooking the lunchroom? Nah!" Norman said facetiously, "Principles ain't supposed to do stuff like that." "Stuff like what? Like robbing kids..." "Yeah. And little old ladies." "Like adults ain't supposed to lie, huh." "Yeah." Norman smiled again. "'Cept for telling kids stuff like their mother's swallowed a watermelon seed when she's knocked up." "Yeah," smiling back. "You got much money left?" Norman asked. Amazed at how fast it had gone, "About eighty, ninety bucks is all." Having no idea where he'd spent it either, "Yeah, me, too." "Thought it might be kind'a nice having some money for summer for a change, so I thought I'd try hanging onto some." Lighting another Lucky, "Yeah," Norman said, "that's what I've been thinking, too, and I thought that maybe, after New Year's, maybe we ought'a try finding a job so we can hang onto whatever money's left."

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"Yeah, that's what I've been thinking, too, and I thought maybe it might be a good idea seeing if we can find a job selling women's shoes." "Women's shoes? Why selling women's shoes?" "That way we can combine business with pleasure." "How's that?" Norman asked suspiciously "Mmmm, yeah!" Licking his lips comically. "That way we'll get to look up all the girls' skirts." "Shit, Lipensky!" Scooping up a handful of snow, molding it into a snowball, "Is that all you ever think about?" Norman threw it at Mitchell... Who ran and ducked... but got hit anyway. 33 That's Life, Kid 1951 One last blustery storm proved the adage: March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. At approximately 2:27 p.m., on Thursday, the 29th of March, the last muddy remnants of an early March storm trickled down the drains, through the sewers and into the Chicago River where it joined forces with millions of kindred gallons bound for Lake Michigan and the never-ending water cycle; waiting for the sun's evaporative force to lift the vapor skyward where it becomes rain, and in time, snow once again. As though timed, as though Mother Nature herself had clicked a stopwatch, the very day, and, it seemed, the very hour the last trace of winter departed, the first signs of spring arrived: Earthworms and microscopic hairs of grass burrowed out of the freshly warmed earth. Diminutive, barely-seen nodules formed at billions of points along the naked branches of millions of trees and shrubs. As the earth felt the loving kiss of spring, so then did... Flipping the partially smoked cigarette onto the muddy ground of Douglas Park, taking a deep breath of the fresh, invigorating air, lifting his face to the warmth in the sky, God, he thought, it smells so good! The intoxicating caress of spring passionately warming his already passionately warmed blood, looking about, seeing no one, squeezing his crotch with a hard, rubbing motion, causing a partial erection, "God," Mitchell said to the unhearing sky, "but I want to get fucked!" Then, thinking, Why am I putting it off? Well, yeah," he answered himself, because what I really got a feeling for, what I really want... He'd had a few single dates, and four dates with one particular girl, but no matter how impassioned the necking session became--and there was almost always a necking session--he had been rebuked whenever his hand wandered--in every girl's opinion--too far up or too far down. And if he couldn't even cop a feel over the girl's brassiere, over her blouse, over her coat, jacket or sweater, then that girl was too low on Mitchell Lipensky's chain of sexual evolution. Besides, he hadn't met a girl, including the four-date girl, that he cared enough about to invest the time, or his then hard-earned money, on in an attempt to cultivate her to a position where she might, just might, allow even a feel, even if that feel was over three layers of clothing.

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Mitchell accredited this hands-off phenomena to the fact that he'd only dated Wej drubs--Jewish broads--and in his mind's eye there was an absolute goldmine of shiksas that were waiting to be shtuped [laid]. Only problem was, all the cute shiksas with big, up-pointed, pointy tits seemed to be so hoodie and, he was sure, that every shiksa--especially those with big, up-pointed, pointy tits--had a big, hoodie-type boyfriend. And besides, he thought, what in the hell do I have in common with a shiksa? What in the hell do we talk about? So, not wanting to be too transparent about his reasons--or reason--Mitchell had never worked up the nerve to ask a shiksa out. He'd been reluctant to call either of the two girls that he knew he would, maybe, have a sure thing with: Ina Dorfmann and Gina Glambos. But on this day, feeling the hot surge of spring, he wanted more than ever to be close to a girl. Hell, he wanted to be closer than close! But more than just sex, what he really had a feeling for, what he really wanted... What Mitchell Lipensky really felt was a deep longing in the pit of his stomach to meet a girl that he could love that loved him back... And if he could have sex, of sorts, with that girl, that would be really nice, too. The only known choices on that day, though, were Ina Dorfmann and Gina Glambos. Oh, well! Running up the back stairs, anxious to get to the phone, taking the steps three at a time, "Mrs. Kaplin, hi!" he yelled to the long-suffering second floor neighbor; her of the broomstick-pockmarked ceiling. "Great day, isn't it?" Not expecting an answer other than... On her porch sweeping winter's last accumulation of dirt through the bottom of her banister, Mrs. Kaplin did not surprise him and, "Hurrumph!" she replied to Mitchell's fleeting back. Pulling the screen door open, expecting the inner door to be unlocked too, he twisted the handle twice before realizing that the door was locked. Fitting the long-shanked key into the lock, opening the door, "Mom, I'm home!" Stepping inside, he allowed the screen door to slam shut. "Mumser." Below, in her kitchen, glancing at her pockmarked ceiling, Mrs. Kaplin muttered, again, "Mumser." On the kitchen table was a note: "Mitchie, honey, it is such a nice day I decided to take Larry and Mortie for a walk. We are going to walk to Sears and daddy will pick us up and bring us home. Love, Mom." Throwing the note into the can beneath the sink, pouring himself a glass of milk, taking a package of Hostess Cupcakes from the pantry, he threw the cellophane wrapper into the can also and, balancing the small cardboard sheet with the two chocolate cupcakes on the rim of the glass, going to the telephone table in the dining room, putting the glass onto the table, taking his wallet from his pocket, removing a scrap of paper, dialing a phone number... "Hi! Is Ina home?" "Yeah, I am. Who's this?" "Ina, It's Mitch," he said as though she'd have to remember him.

BECOMING "Mitch?" Ina said, thinking, Mitch who? "Mitchell Lipensky. You know, from Union Pier."

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"Oh... Oh, yeah," her hand absently going to her forehead, feeling a bump that had disappeared months ago, "that Mitchell! How are you, Mitch?" she asked in an oddly flat tone of voice. That Mitchell? "Fine, Ina. I'm just fine." Suddenly at a complete loss of words, trying to think of something to say without sounding too obvious, "So," he asked, "how's school been for you?" "Ehh, you know, 'bout the same's it always is." Not really caring, "How's it with you?" she asked. "Me'n'Norm... You remember my pal, Norman?" "The blonde guy with glasses you always hang out with?" "Yeah, that's him. Anyway, him'n'me figured a way to make lots'a money in the lunchroom at school, and we started a business collecting the bottles from the kids that didn't want to bring 'em back for the two cents and we were makin' about..." exaggerating a bit, "a hundred bucks a week, each, even after paying off a couple'a other kids we had working for us." "No shit!" Finding it hard to believe, "Really! You guys made a hundred bucks a week? Each! By goin' to school?" "Yeah," he laughed. "No shit! I couldn't even ditch. A hundred bucks a week for goin' to school ain't too bad." "Wow!" Truly impressed, "No, that ain't too bad is right!" "Yeah," he said sadly, "but they made us stop, and Normie'n'me are working at a shoe store over on Cermak Road now." "Hey, listen," speaking as though the voice of authority, "if there's a way to make a buck you think those jerks'll let a couple'a kids make it? Not on your life!" "Yeah, we sure felt it wasn't fair. If kids pay two cents and don't want to stand in line to get it back, then why shouldn't Normie'n'me be able to do it, if we want?" "Yeah, that's why I never eat in the lunchroom." Unable to make any sense of this statement, letting it pass, "Ina, the reason I'm calling..." I know the reason you're calling, Ina thought. "Is because I'd love to see you again, and maybe, if..." Now he's gonna say, If no one's home later, maybe he can... "...you're not doing anything tonight, or maybe tomorrow night, if you want, maybe we can"--the thought of his conversation with Frank Rizzo regarding going to a movie with Gina flitted through his mind and, as then, he really didn't want to--"go to a movie or something. Or if, uh, maybe, if your folks aren't going to be home, maybe we can, uh, you know, kind'a hang around there... at your house."

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Ina thought she remembered most of what had happened on the night of their tryst. She had given it a lot of thought and was sure that they did not have completed sex because he wasn't wearing a rubber, leastwise she had no memory of seeing him put one on, or take it off. And if he wasn't wearing a rubber she had no backwash of semen in her panties. But she did find a number of the familiar, translucent, dried droplets of semen on her thighs and stomach. But also--which added to the mystery--the next day her father had wanted to know, "Who's the goddamned slob who dripped goddamned ice-cream all over my goddamned dashboard? No, no, she had thought at the time, that sure as hell ain't ice-cream! Only thing is, how'd he get jizm all over me and the dashboard, too? Oh, yeah, Ina had thought about that night and, What the hell'd he do to me? still was unable to figure it out. As soon as Ina had dropped Mitchell off she'd pulled to the side of the road and inspected the flashlight. If he'd'a hit me as hard as I got hit, to raise a goose egg the size'a goose egg on my forehead, he'd'a dented it good! she had thought. But the flashlight didn't have so much as a dent and, as improbable as it was, Okay, maybe I did bump my head on the steering wheel, but why? And why'd he keep apologizing? And what in the hell was he apologizing for? As was Gina, Ina was an insecure, promiscuous girl who would look anyplace for approval, and who would have intercourse with almost anyone if she thought it would make him like her. And yes, she would have liked to be with Mitchell that way again, but Ina Dorfmann, the girl that would screw just about anyone, thought that Mitchell Lipensky was some sort of a pervert and was afraid to be alone with him. "Gee, Mitchie," trying to think of an excuse without being rude, "I'd love to see you again, but, uh, my dad's been transferred to, uh, Peoria, an' we're movin' tomorrow." "Peoria? You're moving to Peoria, tomorrow?" "Yeah," she said sadly. "We gotta." "God, Ina, do they even have Jews in Peoria?" "Don't know... Yeah, I guess so." Grasping, hoping, "How's about tonight? Can I see you tonight?" "Nah. I'd really like to, but, uh, we're packin' and I gotta help my folks." "Oh. Oh, well. Gosh, Ina, I'm sorry." He's sorry again. "Yeah, me, too. Well, if we ever move back, maybe I'll see you sometime." "Yeah," disappointed. "Well, bye, Ina." Breaking the connection, sitting back, looking at the phone a moment, Mitchell peeled the dark frosting off one of the cupcakes and, slowly, savoring the chocolate, ate it, then, taking another scrap of paper from his wallet, dialed Frank Rizzo. A youthful, feminine voice answered, "Hello." "Uh," picking on the frosting of the second cupcake, "this the Rizzo residence?" "Yes. Who's calling?" "Is Frankie home?"

BECOMING The line silent a moment, "Who's calling?" the young woman asked again. Breaking the frosting, putting half into his mouth, "Mitchell." "Mitchell? You a friend of Frankies?" "Yeah, we went to military school together, during the war." "Oh, that Mitchell!" Her voice sounding oddly flat, "This is Cynthia, Frank's sister."

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That Mitchell? "Oh, yes, Cynthia! I visited your house...." thinking, God, was it two years ago? "...two years ago. Frankie wanted me to meet you, but you were away, at school or someplace." "Retreat." "Excuse me?" "Retreat." Assuming he knew she meant, "I was away at retreat." "Oh." Having no idea what Cynthia meant by retreat. "Oh, yeah. Your mom'n'dad, they're okay?" "Mitchell, when's the last time you talked to my brother?" "I don't know." He did, though. It was two years ago when he got on the streetcar and he and Frank said goodbye. Picking the second half of the frosting off the cupcake, "It's been a while, I guess." "Yeah, I'll say it's been a while... Frank's dead." "Huh! What?" "My baby brother," her voice catching, "is dead." "Cynthia, I, I..." Dead? How can Frankie be dead? He's only a kid! Stunned, his fingers opening, the frosting dropped to the floor. "Dead! Cynthia, Frankie's a kid! How can he be dead?" "Yeah. Well that kid joined the Marines and got sent to Korea." "How? You've got to be seventeen, at least!" Remembering that Frank was, almost a year older than himself. "Oh, my God! Cynthia, I'm so sorry! What happened? Uh, if you want to talk about it." "He stepped on a land mine. A pal of his called when he got back to the States and told us. Thanks be to Jesus it happened fast and he never knew what hit him." "Cynthia, I..." feeling his throat thickening and his eyes burning, he didn't know what to say. "Please, tell your Mom and Dad I called and that I'm sorry. Oh, God, I'm sorry... Goodbye, Cynthia." Replacing the receiver he stared at the wall a few moments, then, as if in a trance, walking to the sofa, folding his legs beneath him, resting his chin on his crossed arms on the back of the sofa, staring out the window, seeing nothing, How can Frankie be dead? Kids don't die. Kids' friends don't die! No one he knew had ever died. Death, to Mitchell, was a complete abstract. Death was something detached

BECOMING from himself. Death was something that happened to Nazis, Japs and bad guys in movies. Death was something that happened to faceless voices on the radio. Dead! To be gone! To never see or talk to again! Never! Too inconceivable to comprehend. I'll never see or talk to Frankie again? Slowly, the realization sinking in, No! How can that be? Sounds in the hall. The door opening, Walter, Lawrence and thirteen-month-old Morton, in Myra's arms, came into the apartment. Trying to keep his emotions under control, Mitchell went to his family.

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Seeing his bloodshot eyes and the look of terrible sadness on his face, grasping her baby tighter, frightened, her voice high-pitched, "Ma?" Myra asked. "Pa?" Unable to speak, shaking his head no, for the first time since he was five, going to his father, putting his arms around his neck, laying his head on Walter's shoulder, Mitchell cried. Living with Mitchell, seeing him every day, Walter hadn't seen him grow nor noticed how tall he'd become, now, being held in his embrace he realized that his son was taller than himself and, being held in another man's emotional embrace embarrassing him, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, "Mitchell, what's wrong?" he asked. Sitting Morton on the floor, going to her eldest son, "Mitchie," putting her hand on his shoulder, "tell us! What's the matter?" Crying, barely able to speak... "Frankie." Spotting the piece of chocolate frosting on the floor, crawling to it, Morton shoved it in his mouth, and a brown, frothy drool dribbled down his chin, onto his light-blue spring jacket. "What's wrong with Frankie?" Moving his face from Walter's shoulder, "Mom, he's dead." Shocked, but at the same time relieved that it wasn't her mother or father, taking a deep, relaxing breath, "What happened?" Attempting to speak, Mitchell gulped air. Walter barely remembered Frank Rizzo, and only because this was affecting his son so badly did the death of this one person affect him more than that of any stranger. "Mitchell, calm down." Moving him from his shoulder, holding him at arms length. "Tell us what happened." Forcing himself to stop crying, "F-Frankie joined the Marines. Got shipped to Korea, and got killed by a land mine." "Oh, Mitchie, I'm so sorry!" Turning him in her direction, putting her arms about him, "I know he was a good friend." Trying to console him, "What a shame. Shhh." Patting him on the back, "Shhh." Hissing, "Bastards!" in her ear. "Fuckin' bastards!"

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"What?" Not sure she'd heard what she knew she heard, shocked, Myra looked at her son. "Mitchell, what did you say?" Breaking from his mother's arms, "Fuckin' bastards." Speaking softly, venomously, looking from his mother to his father to his six-year-old brother. "Fuckin', gook, commie, bastards!" Speaking faster, louder, "He was right! Martinez was right! He said we ought'a drop the fuckin' A bomb on the whole fuckin' country and kill all those fuckin, sonsabitchin', commie bastards!" Catching himself, remembering where he was and whom he was with, stopping suddenly, he tried to calm himself. Holding his hand to his mouth, "Ohhh," Lawrence said, "Mitchie said the 'F'n' word, a whole bunch'a times." Seeing the shocked look on his mother's face, "Mom, I'm sorry, but they killed my friend." Turning from his family, rushing to his room, Mitchell slammed the door shut. Myra began to follow, but... Seeing his pain, a sudden sense of empathy causing a bond Walter hadn't before felt for his son. "Wait." Stopping his wife, "Give him a while to calm down and I'll go talk to him in a few minutes." When the sound of sobbing stopped, "Mitchell," knocking on the door, "can I come in?" A deep sigh coming from behind the door, "Yeah, Dad." Opening the door, Walter went into the room. "Okay to sit?" Moving aside, making room for his father, "Yes. Sure." "Mitchell, I know we don't talk much..." "Yeah," forcing a smile, "the last time you told me about the birds and the bees." "Yeah. Well I think it's time I told you about the other side of the birds and bees story. This may sound strange to you, but the other side of the story is that everyone who's born has got to die. Thing is, we all hope to die in our proper time. Problem is, no one knows when the proper time is and we all want it to be some other time. Bubby and Pa have lived long lives and, unless something bad happens, when they die it'll be their proper time. I hope your mother and brothers, and you and me, too, are as lucky as Bubby and Pa and we die only after long lives, and in our proper time." Feeling the tightening in his throat again because, though he knew they would, he'd never allowed himself to think of life without his parents, to think of his mother and father dying. Then again he'd never thought that a friend of his would die either. "Thing is," going on, Walter said, "sometimes we do die at a time that doesn't seem proper, like your friend, Frankie. It's a real bad thing that he had to die, but who knows, maybe, if you think about it, maybe it was Frank's proper time to die... You understand what I'm saying?" "Yeah, I think so." "I guess, to make it real easy, when you talk about dying, what you're really talking about is living, too."

BECOMING Slightly confused, "Death," Mitchell asked, "that's life?"

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"You got it." Smiling, reaching to him, doing something Mitchell could not remember his father ever doing, tousling his son's hair, Walter said, "That's life, kid." The Blight The West Side had been stagnant for years. Names on mailboxes had remained the same year after year, and if not the same name than certainly the same European derivation of that name, or the neighbor's name. In the years following World War II, millions of people from throughout the world flocked to America, and in particular to the city of Chicago. The Europeans came, some with more, most with less, but all came bringing their own culture, wanting to be with their own kind, and settling, as silt in water, upon the suited financial ledges in the existing melting pot ghettos and, for the most part, harmonizing with those who came before them. But now, slowly, all but unnoticed except by those who lived along the constantly changing, eroding borders, the European names on mailboxes changed, from Mazisyk, Binkowski, D'Angelo and Shapiro to "American names": Smith, Jackson, Washington, Davis and Robinson. As the multitudes flooded into the city, both from within and outside the borders of America, the ghetto neighborhoods grew constantly, continually encroaching inward, and the existing natives began to move either deeper into the melting pot, temporarily away from the erosion, or, if they had the means, out of it completely, to the suburbs or cities of Berwyn, Cicero and Brookfield to the west; Oak Lawn, Evergreen Park and Blue Island to the south; Lincolnwood, Skokie and Morton Grove to the north. Previously well-maintained buildings changed hands and the newly found money was transferred out of the old neighborhoods and into the new... Into high-rise apartment buildings for the wealthy... Into shopping centers and countless tracts of suburban, pea-pod houses. The blight was not the fault of the encroaching people because they were the victims, but rather the fault of the political representatives of the previously existing people for allowing the onset of these destructive conditions. Graft was widespread. Building violations ran rampant and, against all existing building codes, the new landlords subdivided individual two- and three-bedroom apartments into two, and even three separate apartments with shared bathrooms and Pullman-type kitchens. The previous space housing a single family of three, four, five or six people became the spaces for two, three or even four families. As the existing families vacated their ghetto apartments, the vacuum they left was quickly filled. As the socioeconomic makeup of the neighborhoods changed, moderate- to low-income, previously decent neighborhoods became filthy, over-crowded slums, and in the passing of those going and those coming misconceptions and prejudices were formed that lasted lifetimes. The Parting May 1, 1951

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The hot sun reflecting off the cracked, white-glazed brick faade, the boys sat on either side of the front stoop watching as, much too quickly, the small moving truck was loaded with furniture being carried down the three flights of stairs by two sweating moving men. They sat in silence, as though were one to speak it would open a floodgate of uncontrollable emotion, and neither boy wanted to appear less a man to the other. Beading their foreheads and upper lips, sweat trickling down the backs of their shirts, neither moved. The last of the items, the refrigerator, was hoisted onto the tailgate of the truck and secured with rope. For the very last time, a small women, a husky man, and a seven-year-old boy walked down the stairs they've traveled so many times over the so many years they'd lived here. Stepping through the wide, doorless entry, the man nodded to the dark-haired boy, then, with his youngest son following, he went to the driver side of a green, '47 Oldsmobile, opened the rear door for the boy, then his door. Stopping, the women looked at the boys, and feeling their sadness, holding back her own tears, she kissed the forehead of the bigger boy, went to the car, got in and faced straight forward. Sighing, the blonde-haired boy stood and looked down. The other boy stood, also. Blinking their eyes, biting their lower lips in concentration, the boys looked at each other for a long moment till, turning away, the smaller boy went to the car, opened the rear door, sat down and pulled the door shut. The ignition turned, the motor came to life... and the car pulled away from the curb. Removing his glasses so they wouldn't blow off, leaning his head through the window, turning his head, he watched as the figure on the curb became smaller and smaller. Only when Mitchell disappeared from sight completely, did Norman bring his head back in. Alone now, Mitchell turned away, and no longer able to control his tears ran through the long, now lonely hallway, out the back entrance, through what was Norman's yard, into his yard and up the three flights of stairs. Junior Johnson July 6, 1951 His cocked elbows on the banister, his chin nestled in the palms of his hands, he watched from his porch as the five Negro kids--three boys and two girls--played softball. He'd seen them playing in the alley before and thought they lived in the recently converted, now multi-flat building across the alley, where not too long ago Sharon Duffy lived with her mother and the Gogulski twins lived with their parents. "'Ey, Leroy hit dat ball!" The largest of the group was sitting on the broken cement incinerator calling encouragement to the batter. Closing his eyes, "Oh, God," his lips moving in a whispered prayer because he believed that unless he prayed out loud God wouldn't hear him, "please, God, let it be Norman and Phyllis and Big Rosalind and the Gogulski's, and God, please, God, let things be like before!" Closing his eyes, tighter, One... two, he counted

BECOMING silently, three... "'Ey! You, boy!" Four... five... Slowing, giving God more time, six... seven... "You! Da white boy on the third floor!"

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"Eight..." Knowing his concentration had been broken, knowing his prayer wouldn't be answered, opening his eyes, he looked at the boy. Standing in the yard, "'Ey," the boy called again. "Wh'ch'ya doin'?" Thinking, Praying for you to disappear. "Uh, nothing," he said. "Don't'j'ya be doin' that!" The boy said in a loud, friendly tone. "Doing what?" "Standin' way up there doin' nothin'! Come on down, boy. We's only five an' needs us another player." "Me?" Poking his chest with his thumb, "You want me?" "Lordy! Yeah, you!" The boy threw the ball. Surprised at the accuracy, Mitchell instinctively caught it. "We won't eat'ch'ya! Come on down!" Actually, Yeah, I do, wanna play ball with them, he thought. But actually, having no reason to be, he was afraid of them. But if I don't go down and play with them, they'll think I'm prejudiced or something, and I sure don't need a bunch of shvartzer kids, especially that big one, thinking I'm prejudiced. "So, ya comin'?" Throwing the ball back, "Yeah, why not?" Opening the screen door, "Mom," he yelled, "I'm going downstairs to play ball!" Letting the door slam shut, he clumped down the stairs. "Hi!" Feeling intimidated, holding his hand forward, "I'm Mitch Lipensky." "'Ey, Mitch." Big, six-foot-three, with thick, muscular arms, "I'm Junior Johnson." Grasping Mitchell's hand, shaking it in a strong grip, "An' this here's my sister, Katie." "Junior? I'd sure hate to see senior." Smiling, turning, looking at the tall, angular girl, "Hi, Katie." Nodding her head, "Mitch," the girl said shyly. "An' this here's my baby brother, Baby Joe." Warming to the group, smiling again, "Do I call you Baby Joe?" Smiling back, showing two missing front teeth, "Not lessin' you wants'a be missin' your teef, too." A smaller, younger duplicate of his big brother, "You jus' call me Joe," the boy said.

BECOMING "An' this here's Leroy. Leroy lives over there," pointing in the direction of the old Duffy apartment. "Leroy," holding his hand out, "hi." Leroy hesitated a moment, then, a smile coming to his thick lips, accepting the handshake, "Yeah, hi." "An' this is..." Junior said proudly, "my girlfriend, Lousy." "Louise?" Mitchell looked at the girl. "Did he say your name's Louise?" "Yeah. Dat's what I said," Junior repeated. "Lousy."

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The ebony-colored girl was small, about five-three, and maybe fifteen years old. She had a thin, Caucasian nose with wide, flaring nostrils, sensuous--though not overly, by Mitchell's standards--full lips and, for a girl her size, unusually large breasts. Her almond-shaped black eyes looking up from under long, thick lashes. "Hi." she said. He had watched her from three stories up, especially when she ran the bases, and thought she was pretty then but, close up, God, she's beautiful! His eyes flicking from her face to her chest, Mitchell saw that Louise was not wearing a brassiere, and could actually see the clearly defined, circular projections of her nipples under the tightly stretched, white cotton T-shirt. Swallowing, forcing himself to keep from licking his lips, sensing a tightening in his crotch as his thumping heart pumped blood downward, the dual thoughts of the dark intensity of her nipples and, if her pubic hair matched the tight nap of the hair on her head, simultaneously flitted through his mind and, Oh, God! I'd love to see her naked! I'd love to f... Prodding him with his elbow, "Real looker, ain't she?" Forcing his eyes from the girl's chest, looking at Junior, "Uh," not sure how to respond, "yeah, she sure is." he said, thinking, He's got to be fuckin' her! And Mitchell felt two things: a deep jealousy of this black boy, and at the same time wondered, Is there something wrong with me for even thinking of fucking a shvartzer girl? * "...Ain't much of'a ball player, are ya, Mitch?" The game over, the others gone, Junior Johnson and Mitchell were sitting on the incinerator smoking. Thinking of the hundreds of times he's sat on this exact spot. Nostalgically remembering when he was a kid sitting on the building block opposite home, looking down Phyllis' and Sharon's blouses whenever they'd had their ups. Mitchell looked for the block, but it was gone. "Sometimes I play better than other times," he answered. "Y'all work?" "Yeah, part-time, at a shoe store on Cermack. You?" "Duz I work? Sheet, yeah! I goes wif my Pa every day!" "You don't go to school?" "Sheet, no! What I needs wif school?"

BECOMING "How old are you, Junior?" "Almost sixteen."

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"Almost sixteen! Shit, you sure are one big guy for almost sixteen!" Really, he'd much rather ask about Lousy, but thinking better of it, "What do you do with your dad, uh, when you go to work with him?" "Me'n'him works over on Hoyne, in a junk yard. We's wreck cars." He looked at him. "Wreck cars? How in the hell do you wreck a car?" "Mostly there's machines that do it. But I's use a sledge a lot, an' haul lots'a steel shit 'round in a 'barrow." Mitchell looked at the knotted muscles beneath the taut, brown flesh of Junior's arm. "Well, that kind'a work does great things for your body, I guess." "Sheet!" Lifting Mitchell's arm, "Y'all wouldn't last a minute wif scrawny things like this." Smiling, he let the arm drop. "'Ey, Mitch, you wanna come up an' have a beer wif me?" "Beer? Your mom'n'dad lets you drink beer?" "They's better! I pay half the rent!" Digging in his pocket, removing a shiny object, tossing it in the air, Junior caught it. "So?" Tossing... catching. "You gonna have a beer wif me?" "I'd like to," surprisingly, he would, "but it's about supper time and my mom'll be calling me any minute... Ain't that a bullet?" "Shoo 'nuff." Handing Mitchell the bullet. "I found it 'tween the seats of an' ol' Chevy." An inch or so long, the lead slug comprised about half the stubby bullet's length. Turning the brass cylinder, he looked at the bottom. There was an indentation to the side of the silver percussion cap telling him it had been fired. The tiny imprinted lettering around the base of the cartridge read: Smith & Wesson, Caliber .45. Bouncing the bullet in his palm, feeling the weight. "I was in the National Guard for three months before Korea." "No sheet!" Junior interrupted. "Yeah, and they gave me a .45, but I never got a chance to fire it 'cause the day I was supposed to, the bastards gave me KP..." Not sure if Junior knew what KP meant, "work in the kitchen. And would you believe this is the first time I've even seen a .45 slug." Hefting it one last time, he handed it back to Junior. "No, man," pushing his hand away, "you keep it." "No shit! You mean it?" "'Ey, even if I had me a gun, wo'fo I needs a ol' shot bullet?" "That's really nice'a you! Thanks. Thanks'a lot!" "Yeah, an' you fo' comin' down an' playin' ball wif us."

BECOMING "It's okay, I enjoyed it."

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"Thinks I'll get me that beer." Bounding off the incinerator, cutting diagonally across the long yard, "See ya sometime, Mitch," Junior called over his shoulder. "Yeah, you too!" Running across the alley, into his yard, "Hey, Junior!" he called from the first floor landing. Up to his second floor landing, stopping, Junior looked back. "Hey," waving the hand holding the bullet, "thanks again!" * That night, in bed, That wasn't so bad, Mitchell thought. Never having more than a fleeting contact with people of the Negro race, it was not as though he'd had any preconceived conceptions about Negroes--he'd had no conception at all, and not knowing is what had frightened him. Those kids aren't all that different from us. He further thought. Yeah, the way they talk is different, and they have different ideas about going to school and the way they live. Not knowing that with most people prejudicial and economic conditions dictate the way they're forced to live. Ain't nothing wrong with them! Mitchell concluded, They're just kids with brown skin... And, God, that Lousy! Mitchell spent the next twenty minutes concocting a passionate, although totally impossible scenario where he and Louise, to the best of his imagination, were naked together and, shvartzer or not, yes indeed, they did fuck. The Bullet August 5, 1951 Glancing skyward, even after all these years, still waiting for the bolt of lightning on this Sunday morning over breakfast of fried matzo and pork sausage. Walter and Myra had both come from moderately religious homes insofar as their families moderately observed the kosher dietary laws of not mixing milchedig (dairy products) with flayshedig (meat product) and, of course, all pork and bottom-feeding seafood, including shrimp and Myra and Walter's favorite dish, lobster, was strictly forbidden. Within the first few weeks of their marriage, Walter had asked his new wife, if she had no really strong objections, might an exception be made because away from the home of his parents he had developed a taste for--God forbid--ham and bacon. This request did, more or less, offend Myra. But being a new bride and wanting to please her new husband, she'd announced, a bit facetiously, "So long as we're going to break some of the rules, we may as well break all the rules." And the new husband, taking his new wife at her word, readily agreed; from that day forward, much to the envy of Walter and Myra's brothers, the Walter Lipensky household was henceforth declared a free zone regarding all kosher dietary laws.

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"Mitchie, your father and I have something we've got to do today, so we're going to drop Mortie off at Ma's and, if I give you money, you will take Larry to a movie, won't you?" This posed by his mother in much the same manner as Sergeant Martinez asking him if he'd like to volunteer for his mortar squad. Nineteen days from his seventeenth birthday, he felt it beneath him to have to schlep his, just barely seven-year-old brother to the movies, so, "Aw, Mom, do I gotta?" "Yes, you gotta!" But the objection was feigned because he'd planned on going to a double feature matinee at the Lindy anyway, and with Norman moved to the north side he had no one to go with, and this way, at least his parents would pay. And besides, for the past two weeks his parents had been in a running battle that had occasionally been punctuated with machinegun-like bursts of angry words from his mother that always ended in something like, "That goddamned boat!" Boat? And today had been the first time since the start of their battle that his father had been referred to as "your father" rather than an angry, "your father." So, he thought, if they want to be alone together--although why, Mitchell still didn't know because sex between his mother and father was still an inconceivable picture, even if they had, somehow, conceived three children--and if it'll help end the argument they're having, and make 'em talk to each other again, "Yeah, okay," he said, "I'll take Larry to the movies." In the theatre, between sharing a large brown bag of homemade popcorn and eating boxes of Ju-Ju Beads and Jujy Fruits, Mitchell absently played with Junior Johnson's bullet. For some unknown reason considering it a good luck charm, from the time Junior had given it to him the bullet had jingled in his pocket against keys and change. Tossed in the air, it was caught hundreds of times, occasionally, though, it was missed and fell to the concrete sidewalk. Within a few weeks the slug began to loosen and, after popcorn, Ju-Ju Beads and Jujy Fruits, as he sat in the Lindy Theatre, playing with it, Mitchell was able to turn the slug in the cartridge. Their parents still away when they got home, as Larry laid on the living room floor watching television, for a reason known only to himself, almost seven-year-old Larry's older, smarter brother decided that he's just got to separate the slug from the cartridge, so... Getting brilliant idea 1, using a pair of pliers, he proceeded to twist the slug, until... It's off! Holding the lead slug in one hand and the brass cartridge in the other, Hmmm, he thought, looking at the coarse, black powdery stuff inside the casing, what's this? Maybe, since the bullet's been fired and this black, powdery stuff looks kind'a burnt, maybe this is what gunpowder looks like after it's been shot. So... Getting brilliant idea 2, which, by the way, was the only brilliant idea Mitchell Lipensky had on this day, he was about to pour the "burnt," black powdery stuff down the drain... But, alas, never equating beauty to brains, changing his mind, he then got really brilliant idea 3, and... Hmmm, maybe, he thought, it'll still burn a little... Should I try it? Nah, better not! Well... No! Well, what the hell. Looking for something to put the black, powdery stuff in, spotting a thick, glass ashtray on the kitchen table, putting it on the far end of the white, steel sink, pouring the burnt, black powdery stuff into the ashtray, turning to the stove, taking a wooden match, striking and lighting it, he was about to touch the flame to the black, powdery stuff... when the Guardian Angel of moronic teenage boys whispered in his ear, giving Mitchell moderately brilliant idea 4. "If you insist..." the angel said, "on doing this abysmally stupid thing, then at least make a wick."

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Yeah, good idea! And, if nothing more, being inventive, going to the bathroom, tearing off four squares of toilet paper, twisting them into a thick wick, he laid one end onto the powdery, black stuff and the other end on the lip of the ashtray, and was about to strike another match... but before doing it, for some reason thinking he needed a witness to his brilliance, "Hey, Larry!" he called, "You wanna see somethin' really neat? Maybe." "Aw, Mitchie, I'm watchin' TV." But, his curiosity piqued, getting off the floor, going to the kitchen, "Wha'z'it?" he asked. "Look, Larry, but you can't tell mom or dad!" Having no idea what he was talking about, it was easy to say, "Okay." "You promise now! You won't say nothin'!" "Yeah, okay, I promise I won't say nothin'! 'Bout what?" "You know that old bullet the kid across the alley gave me?" "The shvartzer kid?" Since meeting Junior and Louise, whom he was still making hand-held love to, he no longer categorized Negroes that way. "Yes, Junior." "Yeah, so?" "It's been fired, see?" Showing him the cartridge, pointing to the percussion cap. "This is where the firing pin hit the bullet and it shows that it's been fired, but when this fell off," not wanting to tell his brother that he'd pulled it off, showing him the lead slug, "this powder..." pointing to the ashtray, "was in it, and it's got to be burnt, and I'm sure nothing'll happen, but I'm going to light it to find out." Looking at his older, "smarter" brother, "Why?" "Why?" Yes indeed, "Why?" Why? Mitchell wasn't sure why. "Just because; to see what'll happen." "If it's been burnt, then nothing'll happen, and if it ain't, then maybe somethin' might happen, an' maybe it'll be bad." Dumb, just barely seven-year-old logic. "No, I'm sure nothin'll happen, but I'm gonna do it anyway." People, sometimes, do inexplicable things. Pointing to the open back door, "Stand there," Mitchell said. "If nothin's gonna happen," Larry asked, "then why do I gotta stand by the door?" "Because I said so! Okay?" "Yeah, okay! You don't gotta get mad."

BECOMING At the sink, Mitchell struck the match... And there was the immediate odor of sulfur. Holding the flame to the toilet-paper wick... There was also the odor of burning paper. Going to the door, Mitchell stood next to his brother, as...

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As the toilet paper burned, the rising smoke was made all the more visible because of the canary-yellow walls and ceiling, and... WHOOMPH! The thimble-full of gunpowder ignited in a sliver flash and... Erupting from the ashtray, a dense cloud of gray-black smoke roiled up the canary-yellow wall, across the canary-yellow ceiling and out the door as... "Holy shit!" Larry said, and... "Uh-oh!" Mitchell said. The white, steel sink was scorched black from where the force of the erupting gunpowder had split the ashtray. Looking at him, actually feeling sorry for him, "Mitchie, I don't think it's gonna matter whether I say somethin' to mom'n'dad 'bout what'ch'ya done." The canary-yellow wall and ceiling above the sink and across the room was charred a dark, streaky gray, and... Coming into the smoky kitchen, "What the hell!" Walter said. Clutching Morton's hand, "The building's on fire!" Myra screamed. Looking at his wild-eyed father and his near-hysterical mother, "He did it!" Larry cried, pointing at his older brother. "Mitchie did it all by hiself! I told him not to! But he did it!" Standing in their kitchen--standing in what had been their kitchen--Walter and Myra Lipensky gaped at the now charred sink and the bubbled, blackened paint of the wall and ceiling. "What the hell did you do?" Taking five rapid steps, Walter stood nose to nose with his eldest son, whose back was now pressed firmly against the doorjamb. "What in the hell did you do?" "Uh, well..." His eyes focused on the fine hairs that grew on his father's nose, "Uh..." "Answer me, goddamn-it!" His eyes rolling to the right, looking for help from someone, from anyone, "Uh..."

BECOMING "You said that already!"

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"Dad, you know the bullet that I, uh..." Like the time he'd been responsible for Ina Dorfmann knocking herself out, what else could he do but tell the truth? "...uh, that I've been carrying around?" "Bullet? No, what bullet have you been carrying around?" "Uh, Junior Johnson, a kid from across the alley gave..." "A shvartzer that lives across the alley gave it to him." Walter looked at Larry, then back at Mitchell. "A shvartzer that lives across the alley gave you a bullet?" "Yeah." Holding his suddenly sweaty palm upward, he showed his father the two halves. "Okay, so a shvartzer that lives across the alley gave you a bullet. I don't know why..." He looked questioningly at his wife. "Why would a shvartzer give him a bullet?" When she shrugged her shoulders, Walter looked back at Mitchell. "And even if did, what in the hell's that got to do with whatever happened..." sweeping his hand over his shoulder, "here?" "Uh, the shv... he said it was fired; here, look!" Turning the casing over, "See?" showing the indention to his father. "It's been fired, and I thought the stuff inside was just old, burnt powder and nothing would happen if I, uh, lit it." "If you, 'uh, lit it,' huh?" Walter stared at his son for five very long seconds, then, "Did you ever," using his index finger, poking him in the forehead for emphasis, "hear of a misfire?" Poke. "And why," poke, "would you think that a fired bullet would still have the slug attached?" Poke. "And powder!" Poke. "Why would you think that there would be anything in the cartridge?" Poke. "And why," poke, "in God's name, would you ever set fire to gunpowder?" Poke. "Dammit, Mitchell, you're going to be seventeen in... what? Two, three weeks! When in the hell are you going to start using whatever brains God gave you?" About to poke him again... "Walt," looking at the burnt wall, "come here, will you." His finger in mid-poke, "Yeah?" Going to Myra, "What?" "Whew!" Breathing a sigh of relief, Mitchell rubbed his forehead. Morton toddled over, and considering the possibility of using his baby brother as a potential deterrent to his father's poking finger, about to pick him up, hearing a strange sound he looked at his parents. Their backs heaving, sounding almost as if they were crying, "Mom, Dad," going to them, "I promise I'll clean and paint it and...." "The kitchen," Myra said, breaking into renewed laughter, "looks fine!" "Huh?" Mitchell looked at his father, "Huh?" and he was laughing, too. "Mitchie," catching her breath, "we didn't want to tell you kids till we found one, but we got an eviction notice last week..." "Eviction notice! We're getting kicked out of here?" "Yes. They've sold the building and the new landlord wants all the old tenants out by the end of the month."

BECOMING Turning to his father, "They can do that?"

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"I'm afraid so. And if I'd thought about it, I wouldn't have gotten so mad when we came in." Thinking a moment, "Yeah, I'd'a still been mad! Dammit, Mitchell, start using your head once in a while, you really could have been hurt!" "I told him he shouldn't had'a ought'a do it!" "Okay, already!" Mitchell snarled at his brother. "That's where we've been today." Myra waited for either Mitchell or Lawrence to ask... * Walter Lipensky had made two major purchases in mid July, both without discussing them with, or informing his wife: He purchased a family membership at the Columbia Yacht Club in Belmont Harbor, and paid $750.00 for a used "Snipe": a sixteen-foot, center-board sloop that sold along with a 1951 Belmont Harbor mooring permit and a boat trailer, which the previous owner had agreed to, temporarily, keep in his backyard until Walter was able to find someplace to put it. Problem was, how to tell Myra? It took him almost two weeks to work up the nerve to tell her and then, when he did tell her, it wasn't that she was angry at her husband for making these costly decisions without consulting her--although she most definitely would have told him no. Oh, no, she wasn't too angry, she just refused to talk to him, and after thirteen days of icy silence, speaking to him only when absolutely necessary, and then in only machinegun-like bursts of angry words, Myra's first words to Walter, said in a strangely calm tone of voice, were... "Walter, we've been evicted." "What?" About as surprised at hearing her voice and the tone of her voice as he was with the shocking announcement, he'd looked up from the evening paper. "We've been what?" "You heard me," she said in a harsher tone. "We got an eviction notice today," glaring at him, daring him to object, she had said--demanded--"I want to buy a house in Skokie!" Myra had no way of knowing that Walter had been getting calls from the previous owner of the boat to get the trailer out of his yard, nor that Walter had been wondering where he was going to store the boat in winter, when the harbor was shut and the buoys pulled, so... Hmmm. The thought of his own home with an easily accessible backyard whizzed through his mind and, Yeah, he thought, that'll solve the problem. Why not! If it's not too expensive we can afford it and the interest'll give me a tax deduction, and this neighborhood's getting shittier everyday and, he looked at his wife, it'll get her off my back. So, "You know..." Myra looked at him with lowering anger and heightening anticipation. "...that's not such a bad idea. No, not a bad idea at all, us buying a house." "You mean it, Walt?" Overjoyed at this. "You really mean it?" Thinking of that easily accessible backyard, "Why, sure, honey." Walter said. "If you want to buy a house in Skokie, we'll buy a house in Skokie." *

BECOMING "That's where we've been today." Waiting for Mitchell or Lawrence to ask... "Where have you'n'dad been today?" Mitchell asked.

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Looking at Walter, smiling, "We, your father and I..." The connotation lost on her children, but picked up by Walter. "...bought a house in Skokie, and we'll be moving before the end of the month." Amazed, at not only getting away with blowing up the kitchen, but also that they're moving out of this place, the only home he'd ever, in his memory, known, "No shit!" Mitchell said. "Oops, sorry, Mom. Where's Skokie?" Skokie Bounded on the east by the Northwestern College town of Evanston, on the south by wealthy Lincolnwood, and the north and west by mostly undeveloped farmland, located about thirty-five miles northwest of Chicago's Loop, Skokie was that city's fastest growing community. Walter had looked for two things in the search for a house: affordability and access for a boat, and he found one, with actually three boat accesses. The lot was pie-shaped with the narrow, twenty-two-foot side facing the street to the south, and the wide, sixty-five-foot end to the rear. In essence the lot was an island surrounded by Lee Street in the front and two long driveways leading to the backyards and garages of neighboring houses to the east and west, with a bisecting driveway to the north. Though this lot was larger in square footage than the neighboring lots, it was a fishbowl because easements prohibited any type of privacy fence for fear of limiting visibility for the cars that traveled the driveways, but it did give Walter easy access for his boat, which in winter would be stored on its trailer at the rear of the lot where normally there would be a garage, but strangely, this house had none. The first floor of the two-story house had two bedrooms, a bathroom, living room, dining area and a long, narrow kitchen that Myra had yet to figure out, "How in the hell are we all going to eat in there?" There was a stairway leading to the second floor to... nothing, which Morris, being the master carpenter he was, with the help of his son, Sheldon, and Walter, planned on completing by adding two bedrooms, a long, adjoining, walk-through closet, and a full bathroom, which he expected to complete, with permission from the builder, between the time of purchase and shortly after occupancy by his daughter's family, which, with the exception of the bathroom, he did. The smaller of the two downstairs bedrooms was converted to a den. Upstairs, Mitchell was given the room facing the street. Lawrence and Morton shared the larger room overlooking the back yard. Whereas the other lots had been stripped bare of all existing vegetation, maybe, as compensation for squeezing this house in, Colby, the builder, had left four trees standing in the rear and had the front and rear seeded with rye seed early that spring. The houses on all three sides of the pie-shaped lot had been occupied for months. This house, because of the shape of the lot and the builder's omission, somehow, of a garage, was the last in this tract to be sold, and then only after the price had been greatly reduced by Colby and then again, after haggling with Walter and Myra. The entire block across the street was undeveloped and the Lipenskys could see from their front door to Main Street, a block away. After a lifetime of constantly clamoring streetcars and rumbling traffic, the silence at night was deafening and waking in the morning to the sound of birds rather than the clanking of the janitor's garbage can at first

BECOMING seemed odd, but the quiet was easy to get used to and the Walter Lipensky family quickly adjusted.

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In the future, for its size, the Village of Skokie would have a higher concentration of Jewish people than any other city in the world, even more than the city of Tel Aviv in the then three-year-old state of Israel, but in the last days of August, in the year 1951, Myra Lipensky was concerned that her children would be a lonely minority, and in fact, when Mitchell did enroll for his senior year at Niles Township High School, he was one of only two Jewish teenagers in the entire school... with all those cute shiksas with big, up-pointed, pointy tits... Oh yeah! Labor Day... September 3, 1951 ...was the excuse for the first of Myra and Walter's giant barbecues and most of their relations and friends had made the long trek to Skokie for the party. Automobiles lined all four sides of Lipensky Island, and the neighbors, all of whom had been invited, had to squeeze between their own fledgling hedges and the fenders of parked cars. Wearing a high, starched chef's hat and an apron, completely out of character, Walter spent the day at a Weber Bar-B-Q grilling hamburgers and hot dogs as Myra made countless trips to and from the house replenishing supplies of potato salad, coleslaw, bread, rolls, salad, pickles, pickled tomatoes, cake, cookies and whatever else was needed or wanted. Morris had constructed a four-foot high, six-foot-long shed that was attached to the rear of the brick house by lag bolts, the flat roof of which served as the buffet holding prepared foods plus bottles of gin, scotch, bourbon and vodka. Bottles of ginger ale, seltzer water and sodas of all colors and flavors, along with dozens of bottles of beer, were buried beneath cracked ice in a huge galvanized washtub that sat on the ground in the shade of an elm tree. The younger children ate and played on blankets on the lawn as the adults talked, ate and/or, played gin rummy on card tables and a table made of a door and two saw horses. His father needing the car to drive to Glenview Navel Air Base to vend at the Labor Day Air Show, Norman had taken a west, then north-bound streetcar and Mitchell had picked him up at the end of the line. Not having seen each other since Norman had moved from the West Side, the hazy sun warming their faces, the boys sat on the front door stoop away from the people and the noise of the party. Between them were two paper dishes overflowing with food. Hidden behind their backs each had two bottles of beer that they'd snuck out of the washtub. One each of their bottles was empty. "Had to feel kind'a strange, transferring to a new school with only a month and a half left to the semester." Chewing a mouthful of hamburger, he washed it down with a gulp of beer. "Yeah, it was. But what was really strange was being in a school with so many Jewish kids." Biting into his hamburger, Norman, too, swigged some beer. "See any familiar faces?" Taking another bite, hesitating, "Yeah," Norman said, "a few." Kicking his loafers off, peeling his socks off, putting them into one of his shoes, shoving the last bite of his

BECOMING hamburger in his mouth, "So, how you doin' with the north-side broads? Gone out much?" "Yeah, a couple'a times. But you know these wej drubs [Jewish broads]. I d'know what they think they got they think's so fu... urpp!--'scuse me--fuckin' valuable."

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Taking a bite of hot dog, swilling the last of his second beer, leaning back on the stoop, wiggling them, contemplating the hair on his big toes. "Yeah, you'd think..." beginning to slur his words, "they think their tits are made of fuckin' gold or somethin'... Want more beer or somethin'?" Draining the last of his second bottle, holding it up, Norman squinted through the dark amber glass. "Shit, Lipensky, I thought you were never gonna ask. Yeah! How's 'bout more beer, an' somethin'." "Okay, lets see if I can sneak us a another couple." Lifting himself off the stoop, going to the rear of the house, Mitchell returned in a few minutes with a bowl of potato chips in one hand, a dish holding two relishand onion-covered hot dogs in buns in the other, and four open bottles of beer, ensconced one each in each of his four pockets. Putting the bowl and dish on the stoop, handing the bottles to Norman, sitting again, "Where were we? Oh, yeah, we were talkin' 'bout girls." "You ever got any other kind'a conversation, Lipensky?" Fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, "None that's interesting," he offered it to Norman, who took one, took one himself, leaned into the light Norman offered, took a deep drag... and chug-a-lugged his third bottle of beer. Matching his friend beer-for-beer, "Know what, Mitchie?" "No, what, Normie?" "I'm gonna tell..." taking a drag on the cigarette, blowing twin streams of smoke through his nostrils, drinking about a quarter of his fourth bottle of beer, "...you what I, urpp--'scuse me--reeeally think!" Shoving some potato chips in his mouth, spitting crumbs as he spoke. "Oh, great paleface, pray tell, what'd you reeeeally think?" Mitchell gulped down the better half of his fourth bottle of beer. Shoving some potato chips in his mouth, spitting crumbs as he spoke. "I think it's some kind'a 'don't let em touch your tits' conspiracy with all these Jewish broads." "Yeah," munching on his hot dog. "I think they think that if they let a guy touch 'em, not even, God forbid, here," pointing to his crotch, "but jus' on their li'l ol' titties, they think God'll strike 'em dead or somethin'.... Urrppp!" Mitchell smiled. "'Scuse me." Drawing on the cigarette, drinking the last of his bottle of beer, "Jesus, Normie! Where'd my folks ever find such teensy-weensy bottles? Want s'more?" "Yeah. Nah, they're just regular kind'a bottles. Sounds like you're kind'a, maybe, drinkin' a li'l too much beer, La-pimp-sky." Recalling Junior Johnson's word, "Sheet! Too much beer my ass! Livin' in the country here, I've become some kind'a super goy an' can drink beer till it's comin' out'a my dick... Yeah, what?" "Yeah what, what?... Oh, beer! You asked if I want s'more beer, an' I said, yeah, I do. I do want s'more beer." Extinguishing with a hiss, "Okay, pal," Mitchell dropped his cigarette in one of the bottles. "Be right back."

BECOMING Taking his sneakers and socks off, putting his socks into one of his shoes, lining them up with Mitchell's loafers, "How the hell you getting' 'em past your folks?" he asked when Mitchell returned. Handing Norman two bottles, "My dad's so busy cookin' he wouldn't notice if I swiped the whole tub." Dropping onto the stoop, taking a gurgling drink, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "An' my mom's so busy talkin'an' schleppin' she don't know from nothin'." Sipping slowly now, Norman looking at his toes and Mitchell through the wood framing of the still-uncompleted houses to Main Street, both boys were quiet for a minute.

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"Yeah, the only wej drub that ever let me feel her up," continuing the conversation, "'cept Ina Dorfmann, was Debbie Schlumberger, an' that was only 'cause her falsies were so damn thick she didn't know I was doin' it." "Yeah," Norman laughed, "Debbie Schlumberger could'a kept a whole family of shvartzers busy pickin' cotton for her brassieres alone." "Y'know, Normie," sighing loudly, "the only thing that makes me feel better 'bout still bein' cherry, after all this time, is that you're cherry, too." He waited for Norman to answer, and when he didn't, taking a long pull on his bottle, staring at their feet, "Normie, you ever think 'bout how ugly your toes are?" "No, you schmuck," suppressing a smile, Norman looked at his toes, "I never think 'bout how ugly my toes are, an. if you think yours are so fuckin' beautiful," taking a swill of beer, "how's come you don't enter 'em in some kind'a beauty contest?" "Hey, just 'cause you got fuckin' ugly toes, you don't gotta get all ticked off at me." Also swilling. "It ain't my fault your folks gave you fuckin' ugly toes." "Mitchie, me ol' buddy," putting his arm across his shoulders, "I ain't mad at'ch'ya. I loooves ya!" The last of his fifth bottle of beer gurgling down his throat, "But I ain't no more." "Me, too, Normie," Feeling sentimental, blinking his eyes to hold back tears. "I loooves ya, too!" Draining his fifth bottle of beer. "Uh, you ain't no more what?" Looking at his feet, wiggling his toes, "Cherry." "Huh?" Mitchell looked at Norman. "Cherry." Norman turned his alcohol-flushed face to his astonished friend. "I ain't no more." Giggling, "I done been fucked." "Huh?" Taking a moment to register. "You got it? You? Who for ever since we been old enough to wanna fuck didn't give a shit! An' you been fucked an' I ain't! Who? Anyone I know? Who'd'j'ya do it with?" "Well," hesitating, taking a draw on his sixth bottle of beer. "Yeah, I'd say you do know her... Ina." "Ina?" Taking a moment for the name to penetrate the beer-induced cobwebs that surrounded his mind, "Ina? My Ina? Ina Dorfmann?" Somehow remembering the conversation they'd had at the beach in Union Pier. "But you said that you'd never screw a broad like Ina Dorfmann!" "Yeah, well I lied!" Becoming defensive. "An' Ina ain't your Ina! Ina's everyone's Ina!" He giggled. "'Ceptin' 'your Ina.' An' when I saw her in the hall..."

BECOMING "At school? When you saw her in the hall at school?" "Yup."

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"How? How'd you see her in the hall at school? When I called, before you moved, she said she was movin' to, uh..." "Peoria." "Huh?" "Peoria. She tol' me she tol' you she was movin' to Peoria." Giggling again. "She said it but she wasn't. She said it so's she wouldn't have to go out, or, in your case, stay in w'ch'ya. She tol'ch'ya 'cause she didn't know what else to tell ya." "Didn't know what else to tell me what? I don't understand." "Mitchie, she, Ina, tol' me she liked ya, really liked ya..." "Well, then, why'd she lie 'bout movin'?" "She knew you'n'me are buddies, an' she asked me not to tell ya that her'n'me, uh, saw each other." Taking a cigarette, he offered one to Mitchell. "No, thanks." Shaking his head, "Saw her? Shit! Lighting one of his own, inhaling deeply, "You fucked her!" "Well, yeah," Norman smiled broadly. "I did! Oh, boy, I really did fuck her!" Envious, "So why'd she lie?" Downright jealous, "Why'd she say she was movin' for?" Taking his time, sucking on both his cigarette and the beer, "Ina said that when to two'a'ya were on that date, that you did somethin' to 'er." "Me?" Mitchell said innocently. "I didn't do nothin' to 'er." "Nothin'? Oh, yeah! You didn't do nothin' but shove a flashlight up 'er box." "Oh, God!" Laughing, Mitchell put his head between his hands. "'J'ya tell 'er that? 'J'ya tell 'er 'bout the flashlight?" "Shit, no! Jus' 'cause a broad's a whore don't mean she wants everyone goin' 'round tellin' everyone she's a whore, uh, jus' 'cause she's a whore." Stopping, giggling again, draining his sixth bottle of beer. "That, urpp--'scuse me--make any sense to you?" "Kind'a." Remembering Frank Rizzos ruse of bringing his old Captain Midnight ring as an excuse to get Gina into a bedroom. "So, what she say 'bout me?" "Ina said she don't know wh'ch'ya did to her, but she knows you did somethin', an' thinks..." Beginning to laugh, "she thinks you're..." laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks, "Ina thinks you're some kind'a... Oh, God!" swiping his hand over his face, "Ina thinks you're some kind'a pervert." "Pervert!" Catching Norman's laughter, Mitchell began to laugh, too. "Ina thinks I'm some kind'a pervert jus'

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'cause I shoved a flashlight up 'er box an' turned it on an' scared the shit outta 'er an' she beaned 'erself on the steering wheel? That's what's botherin' 'er? That's why she thinks I'm a pervert?" Laughing, he fell off the stoop, onto the grass. "What the hell's going on here?" said in a stern, kind of bantering way. "Everyone's wondering where you are. Beer! How in the world did you ever sneak..." Pointing her finger, Myra counted the bottles. "...twelve bottles of beer past your father and me?" "Beer?" Mitchell looked at Norman. "Beer? J'ya drink any--urpp--beer, Normie? Two other guys must'a left 'em here, Mom." "Beer? No, ma'am, Mrs. Lipensky, ma'am. Me'n'ol' Mitchie here ain't drunk no, urpp--'scuse me--beer. Like he said, must'a been them other two guys that brought 'em." "Yeah, sure, them other two guys, huh?" Smiling, turning, heading back to the backyard and her party, "Bullshit!" Myra said over her shoulder. "Mitchie, did I jus' hear your li'l ol' mommy say 'bullshit'?" "Yeah, guess so." "So, you lookin' forward to school tomorrow?" "Always hated the thought of it before. But now? You bet'ch'ya! Shiksas! The place is lousy with bee-U-te-ful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed shiksas that don't think their tits'r made of gold." Scrutinizing his friend through partially closed, fuzzy pink eyes, "You really been fucked?" "Yeah," Norman said dreamily, "I really been fucked." "So," Mitchell asked jealously, "how'd it feel?" "How'd it feel, that I've been fucked? No different, Mitchie. You got this big thing built up in your mind and it ain't no big deal." "No big deal, huh?" "Yeah," closing his eyes, both reliving the minute and teasing Mitchell, "It's just that when you slip it in it feels, oh, God, it feels so smooth and so, uh, slickery, an' so, oh, God, it felt so warm!" Groaning as if in the throes of passion. "Ummmm!" "You dick! Stop already!" Smiling, opening his eyes, "Like I said," Norman said, "it ain't no big deal." "Yeah, no big deal." Listening to Norman, he'd poked his index finger into the opening of the bottle and, pulling it out with a pop, Mitchell brought the bottle to his lips, hesitated, lowered it and, "Blonde-haired, blue-eyed shiksas," he said, "Niles is full of 'em." "Yeah? Good luck, buddy." The Senior

BECOMING September 4, 1951

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For the first three years of high school, other than on special occasions, other than an occasional pair of chinos, Mitchell Lipensky wore nothing but blue jeans, open-necked dress- or sport-shirts, and his old dirty white-buck shoes, but now, for his debut at Niles Township High School, he wanted to start fresh and make a new, a different, a proper impression. The style for the "cool guys" at Harrison last semester and, so far as he knew, this semester too, was bright colored slacks with pegged legs; the cooler the guy the peggier the legs. Knowing his looks had always given him as much attention as he wanted, and on occasion more than he'd wanted, Mitchell had never worried much about style, but in keeping with his desire for a new image he had purchased three pairs of slacks--green, blue and black--all with a slightly modified peg leg. At 7:15 that morning he boarded the orange and black school bus wearing his new blue slacks, a yellow sport shirt, and shiny, black penny-loafers. After numerous stops to pick up students the bus stopped in front of Niles Township High School and its passengers, at least for this day, the first day of school, reverently disembarked. The rolling lawn was landscaped with dark green grass, mature bushes and tall oak and pine trees. Fresh and beautiful, everything here seemed so new and so different than the West Side, and Harrison. Feeling lost within this sea of unknown faces, he stood a minute, then walked up the wide sidewalk and eight steps leading to the school's entrance, where, waiting for the bell to ring, sitting to the side of the top step, he watched. Groups of kids were all over--on the steps, on the grass, on the sidewalk--shaking hands, hugging, kissing, renewing last semester's friendships. The bell. Inside, the black and white tiled hallways shined and the lockers looked new. The girls wore dresses or calf-length skirts with sweaters or blouses, bobby socks and, for the most part, dirty, white-buck shoes. The boys, generally, were neatly dressed, mostly in jeans, sport or dress shirts open at the collar and, for the most part, dirty, white-buck shoes. Usually shy in class, on this day, at this beautiful new school where he didn't know a person, for some reason relaxing, Mitchell allowed his personality to come through and in classes was friendly and gregarious, and without his usual shyness giving the impression of conceit, he made friends, both male and female. Returning to his locker that afternoon, he found an envelope taped to the door. Opening it, he apprehensively read the enclosed note: "Mitchell, you are one of the neatest and nicest new guys in school. If you want to make friends here, stop dressing like a Chicago hood. We don't think you are really that way. "Your future friends." The next day Mitchell wore worn Levi's, a white dress shirt open at the collar, and, his dirty, white-buck shoes.

BECOMING Sandra September 6, 1951

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Sandra was of average height and figure for a sixteen-year-old girl, and did, indeed, have blue eyes and blonde hair and, Hey, he thought, she's cute as a button. His eyes shifting from her cute-as-a-button face to the noticeable--though small--twin points of her breasts that jutted from beneath her powder-blue sweater and, Yeah! this girl was just about everything Mitchell had always thought he wanted in a shiksa. The class sat on straight-back chairs in a semicircle in front of the student giving the oration, and when the speech ended they were called upon to critique the subject matter and verbal delivery. "Public Speaking 1" was the only class he shared with the girl. Knowing that this was the best way to meet her, Mitchell was very vocal in a friendly, positive way. Sandra and most of the class picked up on his interest, and she felt flattered that this handsome new boy was interested in her and so responded with like friendliness. When she spoke to him, though, standing where she was, about fifteen feet from his chair, she didn't appear to be speaking to him but to someone behind his right shoulder. Turning, he glanced at the student behind him, but knowing that she had to be speaking to him, turning back quickly he noticed that, although her face and eyes were looking in his direction, Sandra's pupils were not, but when she looked at the notes in her hand or at nearby objects they straightened. Putting him off a moment... What the hell, he thought, so she's a little cross-eyed. * "...Sandra!" Having to shout to be heard above the tumult in the hall, "Sandra!" Catching up, he tapped her on the shoulder. She'd heard him all right, but wanted him to chase her down the hall, and when he touched her, stopping, turning, "Oh, hi..." she knew his name, but, "uh?" Though crossing when looking at an object five or more feet away, close up Sandra's eyes straightened, and... accustomed to usually dark, Semitic eyes, becoming lost in her light-blue eyes, "Mitchell," he said. Beginning to walk again, "Oh, yes, Mitchell." "Mind if I walk with you?" "No," glancing at him, "why should I? It's a public school." "Sandra..." "Sandy." "Huh?" Looking at her over his shoulder. "Call me Sandy. All my friends call me Sandy." "Okay, Sandy." Thinking, All her friends! She wants me to be a friend! Shiksas are sure friendly here. "Sandy, uh..." not even wondering at his new-found courage, "how's 'bout if you'n'me go for a Coke or something after

BECOMING school?"

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"Sorry, I can't." She could. "I've got to get right home today." She didn't have to get right home, but did not want to appear to be too anxious. "Well, then, how's 'bout if I walk you home? You mind?" Pretending to think, "It's a public sidewalk, Mitchell." "Mitch! All my friends call me Mitch, or," he smiled, "when you get to know me better, Mitchie." Looking at him, becoming no less lost in his smile then he had in her eyes, "Uh, anyway it's a public sidewalk, and if you want, you can walk me home." "Yeah, Sandy," he said emphatically, "I do! Where can I meet you?" Without so much as a moment's hesitation, "In front of Roundy's." Living about a mile southwest of school, by the time they said goodbye Sandra and Mitchell had a date to go to a movie on Saturday. Living about two miles northeast of school, on the long walk home Mitchell congratulated himself for finding a cute-as-a-button, blonde-haired, blue-eyed shiksa, almost the girl of his dreams--Okay, so she's a little cross-eyed--on just the third day of school, yet. * Walking her home the next day, reaching to the side he tentatively touched Sandra's hand and when she didn't move hers, their fingers intertwined. In late August, on the Monday following his seventeenth birthday, Walter had taken Mitchell to the Department of Motor Vehicles where he'd passed the written test with only two wrong answers and the driving test after just knocking two rubber cones over while backing into a parking space. On Saturday, with his temporary driver's permit ensconced in one of the plastic sleeves of his wallet, and held firmer yet by the long-carried, but never-used Coin-Pac prophylactic, Mitchell--only after promising his father that he would not drive faster than thirty-five miles an hour, and that he would not leave the boundaries of the Village of Skokie--was allowed to use his parents' 1950 Buick Roadmaster for his first date with Sandy. Having a car was a surprise and did impress Sandra. Sandra's parents, on the other hand, being rather straight-laced and more than just slightly old-fashioned, were not impressed, and the only way they would allow their daughter to go on a date with this new boy was if he would leave the automobile parked in front of their house. Sandra and Mitchell could either walk to the movie theatre in the village of Skokie or take a bus. They walked. In this sense Sandra's parents were not discriminating against Mitchell per se because they would never allow their sixteen-year-old daughter to go on a date with any boy in a car. On the other hand, though, looking anything but Jewish, they didn't ask and he had no reason to say.

BECOMING In the theater he sat with his arm around Sandra's shoulder and, or, holding her hand. Afterward the theatre, at the Skokie Inn for ice cream sodas... "Mitchie," blushing under his gaze, "why are you staring at me?" Being with Sandra, truly forgetting her problem, "Your eyes," he said. Always a source of embarrassment, hiding her eyes, she covered them with her hand.

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Remembering, realizing that she might be self-conscious and certainly not wanting to embarrass or hurt her feelings, "Oh, no, Sandy!" moving her hand from her face. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "It's not that! I like looking at your eyes because they're so beautiful! You've got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen." Being gentile, blue eyes were not a novelty to Sandra or the people she knew, and this was the first time anyone--especially a boy, especially with her problem--had ever told her that she had the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Relaxing, blushing, "You know, Mitchie," she said, "yours are pretty beautiful, too." She tried to out-stare him by looking into his eyes, but could only hold her intense gaze for thirty or so seconds, till, covering her eyes once again, "Stop, Mitchie. You're embarrassing me." Having had all of her, to date, five dates on foot or by bus, Sandra knew of a place where a boy and girl, if they so desired, could be, somewhat, alone. Leaving the Skokie Inn, Sandra led Mitchell into Oakton Park, to a bench in a "darker place" at the far end of the sidewalk. He put his arm about her shoulders. They moved closer. Turning their faces, their lips brushed lightly, then lingered. Mitchell's lips were eager, open. Sandra's lips were so warm and so soft, and so tightly closed. Finally, after a number of moments, using the tip of his tongue he was able to pry her lips open... then, a few seconds later, her teeth, and the very tips of their tongues touched... and when the tips of their tongues touched she immediately retracted hers, leaving him to wonder if this forced, momentary meeting of the very tips of their tongues might be the most sexual thing he'd ever be allowed to do with this girl, which, in fact, it was. And Mitchell Lipensky learned that, whether the girl be Jewish or a shiksa, those girls with high morals and in-bred ethics all valued their principles and did, indeed, think their tits, and everything else were "made of gold." When a girl said No! to Mitchell, it always had, and always would, mean no. Now, this is not to say that he wouldn't try, because sometimes it had to seem to the girl that his hand was like a yo-yo, being moved away then, within seconds, returning to the vicinity of her breasts. With Sandra, though, this very modest necking session never remotely became a petting session and Mitchell was not too sad when, a few days later, having enjoyed her company and thinking he'd try one last time, asking for a second date, Sandra told him that her parents thought he was too "fast" for her--and really, she did, too--and that she could not go out with him again.

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On the other hand, having asked their daughter, Sandra's parents had learned Mitchell's last name and figured that Lipensky was not exactly the name of a white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant boy. Working: A Handful of knobs September 13, 1951, Through August 1952 Taking the Oakton Street bus from downtown Skokie to the light industrial section of small factories on the southeastern border of Skokie, Mitchell began walking the streets looking for an after-school, part time job. This area was particularly good for him because it was only a twelve-minute bus ride from school and a brisk ten-minute walk to his house. An hour and a half, two streets, and three job applications into the exploration, led into a small office, Mitchell was introduced to Mister Ed Rogan, who interviewed, then hired him. "Rogan Bros." was the name on the sign above the front door of the yellow brick, one-story building. The products made at Rogan Bros. were knobs: knobs for radios, televisions, washing machines, dryers, military radar--you name it; wherever a knob was needed to turn on, turn off, or adjust, it could be made at Rogan Bros. The manufacturing process was simple. Granular plastic of the appropriate color would be fed into a plastic injection press where, melted, it poured into the appropriate steel mold, making a hardened, semi-finished product that was pushed out of the mold by underpins. It was then swept into a carton and carried to a drill press where it was fitted by hand into a singular mold, holding it steady so that a hole might be drilled in the proper position. The knob would then be brought to a tapping and screwing press where, fitted into a like mold, the drilled hole was threaded and an octagonal-headed screw inserted in one operation. The finished product was later counted, boxed and shipped. Mitchell would be working on the drilling and tapping machines from four to eight p.m., with a half-hour break, three days a week with pay at union scale. The presses would always be pre-set with the proper holding mold and at the right drill speed--leastwise at first. The night shift consisted of three people: Stanislaus Kowalczyk, who worked in the press room, spoke only Polish, and was never seen unless it was to cross the plant to re-fill his coffee cup or use the toilet; Tom Schmedling, a boy of Mitchell's age who attended a private, Christian school; and Mitchell. * "Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you. "You'll cry and cry, the whole night through." The pitch turned full volume to be heard above the whine of the drill presses, Hank Williams poured from the radio. Tom Schmedling and Mitchell Lipensky sat on high, backless stools at the second and fourth drill presses. To the right of each boy, also on high stools, was a box of un-drilled knobs. On the floor to the left was the box of drilled knobs. The air pressure of each machine turned to near-exploding, the counters on the presses were click, click, clicking.

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Reach to the right, grab a knob, fit it into the mold, hold it tight and stamp on the pedal, and the descending hi-speed drill bit into the knob disgorging a thin ribbon of plastic. Lift your foot and the bit rose and, click, the counter counted. Grab another knob. They timed themselves, having a new race every quarter-hour. Click, click, click. Tom glanced at the counter to the side of his press. Tall and gangling, his straight, black hair hanging over his forehead: click, 278; click, 279; click, 280. Mitchell glanced at the clock on the wall. The sweeping second hand going from 7:29, click, from 55 seconds, click, 56, 57, 58, click, click, click. "Time!" Stopping, straightening their backs, both boys leaned back. "So?" Looking at his counter, "486," Tom said. "You?" "483." "Ha!" "Schmuck, I'll get'ch'ya next time!" Standing, stretching, the boys went to the foreman's desk. Sitting on the chair, tilting it back on two legs, Mitchell stretched his legs across the desk. Sitting on the desk, Tom called his girlfriend, talked for near fifteen minutes, hung up, slapped Mitchell across the sole of one of his shoes. Both boys returned to the presses, had another race, and fifteen minutes later stopped, declared who the winner was, punched out and went home. Turning the air pressure up, speeding the presses, making a game of it, the two boys completed about as much work in four hours as three full-time men did in eight hours. They did get complaints, though. The excessive friction made by the high speed caused the bits to become dull about three times faster than normal, and breakage was about twice that of the full-time shift, and each morning there was a row of seven or eight bits left by the grinder awaiting re-sharpening. From Ed Rogan: "What the hell you two guys doin' to my bits? Eatin' 'em?" But he couldn't be too mad because extra production was always there. From the day men: "Hey, why don't you two fuckers slow down an' leave us somethin' to do once in a while? Shit! You make us look bad to the boss." After tax deductions, Tom and Mitchell cleared about $18.50 a week, for what amounted to, in reality, approximately six hours of actual work, which, for students with part-time jobs in 1951, wasn't too bad. Sally

BECOMING September 19, 1951

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Rain came in loud, heavy, wind-blown sheets. Currents of water surging along gutters buried the curbs and collected, forming deep pools around the mouths of whirlpool-like sewers that struggled to swallow the onslaught. Cars slowing to a crawl to make the turn from Lincoln Avenue onto Niles Center Road went hub-deep in the water of the bisecting streets' lower incline, then, speeding up again, the cars threw curling waves of water as though from the prow of a ship. The three boys stood back, away from the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic or for the traffic signal to change from red to green. Two of the boys wore yellow slickers over their sweaters. The other boy, Mitchell Lipensky, wore a trench coat. None of the boys wore hats and the hair of all three was plastered flat on their skulls. One of the boys, "Shit, come on!" anxiously motioned the cars on until there was a slight slowing of approaching automobiles from both directions, then the three boys made a break across the wide street. The plate-glass window steamed to a pearl-like opaqueness, the one-line neon sign announcing "Roundy's Coffee Shop" was a blur on the foggy glass. Shivering, the first of the boys opened the door to the accompaniment of the tinkling bells suspended above the lintel. "Mule train! Mule train! "Clippity, cloppin' over hill and plain!" Frankie Lane singing from the juke box, the clacking of voices and the clatter of dishes, silverware and rain all blended to make a garbled cacophony of noise. Dripping water on the linoleum-covered floor, the three boys stepped into the musty warmth of the sandwich shop across the street from Niles Township High School. "Jeeze, it's wet out there!" Lowering the collar of his slicker, Jack Brandon shook his head, showering the boy standing next to him. "Thanks, you dick! I ain't wet enough?" Bill Westguard pushed the steel clasps through the slicker's grommets, opening it then, reaching beneath his sweater, into his breast pocket, removing a plastic cigarette case, "Man, do I need a smoke!" Unbuttoning it, taking the soaked trench coat off, Mitchell surveyed the kids facing him in the booths and those sitting on the chrome and Naugahyde stools alongside the long, Formica counter. Reaching towards Bill's cigarette case, "Gi'me one'a those, will you?" "Shit, Brandon! Don't you ever buy your own?" "An' let my folks know I smoke? Anyway, It's a hell of a lot cheaper smokin' yours." Pulling a cigarette from the pack, putting it between his lips, "Hey, you dick, how's 'bout a light?" Flicking his lighter to life, "Jesus, Brandon!" Holding it forward, "Maybe you'd like me to kick you in the chest to get you started, too?"

BECOMING "Hey, Westguard, don't be such a wise-ass!" Taking a deep, appreciative draw, smiling at his friend, "Thanks." "Don't mention it, mooch... You want a butt, Mitchie?"

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"Yeah, sure." Taking the offered cigarette, bending his head forward, Bill flicked his lighter back to flame and Mitchell drew the cigarette to life. "Thanks." Nodding his head towards the row of booths, "That girl there... Either of you guys know her?" "Who?" Looking. "Which girl?" "Her," pointing. "The blonde in the second to last booth." "Not me." Westgard said. "I wish I did." "Yeah, I do." "She looks kind'a good. How do you know her, Jack?" "We went to the same grammar school. Her name's Sally Brockman. Her family's one of the originals around here. Matter'a'fact her folks still have a farm here." "She's a farm girl?" "A farm girl? Well, yeah, guess you could say that." "What's she? A senior?" "Nah, a junior. She was in the class behind me." As though sensing they were talking about her, looking up, the girl waved, and for a moment Mitchell thought she might be waving at him, but then realized the acknowledgment was for Jack. Nodding his head in recognition, "You want to meet her, Mitch?" Jack asked. Oh, yeah! Draping the trench coat over his arm, "Yeah, I'd love to meet her!" "Okay, come on." Holding the cigarette between his teeth, the up-curling smoker causing him to squint, Mitchell combed his wet hair as they wove through the milling crowd. She had seen him at a distance in the hallways and noticed him when he came into Roundy's, and he was the only reason she'd even bothered to wave at Jack Brandon. Watching him now, the closer he came, Oh, yeah! the more she liked what she saw. The closer Mitchell came, Oh, yeah! the more he liked what he saw: A round face with light-gray eyes and a small, straight nose, Sally Brockman had prominent cheekbones and--though Mitchell would not see them till she smiled--deep, vertical dimples on either side of her mouth. Her honey-colored, shoulder-length hair was streaked darker where the rainwater had yet to dry and, to cover a high forehead, was worn in bangs. Wearing a light-blue cardigan with a white dickey, the mounds of her

BECOMING breasts were, Oh, yeah! noticeably outstanding. The girl's and Mitchell's eyes locking and brazenly holding, "Sally, hi!" Jack said as the three boys came abreast the booth. Without so much as a glance at Jack, "Hi, Jack." "Uh, Sally, this is Mitchell," jerking his thumb to the left, then to the right, "and this is Bill." "Bill." Quickly glancing at Westguard, her eyes coming back to Mitchell, "Mitchell."

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Thinking, Oh, yeah, this is definitely my kind of shiksa! smiling his smile, "Hi," he said. "But call me Mitch, will you, or when you get to know me better, Mitchie, but please don't call me Mitchell; it sounds so damned formal." "Yeah, Mitch, uh," forcing her eyes from his face, "this is Joan." nodding her head towards the girl sitting across the booth. "Hi!" Knowing her friend, knowing Sally was interested in Mitchell, moving to the side, "Why don't you guys sit?" Looking about the shop, then back to Sally, "It is kind'a crowded in here." Mitchell said. "You sure it's okay?" "Sure. Come on, have a seat." Patting the Naugahyde-covered seat, Sally moved aside, making room for him. Bill and Jack began to slide into the booth alongside of Joan but, stepping between them, Mitchell sat on the outside position, kitty-corner from Sally, causing Jack to sit next to her. "Jack says your family's from around here." "Yeah. My folks and grandparents have been here forever." "He says they're farmers here." Glancing at Jack, "Farmers? Well, yes, they still have the farm. They're holding onto it because the land's become so valuable they're waiting for some developer to come along and make 'em an offer." Reaching across the table, pulling the ashtray to him, grinding the cigarette out, "How much land you got?" "My parents have, oh, 'bout a hundred-fifty acres." "Wow! You're going to be rich!" Smiling, showing her deep dimples, "That would be nice for a change, but in the meantime we're living in a fifty-year-old farmhouse." "You got indoor plumbing and stuff?" Bill asked, innocently. "Yeah." She smiled again. "And toilets that flush and running water and electricity, and all that stuff." Pretending to be chastised, "Oh, yeah," Bill said. "I knew that."

BECOMING Laughing, Joan nudged Bill in the ribs with her elbow. "You're kind'a cute; you know that?" Turning in her direction, "You really think so, huh?" Laughing again, "Yeah, I do! Your mother ever have any kids that lived?"

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Smiling at the joke, "Nah," Bill said, "just me. But you're kind'a cute, too. You want'a go out on Friday?" he asked bluntly. "You asking me for a date?" "Yeah. Sure. Why not? So, you want'a go out on Friday?" "Hey, I don't even know you! You a nice guy, Bill?" "Yeah, I am! Ask Jack. I'm a nice guy, ain't I, Jack?" "Yeah, sure, for a mooch he's a nice guy. Ain't he, Mitch?" "Yeah, sure he's a nice guy! Ain't he, Sally?" Laughing, "I don't know. Are you a nice guy, Bill?" "Hell, yeah! Ask Jack. I'm a nice guy, ain't I, Jack?" "Enough already!" Holding her hands forward in surrender, "Yes, okay, I'll go out with you on Friday!" "How's 'bout you?" Mitchell asked Sally. "You busy?" "Why, sir," dramatically pushing the tips of the fingers of her left hand vertically into her chest, causing the material of her sweater to strain between the protrusions of Sally's 36D breasts--which, Oh, yeah, Mitchell looked at appreciatively--"I don't even know you! You a nice guy, Mitch?" "Damn right I'm a nice guy! Ain't I, Jack?" "Let's not go through all that again! Okay, Mitch, I'll go out with you... Hey, if we're going on a date, you think I know you well enough to call you Mitchie?" Tickled at the ease of this, "You bet'j'ya!" "We goin'a double?" Thinking, I'd love to be alone with her! But, jerking his thumb to the right, "It's okay with me if it's okay with them." "Yeah, sure," Bill said. "Sounds like fun. Okay with you, Joan?" "Joanie. You can call me Joanie. And, yeah, it's fine with me." "Okay, then," Mitchell said. "I'll drive." "Any idea where we're going?" Joan asked.

BECOMING "Don't know." Bill looked at Mitchell. "How's 'bout a drive-in?" A drive-in. Oh, yeah! But before Mitchell could respond... Unconcerned, "The passion pit?" actually looking forward to being at a passion pit with Mitchell, "On our very first date?" Not knowing Sally well enough to know whether or not she was serious, "No, not if you don't want to." Looking at Mitchell, "Oh, no," she said quickly. "If it's okay with them, the drive-in's just fine with me." Being a girl that did not have an over-abundance of dates, the thought of a drive-in, and necking with Bill, whom she really did think was cute, didn't bother Joan in the least so, "Yeah, the drive-in's okay with me, too."

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Reaching into her coat pocket, finding a scrap of paper, writing on it, "Here's my address and phone number." Sally handed it to Mitchell. "Uh," Rather than a number and street, beneath her phone number it read, "Rural Road 9A." "Where is this? How do I find it?" "Don't have time to explain now." Nudging Jack with her elbow, "The bell's going to ring any minute now." Bored with the four-way conversation, Jack looked at his watch. "Jeeze, time sure does fly when you're havin' fun." Standing, he moved off the seat so Sally could pass. Standing also, "Yeah," Mitchell said, moving into the aisle, helping Sally on with her coat, "we've got to get back, too." The door to Roundy's was now constantly held open by the flow of kids moving out of the coffee shop, into the rain, and back for the remaining three hours of that afternoon's classes. As they made their way out the shop, "Come on, I'll cover you." Mitchell held his trench coat over his and Sally's heads, but as they stepped outside the wind caught the coat causing it to billow upward. Reaching up, Sally helped hold the makeshift umbrella. Standing closely together, having no place to put his right arm, he put it about her waist and was pleasantly surprised as Sally's arm immediately went about his waist. The trench coat flapping in the wind, their arms held tightly about each other as they began across the wide street, Mitchell, badly off-key, began to sing, "Sing-ing in the rain!" And Sally, not quite as badly off-key, "Just sing-ing in the rain!" joined in. Singing, hugging, skipping across the wide street, water sloshing in their shoes and, where they weren't protected by the trench coat, rain falling on them, "Sing-ing in the rain," off the street, onto the sidewalk, up the eight stairs, "I'm happy again," and through the entrance to Niles Township High School. Stopping, each reluctant to release the other, Sally moved her arm first. As the day was Wednesday and he had to work that night, he wanted to ask Sally if he could see her Thursday evening also, but, Don't be too pushy, thought better of it. "Gotta get going!" Running through the hallway, calling over her shoulder, "Call me for directions, Mitch!" The running motion causing Sally's well-defined buttocks to shift from side to side beneath her skirt, "Yeah, later!" he called back, thinking, What a great tush! while doing the "male" thing: visualizing Sally naked. Then, realizing that he was about to be late, ran to his next class also.

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Always having a hard time in school, the remainder of this day, scholastically, was an absolute, complete loss. Thinking, She didn't want to let go of me any more than I wanted to let go of her. And she's a farm girl, and she's used to seeing things like, uh, cows and horses screwing. Visualizing the size of her breasts when she had touched her chest, God she's got great tits! And she's really pretty and, Oh, God! Visualizing her swaying buttocks as she ran up the hallway... In his sixth period class he had an erection that would not go away and--remembering that day in grammar school when, his hand in his pocket, he had masturbated in class--Mitchell hoped he wouldn't be asked a question and have to stand. September 21, 1951 The windows were fogged... no one noticed. Blurry images fluttered across the windshield... no one saw. Words and music poured from the speaker... no one heard. The air inside the car became fetid from heavy breathing and funky from the odor of overactive female moisture... Who needed fresh air? The odor of sex smelled just fine. "Ohh, no," whispered half-heartedly. "Bill, stop..." "Oh, Joanie, but you feel sooo nice. Please!" "Okay, but not under the blouse. Okay? Okay?" Sprawled across the front seat of the big Buick, leaning towards her, almost atop Sally, only the very top of Mitchell's head was visible to the couple in the back seat, whom, in nearly the same position, were engrossed with their own prurient desires and did not pay the slightest attention to the couple in the front seat. Tongues wreathing, they kissed deeply. Attempting to unfasten her brassiere, his left had was beneath the back of her sweater while his right hand, beneath the front of her sweater, was caressing a rayon-enshrouded breast. Whispered, huskily, "Mitchie, please..." "Umm." Savoring the feel of the soft, round breast in one hand as he squeezed and released the clasp that held the two ends of elastic material between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand... Why won't the damned thing open? he thought as he tried to dissect the demonic invention of the accursed brassiere clasp. "Mitchie," her lips against his ear, "put your hand under, baby, hold me under... please." she whispered. Put your hand under? Hold me under? "Please"! Oh, yeah! Like he had to be asked twice, and, of course, now, not knowing how or why, the tightening and loosening paid off and the one elastic strap became two elastic straps and the front of the brassiere loosened and Sally's Oh, God, breasts fell free and lifting the brassiere up and his eyes down... In the splendor of fog-cast Technicolor, Mitchell once again gazed upon, as far as he was concerned, God's greatest creation: tits, and, "Oh, God, Sally," he whispered so softly the words may have been little more than a thought, "you're so beautiful." Touching her, caressing the so satiny bare flesh, lowering his face to the sweet-smelling valley he once again pressed the wondrous mounds against the sides of his face and, once again, felt the warmth of this, to him, holiest of sanctuaries. Becoming overwhelmed with passion, lifting his face, tasting the taste of Sally's flesh, covering first one, then the other,

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oh, so sweet nipples with his lips... As, moving his hand onto the surprising soft flesh of her belly, knowing from past experience, not even attempting to pop the steel buttons from the holes in the fly of her Levi's, stretching his hand beneath the elastic band of her high-cut panties, he felt the shallow impression made by the tight elastic, and the small, deep depression of her navel, and the slightest hint of Sally's pubic hair... before she moved his hand up. Mitchell tried again, and again she moved his hand. Tempted to try again, but not willing to jeopardize what she was willing to give, giving up, at least for the time being, Mitchell moved his hand back to Sally's breast, and his mouth to her mouth. The windows became even foggier. The air became even thicker. With the right boy, oh, yes, Sally did enjoy petting, truly enjoyed petting. But she was determined not to go "all the way" with anyone but her future husband, and with an experienced boy such as Mitchell, she knew that she had to give something or he'd lose interest. Her bare-breasted boundaries were as far as she'd allow herself, or any boy, to go, and that was only if she liked the boy well enough. Touching Mitchell's tongue with her tongue, feeling the hardness of his constrained penis probing against her straining vulva... Well, actually, the bulge of his penis was pushing against the crotch of her Levi's and the thick seam within the crotch of her Levi's was rubbing against her straining vulva... Well, actually, against her hypertrophied clitoris and, oh, yeah, she was having a good time--a real good time--and she knew that, though maybe not all that he wanted, Mitchell was having a real good time, too... without going further than she wanted. And with Mitchell, Sally was very much afraid of going one bit further because she liked him more than she'd ever liked any boy, and knew that if he did go that one bit further, it would be her as much as he that would be straining to go all the way. Sex, to Mitchell, certainly did not always mean love, but love always meant sex, and Sally was the first girl that he'd wanted sexually... Well, outside of Big Rosalind Feigenbaum and a few others, he'd wanted most girls sexually, but Sally was the first girl that he wanted that he really liked that had allowed as much as she'd allowed. Rather than disappointment for what she had not permitted, he felt gratitude for the beauty and passion she had permitted, and his gratitude, along with the dam of his passion that was about to explode, transposed to something akin to love. And so he hugged Sally, and felt the softness of her, Oh, God, 36D breasts pressing against his chest and, whispering, "Sal, I'm crazy about you!" Mitchell brought his mouth back to her mouth in a hard, passionate kiss, till... Sounding above the harsh breathing and the background sounds that emanated from the drive-in speaker hanging from the closed window... Crack! "Jesus!" Sitting up, Mitchell grabbed his jaw. Sitting up also, "Mitchie," pulling her sweater down, "what's wrong?" Bill's head popping up, "What the hell was that?" followed by Joan's, who was stuffing her blouse into the waist of her slacks. Testing, gingerly opening and closing his mouth, "Something that happened about, uh, a year and a half ago, when I was in the National Guard." "You were in the National Guard?" Bill asked skeptically. "When?" "Before Korea. I got discharged then 'cause I was too young."

BECOMING "And this is like a, uh, war wound or something?"

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War wound? From peeling potatoes? Looking at Sally, "Well, yeah, guess you could say that. Guess kissing like we were kissing," he smiled, "kind'a made me pop." "You okay?" Joan asked. "Better see a doctor." "Yeah, I'm fine. Nah, it only hurts, uh," still looking at Sally, "for a couple'a seconds." "Hey, what the hell movie is this anyway?" Reaching to the speaker, Bill turned the volume up. On the movie screen there was an overhead view of two dozen girls in multi-colored bathing suits swimming on their backs, forming an aquatic flower in rippling, crystal-clear water. Esther Williams, in the exact center, was treading water; stretching upward, her undulating arms giving the overall effect of a flower blowing in the breeze. "Million Dollar Mermaid," Joan said. Opening the windows, as fresh air streamed in, the odor of sex streamed out. * "See those trees? Park there, will you, and turn the motor off, please." They had dropped Joan and Bill off at Joan's home, now, on rural road 9A, Sally and Mitchell were alone for the first time. "Yeah, sure." Thinking, hoping Sally just wanted to be alone before they "went any further," pulling under the stand of trees, turning the lights and motor off, Mitchell reached to her, but... Putting her hands against his chest, holding him back, "Mitchie, no! I want to talk to you." She'd been thinking about what he'd said: "Sal, I'm crazy about you!" And even if the words were said in the heat of passion--which they were, though, truly, he was crazy about her--Sally, also, had been thinking about how she felt then, and how she felt now, and not quite sure why, feeling a need to explain herself, she was quiet for the minute it took for her to formulate her thoughts. But for the noise of cicadas, the night was perfectly still. The sky was deeply overcast without a trace of moon or stars and, in the absolute darkness, to each the other appeared as a black shadow. But within seconds their eyes adjusted and the black shadows became lighter shadows and each was able to see the form of the other. "Mitchie," Sally began, "I want to tell you something." Reaching to her, he searched until he found her hand. "First off, I want to tell you that I don't usually let a guy do what you and me were doing at the drive-in, and most certainly not on the first date. But living on the farm all my life..." Hesitating, trying to think of exactly what she wanted to say. "...I've seen things," she continued, "that other girls, city girls, like you know, have never seen, and I can't be like them, pretending it--sex--doesn't exist." Holding her hand, Mitchell began to massage the nape of her neck between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand.

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"I've seen cows and pigs and sheep do it..." Leaning her head back, closing her eyes, enjoying the messaging effect of his fingers on her neck. "...and I can't be like them, the city girls, pretending it--sex--doesn't exist. They ought to teach about it in school." Thinking the thought preposterous, "Sex?" "Yes. They ought to teach about it in school, and maybe someday they will." Turning in the seat, her neck moving from his fingers. "But, Mitch, I know about it." She waited for a response and when none came, continued. "And whenever I see the animals do it, I get a, uh, kind'a funny feeling." Adding quickly, "Don't misunderstand me. It doesn't get me hot or anything!" Blushing in the darkness because, yes, it did, it really did get her hot. "And I know what a cow's... 'thing' and a sheep's... thing and even a pig's thing looks like, and I see what happens to their things when they get hot... And I've even, accidentally, seen my older brother's, uh," wishing she hadn't started talking of this, saying more than she wanted to say, "you know, his, uh, whatchamacallit..." "You've seen your brother's..." about to say dick, catching himself, "whatchamacallit when he was hot?" Laughing, "No, silly, of course not! Not my brother's when he was hot! But when the male animals do... it their, uh... things... get big, and I know that's how guys get. You were that way tonight!" This said as a statement. "Yeah, you're right, Sal, I sure was. "And still was, and was very tempted to take her hand to show her that he still was, but wisely fighting the temptation, and wisely knowing how hard it must be for Sally to tell him this, leaning to her, kissing her on the cheek, "Look," he said, "you really don't have to tell me these things." "Yes I do! I want you to understand the way I am, Mitch! I'm not like other girls. I don't like to play the boy/girl games other girls like to play. When I like a guy, I can't hide the way I feel and don't want to... And I like you, Mitch. I like you a lot!" Wow, she likes me a lot! I love shiksas! "Believe me," Sally went on, "I wouldn't have gone out with you if I didn't like you, and I most certainly would not have let you do to me what I let you do if I didn't! But you've got to know, Mitch, that that's as far as I go--as far as I'll let you go!" That's as far as she'll let me go. Feeling a pang of disappointment, but then remembering what else she had said: "I like you, I like you a lot!" She likes me and that's why she let me do what we did, and that's why we'll do it some more, and, God, those tits! Those great tits! Okay, so if that's as far as we go, that's okay, too. But who knows? Maybe, in a while, she'll be the one wanting to go further. As though reading his thoughts, "Mitchie, I promised myself I'd still be a virgin when I get married. So if you want more than tonight from me, tell me now, before we get to like each other too much." "Yes, of course I want more than that, Sal. But I like you a real lot, too. You're just about the most beautiful girl I've ever gone out with, and being with you tonight was wonderful." Staring into the blackness beyond the windshield, reflecting on the multitude of times that he'd enviously watched guys, usually the Letter Men, that had their arms around the most beautiful girls in school, he visualized himself and Sally, and the looks of envy he'd be getting and, "Sal," he said impetuously, "let's go steady!" Feeling her heart lurch, God, she thought, if it were anyone else and I liked him only half as much as I like him... But wisely considering the implications of going steady with this boy. Knowing that going steady always took things one or more steps further than just dating and... Sally knew Mitchell was Jewish and

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though neither she nor her family harbored prejudices, being Christian she knew that this relationship could not, or would never go as far as marriage, and... Not sure if she'd always have the resolve to always say no to Mitchell, "Mitchie," she said, "we've only been out once. Why don't we go out a few more times, and then... Well, we can talk about going steady again." "Okay, fair enough. How's about tomorrow?" Never expecting her to say yes. "If you're not busy, you want to go out tomorrow night?" She was busy, she did have a date... to go bowling with the girls, but, "Okay, yes. But Mitchell," she said seriously, "I want you to remember what I told you. And also, that if I ever do go all the way, then I'd be breaking a promise I made to myself, and to Jes..." Knowing he didn't believe in Jesus--"and to God, and I'd be terribly disappointed in myself, and you, and I don't think you'd want that to happen. Would you?" "Of course not!" But, really, Mitchell was not sure that that was altogether true. "Okay, I believe you. So, what time are you going to pick me up, and where we going?" Thinking a moment, "Did I tell you my dad's got a boat?" "No, you didn't. Your dad's got a boat?" "Well, yeah, a sailboat. It's only a sixteen-footer, but it is a boat. And I thought, if it's as nice tomorrow night as it is tonight, maybe we'll go to, uh, you ever been to Walker's?" "The pancake house in Wilmette, on Sheridan?" "Yeah." "Sure I've been there. Hasn't everybody?" "Well, I thought, if you want to, we'll go there for dinner at about, oh, seven. Then we'll go to the harbor and if it's warm enough, if you want to, to just, uh, kind'a sit on my dad's boat." "To just kind'a sit, huh? To watch the submarine races no doubt." Remembering another girl at another time saying that exact thing, but unable to recall who or when it was, "Well, yeah," he said, smiling, thinking of what they'll actually be doing, "but don't worry because even if we had a bunk this boat's so small there wouldn't be any place to put it." "I'm not worried." Now that she'd put the responsibility of the future of wherever their relationship may go onto Mitchell's shoulders, "I trust you," she said honestly. Rather unsure that he'd be able to honor that trust, "So now that that's settled, you in any big hurry to go in?" "As a matter of fact, I told my mom I'd be home before twelve." Glancing at the clock in the dashboard: 12:07. "Okay, Cinderella." Standing at her doorway, feeling the warmth of their departing kiss, she watched for the flash of the car's dome light as he opened the door, then, waving, called, "Goodnight, Mitchie!" Looking back, Mitchell saw Sally standing silhouetted against the orange glow of the stained-glass door.

BECOMING Feeling the warmth of their parting kiss, "'Night, Sal!" Waving back, stepping into the car, he started the engine. September 22, 1951

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Except for the cold rain on Wednesday, that week had been an extension of summer. Daytime temperatures had been in the low eighties and the nights in the mid-seventies. Saturday night was positively balmy. Wearing well-worn Levi's and a yellow cotton shirt, when Mitchell knocked on the door it took no longer than ten seconds until the door was pulled open. Wearing light blue pedal pushers and a floral blouse opened two buttons down that showed her tan and, oh, yeah, the rise of her cleavage. Sally's honey-colored, shoulder-length hair was brushed to the side of her face giving her a Veronica Lake look. Still in the doorway, "Sal," Mitchell said, "you look beautiful!" Taking his hand, "Thanks, Mitchie," leading him into the house. "I want to you to meet my mom and dad." * Its silvery tail dipping into the calm water of Lake Michigan, the bright moon seemed to follow the Buick as Mitchell drove north along the winding stretch of Sheridan Road. "Hey," glancing over his shoulder, "now I know why you're the way you are." "Yeah, how's that?" "Nice. Your mom'n'dad, they're real nice people." "You sound surprised." "Well, they're kind of different than the way I thought they'd be." "How? How'd you think they'd be?" "I never met farmers before, and I kind'a thought your paw'd be smoking a corn cob pipe and your maw'd be chawin' on a plug'a tobbacy." "Mitchell, you're terrible!" Moving closer, putting her arm around his neck, she kissed him on the cheek. "If'in I be's so terrible, how's come y'all be a kissin' me?" Kissing him again, "Guess, I'm just plumb loco." Kissing her on the lips, he quickly brought his attention back to his driving. * Mitchell had never felt prouder. Standing in line waiting to be seated, he knew they were the best-looking couple in this popular, crowded restaurant and felt that all eyes were upon them.

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Sharing one of Walker's huge apple souffls, Sally had a side order of bacon, Mitchell, pork sausage, and each washed it down with cold milk. "I thought Jewish people weren't supposed to eat pork." "Yeah, that's true, and this is a double whammy 'cause we're not supposed to drink milk with meat, either." Taking another drink of milk, "Oh, well, when that bolt of lightning gets you, remind me not to stand too close." When she put the glass down she had a milk mustache. "You know," wiping her mouth with his napkin, "you're not only beautiful, you're cute, too." * "Here it is." Pulling a dinghy containing a set of oars out of a rack on the rear deck of the Columbia Yacht Club, Sally held the stern and he the bow, while between them they carried it to the side of the closest finger pier and dropped it into the water. Stepping in first, sitting mid-ship, holding onto the dock, Mitchell held the dinghy steady as Sally stepped in. "All set?" Pushing off, fitting the oars into the oarlocks, "Anchors away!" He rowed from the slip, into the channel, and around the stern of the long-retired, converted automotive ferryboat that became the Columbia Yacht Club. "A yacht club and a boat! If I'd have thought you were this rich, Mitch..." She chuckled, "Rich, Mitch. I'm a poet and didn't know it... I'd'a gone all the way and make you marry me." "Don't know about getting married, Sal, but, sorry to say, going all the way still sounds pretty good to me. And sorry to tell you, but we sure ain't rich and my dad's boat isn't exactly what you'd call a yacht." Glancing over his shoulder, back-oaring with the port oar, compensating for too much port drift, "There she is." Straining forward, looking over his shoulder, "Where?" "Look over my starboard shoulder." "Sure, Mitchie. Your what?" "Sorry, my right shoulder. When you're on a sea-going vessel such as this you gotta speak nautical-like. Facing forward, right's starboard and left's port. Got it? See it?" "Got it? Where?" "There!" He stopped rowing and, turning around, pointed. "That's it. That huge monster there." "That's your father's boat?" She laughed. "It's cute." "Oh, yeah! My dad would have a fit if he heard you call his boat cute." Although always asked, Mitchell would often find an excuse to avoid going sailing with his father and Lawrence because once on the boat Walter became, in Mitchell's opinion, "Captain Bligh," and he could never do anything fast enough or well enough. Bumping lightly, they pulled alongside. Holding the gunwale, Mitchell steadied the dinghy while Sally

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Sixteen feet long from stem to stern, the boat was five feet across at its widest point. A one-foot wide, canvas-on-wood deck ran along either side of the cockpit to become solid decking forward of the mast. Needing someplace to lay, taking the three long floation cushions from inside the open cockpit, Mitchell laid them on the solid decking forward the mast.... Having removed his shirt, lying face to face, kissing, as they kissed her fingers twined the hair of his chest. Touching a nipple, feeling him shudder, Sally continued to make light circles around one, then the other. One arm beneath her head, the other laid over her waist, rubbing lightly, squeezing lightly, holding, Oh, God, one of Sally's well-defined buttocks, the extremely pleasant sensation of her finger circling his now-hardened nipple causing him to shudder again, "How'd you like it if I did that to you?" "Emmm," moving her mouth to his ear, "don't threaten me." Her tongue flicking his ear, "Why don't you try it and find out." Feeling the warmth of her sultry voice, shuddering again from the sensuousness of her tongue on his ear, "Funny you should say that, 'cause that's kind'a what I had in mind." Sitting up, unbuttoning her blouse, "Wait, baby, no sense getting all wrinkled." taking it off, she laid it over the boom. Anxious to have Mitchell see her bare, her excitement heightening, sensing the hardening of her nipples, drawing it out just a bit, reaching behind her back, unhooking the brassiere, removing it, she laid it over her blouse. Having only seen Sally's breasts in the deeply shadowed, subdued flickering light of Technicolor, unaware that he'd been holding his breath, now actually seeing her, "Mmmm, God!" he sighed aloud... Lying on her back, her head atop his arm, the weight causing her breasts to flatten and lay to the sides of her chest... Looking at her in moonlight, Mitchell saw the iridescent whiteness of the flesh of Sally's breasts against the tan of her chest. The areolae of Sally's nipples were the size of silver dollars and, even as he watched, the effect of air and the thrill of knowing that he was watching caused the russet colored tissue to tighten... to erect. Kissing one, drawing a nipple into his mouth, holding the weight of the other breast in the palm of his hand, feeling the, Oh, God! weight, circling the nipple with his thumb... Holding Mitchell's head against her breast, moving it in a slow, tight circle... Tasting. Loving tasting. Truly loving the taste and the touch of his lips and tongue upon this now-hardened projection of Sally's flesh, "Sal," relaxing his lips, lifting his head, looking at her face, "Sal..." Opening her eyes, she looked into his. "You're beautiful! My, God, you're so beautiful!" Wanting! My, God! The urge to feel some part of Mitchell within her becoming overwhelming... Having to feel a part of Mitchell within her, moving her lips to his lips, drawing, My, God, thinking of it as his penis, drawing, Sally hungrily drew Mitchell's tongue deeply into her mouth... Wanting! My, God! The urge to feel some part of himself within Sally becoming overwhelming... Having to feel a part of himself within Sally, My, God, thinking of it as his penis, Mitchell thrust his tongue deeply into Sally's mouth... and out, and in, as...

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Sliding his hand between their tightly straining stomachs, Mitchell moved it down... And Sally did nothing to stop him... Down, beneath the elastic band... Down, over Sally's naval... Down, onto Sally's pubic hair, and the touch of this being as a spark to his penis, but, No! She's testing you! His upper brain said, No! His lower brain though, said, Yes! So yes... Down. Down onto the warm, My, God, so warm, so wet furrow, where... Lost in a sea of passion, arching her hips, widening her thighs... Oh, God! Mitchell moved his finger into the so warm, so wet fold, but... No, she's testing me! And from somewhere within Mitchell's conscience, wanting Sally to trust him, wanting to be true to his word--at least wanting to be perceived as being true to his word--forcing his lips, his chest, and, Oh, God, I don't want to! his hand away, sitting up, concentrating, Mitchell looked at the stars in the sky, at the skyline of Chicago, at the dark outline of the trees of Grant Park. He looked anyplace but at this beautiful girl, because if he did... "Mitchie," confused, sitting up, taking hold of his shoulder, "are you okay?" Taking a moment to muster his thoughts, "Yeah," breathing heavily, "I'm fine, it's just... Jesus!" Looking at her, "You make me so hot, Sal, I'd jump in the lake if I'd'a thought to bring a bathing suit." Realizing how close she'd just come to going all the way, relieved that she hadn't. Relieved that Mitchell had the presence of mind not to go on. Liking Mitchell all the more because he did have the presence of mind not to go on... On the other hand, though, well aware of just how badly she wanted to go all the way, still feeling the surge of her lust, allowing it to come in the way of common sense, rationalizing, If he goes swimming he'll cool off. But, once again chucking common sense, what she really wanted was, I'd love to see him naked. "So," she said, making it sound more like a dare than an invitation, "why, don't you?" Not expecting her to say this, "Huh?" Not sure if she meant it, "Why don't I what?" "Do it if you want to! Go swimming!" "Without a bathing suit?" "Big deal! So what? Go swimming if you want to!" "But I thought you didn't want to go any further than," motioning to her breasts, "that. And if I get naked..." "I'm not going any further! God, I'm the one sitting here practically naked and you're," said tauntingly, daringly, "too bashful to even go swimming!" Actually, rather excited by the idea, "Sally," Mitchell asked, "is it that you want? To see me undressed?" Oh, yes! "Why not?" she said, smiling, "You want to see me undressed, don't you?" Oh, yeah! Do I ever! "Yeah," he said, "sure I do, but I'm a guy and I'm supposed to." "So you think because I'm a girl I'm not supposed to? It's just that I'm not as, uh..." searching for a word, "as coy about it as other girls. Go on! I dare you, Mitchell! I double dare you!" Still somewhat shy, the thought, though, of being wholly nude in front of Sally becoming more and more erotic by the second, "Okay," he said, "but you remember that this was your idea!" As there was barely enough room to lie face to face on the forward coping, standing, straddling her body facing her, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans... Stopping short of lowering them, he looked at

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Sitting up on her elbows, staring, very obviously, at the bulge in his jeans, Sally's tongue circled her lips, and when she realized he'd stopped, looking up, seeing him watching her, forcing a nervous smile, "So, you need help?" "Nope." Lowering his jeans and Jockey shorts to the top strands of his pubic hair, he hesitated, then... Appearing to glow in the moonlight, Mitchell's stark white penis, within its forest of black, sprung into full view and stood rigidly forward, just inches from her face. What Sally had told him was true. She had had many dates and had allowed a few boys to fondle her breasts above her clothing, and one beneath her clothing, but she'd never allowed any boy the freedom she had allowed Mitchell. And yes, she had seen farm animals rut. But what she didn't say is that if unobserved she would go out of her way to watch, and each time she did watch, of course, though in no way equating an animal to a human, the sight of the huge, thrusting member of a ram or bull would excite her, and while watching, well aware of her movement, rhythmically pressing her thighs together, she would masturbate. On the occasion Sally had seen her brother nude she'd waited till the shower went off, then accidentally... Oh, yeah! She had opened the door and entered the bathroom. Standing in the tub, he'd been drying his back. His penis was flaccid, of course, and he chased Sally out of the room as soon as he overcame his surprise at his little sister accidentally barging in on him... But not before her mind's eye focused on and recorded the sight of his dangling, uncircumcised penis. Mitchell was the only boy she had seen fully nude with an erection, and he sure as hell wasn't her brother, and as she stared at his penis Sally felt a surge of internal heat and, oh so wanted to touch it, to hold him, to feel him in her hand... and oh, yes, within her body, but was afraid that any movement on her part would bring about a chain of events that she would not be able to--or want--to stop, but, Oh, God! moaning to herself, tightening her thighs, feeling the familiar itch within her vagina... Sally was unable to restrain the compulsion, and so lifted her hand. The moonlit night, the balmy air, and standing fully nude directly before this girl that at that moment, confusing lust for love, Mitchell felt absolute love for, and, "Oh, God!" the touch of her cool hand filled each molecule of his six-foot, 180-pound body with total desire and nothing, nothing, existed at that minute but Sally and, "Oh, God!" the sensation of being enfolded within her hand. With legs spread, with his arms hanging limply to either side of his body, laying his head back, with his eyes closed Mitchell faced the star-studded night. Oblivious to the depth of her passion, Sally knew that were he lying beside her, at that time it would be her wanting--no, begging--him to do it, to go all the way. Engulfed by a craving that surged through her mind and body, in her need Sally was unaware that she'd begun a rocking motion... back... forward. Now, arching her head forward, holding Mitchell from beneath, feeling the weight of his scrotum and penis within the palm of her hand... forward... back. His horizontally-held penis but a lip's--a tongue's--touch away... forward... back... ...Don't come! Not in her face! But, "God, Sally!" Clenching his jaw, knowing that unless he did something then, right then, now, at that second! "God!" Not wanting to, Oh, God! Not wanting to, turning, pulling from her hand he stepped onto the coping and, with a spring that rocked the small boat, dove over the side... But it did not stop it, and the cool water on his hot penis reacted on his shrunken scrotum... causing an orgasm that, Oh, God! bordered on pain. Mitchell's movement, so swift, left Sally's hand hanging in mid-air... Then it dropped onto her crotch, where she rubbed the material of her pedal pushers over the silky wetness that had saturated her rayon panties... "Mitchie?" When he didn't break water, panicking, "Mitchell, where are you?"

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There was a splash and a sharp, sucking intake of air about twenty yards away... Swimming back, grabbing onto the coping, pulling himself up he hung onto the boat by the undersides of both arms. "Whew!" Leaning over the coping, "You are really something, Mister. Do you know that?" Looking at her, not understanding her meaning, "Me? Something?" "Yeah, baby." Mitchell's passion may have been spent, but Sally's sure wasn't. "You're beautiful." Smiling, she kissed his wet nose. Handsome, maybe, but beautiful being a word reserved for girls, and Sally's straightforward attitude confusing him, "Beautiful? No, Sal, I just stood there like an idiot." Below her, her dangling breasts inches from his face, his eyes going from Sally's face to her breasts and back to her face, "You're the one that's beautiful." Hot! Still sensing the itch within her vagina, "How's the water?" So hot! Shaking his head, spraying her, "Great!" he said, and never expecting her to, added, "Come on in!" But... Standing, without the slightest hesitation, she lowered her pedal pushers and panties to the deck, stepped out of both and, holding onto the guy wire of the mast, stretching her legs from side to side, standing above Mitchell's head, her toes gripping the coping... With Sally's legs to either side of his head, Mitchell saw her painted toenails, the swell of her calves, the, Oh, God, I'd love to feel my face between them! smooth roundness of both thighs, the twin, Oh, God, under-swells of the--remembering his thoughts on that first day as he'd watched Sally running down the hall--half-moons of her buttocks, and there, within her spread thighs, there, within a sparse mat of moisture-flecked, golden-hued pubic hair, there, barely visible in the bright moonlight and the moon's reflection on the still water, Mitchell saw the puckered orifice of Sally's anus, and her furrow, and, Oh, God! her hanging, blood engorged vaginal lips, and--shame he didn't know what he was looking at--the thin, rounded sheath that housed her clitoris, and--if only he knew--the excited, protruding nodule that peeked at him from within the sheath.... Cocking his elbows, holding the smooth, hard backsides of her calves, though he could hardly pull his eyes from the sight of Sally, this sight--this sight that he'd wanted, so it seemed, all of his life to see, and wanting a complete picture embedded within his memory, the camera in his brain clicking, clicking, forcing his eyes from Sally's spread-eagled underside, he looked up... Now, here, on this balmy, moonlit night, standing wholly nude above this boy, standing as he had stood, within full view, for some reason beyond her comprehension, excited beyond comprehension, at this moment confusing lust for love, standing, posing, wanting him to look, wanting him to see, Mitchell's looking caused... Oh, God! Sensing yet another surge of readying fluid, Sally vaguely wondered if it was running down her thighs because of his looking at her--at all of her--excited Sally Brockman beyond logical comprehension. Pulling his eyes from the underside of Sally, looking at the front side of Sally from beneath... Sally had well-rounded buttocks and a not-too narrow waist--that she fought to keep from becoming more well-rounded, and from becoming more than not-too narrow--standing as she was, pulling it in, her stomach was concave and, rather than drooping--which they did--standing as she was her full breasts and the air-and excitement-puckered nipples went with the pull of gravity and hung, tauntingly, downward, and... From the position of the boy looking upward from beneath, Sally's breasts appeared to be standing straight forward and the whole of her was so beautiful, so voluptuous, so erotic, so much the girl that he had always dreamt of--that he had always fantasized over--that, unbelievably, within mere minutes of ejaculation,

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Standing as long as she felt she could without becoming too obvious--which in fact was no more than thirty seconds--diving over the side with a spring that also rocked the small boat, Sally swam a number of strokes, took a deep breath, went beneath the water, swam back to the boat and groping blindly, oh, yeah, pulled herself upward, against Mitchell's body, purposely feeling his--of course having no idea that he'd already ejaculated--resurrected penis. "Hi!" Hanging onto the coping with her right hand, he with his left, each free hand gripping the other's buttock, wet, cool breast to wet cool breast, they kissed... Feeling the probing between her thighs, angling upward, "Ummm!" she pulled him inward, as... Reaching further behind, and beneath, touching the cleft of her vagina, "Mmmm!" penetrating the cleft, two fingers easily entered the, oh, so slick, so wet warmth... Sensing his touch. Sensing this boy's touch where no boy had ever touched before. Knowing this boy had penetrated where, and what, no boy had penetrated before... But loving his touch, loving the feel of his finger--fingers--within her and wanting more, wanting? Wanting, needing to go all the way, buoying herself upward, buoying herself higher so that Mitchell might be in position to... Straining upward, now holding him, moving closer, straining to be in position so he could angle upward, so his penis could enter her vagina... Closer, but... "Sally..." Feeling, loving the feel of her hand holding him but, "Sally..." Hanging onto his father's boat with their bodies submerged in the tepid water of Lake Michigan, Mitchell knew that here, now, that he was going to do it! That he was going to be within the body of a girl! Within Sally's body! Just a second away but, "Sally..." Whispered softly, the cause now was not nearly as noble as it had been a few minutes ago when he'd turned from Sally and dove into the water because, If I knew you were this rich, Mitch, I'd have gone all the way and make you marry me, Sally's words came to mind. And also, a small portion of his brain, his upper brain, began to function and he thought of the coin-pac prophylactic that had been embossing the leather of his wallet lo, all these many years. And as much as Mitchell thought he loved Sally and so desperately wanted to feel his penis within her, he was not sure that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her if he should make her pregnant. And also--her legs now wrapped about his waist--Oh, God I want to! Straining into her body, as he was straining he was not too sure that his penis--being what he considered to be of average size--could actually penetrate her vagina in this position, and besides, and even less noble, being held as he was being held, pulling him into her--his lower brain once again in full command--Sally's hand wrapped around his penis felt so good, and the thought of being there, right there... Waiting, her eyes were closed. Wanting, Oh, God! Wanting him within her, tightening her legs about his waist, holding him, guiding him... Sally's hand wrapped around his penis felt so good, and the thought of being there, right there... Sally's vaginal lips within a second, an inch, from closing over and around the head of his penis... But... God, I'm going to...Straining upward, sensing her soft cleft on his hard flesh, knowing he's there, really there...

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Uh, oh! No! Not again! Unable to hold it back, Oh, Damn! Hesitating, "Sally." Not wanting to tell her that he'd...? "had an accident." Hating himself for ejaculating this way. Yet, in a way--the coin-pac prophylactic still in his wallet--relieved that he had, taking the high road, the noble high road... "Sally... no!" Pulling away, "Let's stop, now!" "Mitchie?" If Sally had been experienced, if she had any experience, holding him as she had been holding him, she possibly would have felt his penile contractions, but, her eyes opening, focusing, "Mitchie?" Mitchell now holding her full, boyant weight, the fingernails of Sally's other hand digging into the soft flesh of his buttock, attempting to pull him back, to move him into position, "Why?" "You don't want to do this!" His breathing ragged, "I know you don't! And I know if you do you'll be mad at yourself, and..." this he knew was true, "and me, later." Realizing what he was doing. Realizing what Mitchell was doing and why she thought he was doing it, "Mitchie," knowing how close she'd come to breaking her vow to herself and, more importantly--most importantly--to her God, even though, at that moment not sure she really meant it, "Thank you!" she said, doing her best to sound grateful. "Thank you!" * ...In bed that night, Mitchell thought of Gina, Ina and Sally, the three girls in his life that he'd had the opportunity to have intercourse with. Sally was, by far and away, the most beautiful of the girls and the only one of the three that he'd even liked, let alone--once away from the sexual situation--thought he loved, and in bed that night he had misgivings, terrible misgivings: How the hell's a guy come twice in just a couple'a minutes? Why the hell'd I do it? But okay, she thinks I stopped and kept her from fucking because I didn't want her to because of what she told me about her reason for not wanting to do it, so she even likes me more now for stopping her so we'll be together again. Yeah! I'll call her in the morning and ask her if I can pick her up to talk to her and then I'll ask her to go steady again. Yeah! We'll be together again, lots'a times, and I'll keep the rubber handy and then we'll fuck. Yeah! Sally's sexual thermometer down, way down, away from the boat, the moonlit night, the balmy water of Lake Michigan and, most of all, Mitchell, thinking of what she'd done, remembering everything--everything! Thoroughly embarrassed! Actually feeling the heat of it, blushing intently, thoroughly embarrassed by her wanton actions, My God! I stood there naked... naked! Just stood there with my legs spread with him looking up looking at me... there. Embarrassed, and a bit frightened by the sexual power Mitchell seemed to have over her, blaming him for her passion, Sally Brockman vowed to never go out with Mitchell Lipensky again. Not understanding. Though he pleaded with her for weeks... Sally won't, and didn't. 34 Susan December 8, 1951 to September 1, 1952 Downtown Evanston was packed with Christmas shoppers.

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Looking for vacant parking spaces, cars crawled along Chicago Avenue; finding none they turned east or west onto the smaller side streets. The jingling of bells in the hands of Salvation Army santas, though a part of the season, constantly reminded the throngs of shoppers that there was a much poorer life beyond the confines of this wealthy--Northwestern College--college town. Snowflakes fell from a darkly-leaden sky, but as there was no wind they fell straight, and as the temperature was above freezing the snow stuck to nothing but did give a definite white-coated promise that added to the festive, seasonal atmosphere. They had driven the five miles to go shopping in Evanston because it was close by and also because Myra wanted to get out of the house and into the crowds for a dose of Christmas season fervor, but they carried few packages because she found shopping in the department and specialty stores that lined both sides of the street, "Just a little too rich for my blood." "Know what I'd like?" Standing in front of a Marshall Field window, Myra, Walter and Mitchell watched an animated display depicting Santa on his sleigh snapping a whip above the heads of his troop of reindeer led by the newly born Rudolph, thanks to Gene Autry's recently popular recording of "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer." Looking at her husband's reflection in the window, "Let's see if I can guess." Myra said not unkindly. "You'd like a cup of coffee." Turning to her, "Jesus, Myra," Walter said seriously, "sometimes you scare the living bejabbers out of me. That's exactly what I want! How in the hell would you know that?" Patting his cheek, "Walt, I know you better than you know yourself." Shuddering at the thought, "Yeah, maybe you do." He didn't want coffee but, "Yeah, a hot fudge sundae sounds pretty good." Pointing across the street, "Walgreens got a good fountain." Knowing she liked malted milk, Mitchell looked at his mother. "And they make great malts." Shrugging his shoulders, "Coffee's coffee." Walter said. "I haven't had a malt in years. Okay, it's okay with me." They waited for the traffic light to change, crossed Chicago Avenue and, once inside, went to the rear of the large drugstore, waited until three adjacent stools became available, then sat on the long side of the L-shaped counter with Walter between his wife and son. A skinny, frizzy-haired waitress standing on the opposite side of the counter with a pencil poised over a small, green pad asked, "What can I get you folks?" "Just coffee, black." "You, Ma'am?" "Vanilla malt, please."

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Removing his jacket, laying it across his lap, "I'll have a hot fudge sundae with chocolate ice cream, please." Wearing his usual, Mitchell wore Levi's and a sport short opened two buttons down that revealed his chest hair and mezuzah. His shirtsleeves, rolled twice, showed the watch he had received for his Bar Mitzvah on his left wrist and a large-linked, silver I.D. bracelet on his right. On his feet were the ever-present, dirty white-buck shoes. Within minutes, "Here you go," their orders came. The couple sitting kitty-corner vacated their stools and two women sat down. The movement caused Mitchell to move his rapt attention from the hot fudge sundae to the lady and girl... The long-handled spoon pausing mid-way to his mouth, a blob of fudge dropping onto the cherry- and nut-topped mound of whipped cream, the sundae before him instantly forgotten because then, at that precise moment, Mitchell Lipensky fell totally, completely, in love. Having a clear complexion, her hair impeccably coiffured, wearing an expensive-looking white wool coat with a beige fur collar over a pink, knit dress, the lady was beautiful. But... Oh, God! The girl! The girl! Obviously the lady's daughter, the girl immediately reminded Mitchell of the only movie star he'd ever had a crush on: Elizabeth Taylor. In Mitchell's eyes, positively beautiful, the girl was sixteen, possibly seventeen, and as if knowing who she so strongly resembled, the girl's hair was cut short and styled in ringlets, as was Elizabeth's in her new movie, A Place in the Sun. Her eyebrows were thick and arched and, Damn, she even had a small mole on her left cheek. Okay, so Elizabeth Taylor's mole is on her right cheek. But so what! From where he sat could see that she didn't have Elizabeth's violet eyes, but the girl's were a beautiful, light brown. Her leather coat open, the white fur collar was pulled up, somewhat framing her face. Beneath the coat she wore a powder blue, cashmere sweater, and there was a fine gold chain with a small, diamond studded Star of David about her neck. As he stared at her, the girl's face turned in his direction and she looked at him. Their eyes locking and holding, the boy and girl looked at each other for an eternity that lasted three seconds, then, hastily, each looked away. Swallowing, nudging Walter, "Dad," whispering, "see those two women across from us? She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I've got to meet her!" Telling his father, subconsciously, to make him do it, to keep himself from backing out. If he were alone, most probably he'd have finished his sundae and with a long backward glance left the store. But now, with his father at his side, Mitchell felt compelled, first, because he was absolutely desperate to meet the girl, and also, since he had said he would, to prove to his father and himself that he could. Putting his cup down, Walter looked at the two women, then at his son, and remembering his own youth, centuries ago, so it seemed, "If I were you, I'd sure try," he said, then added, "Good luck, kiddo." Not allowing himself time to think, standing, committed, he placed his jacket on the stool and, without the slightest idea of what he was going to say, walked around the counter. "Mitchie, where are you going... Walt, where's he going?"

BECOMING Turning to his wife, motioning over his shoulder with his head, "Shhh... He wants to meet that girl."

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Looking at the two women on the other side of the counter, Myra felt a pang of jealousy for the older woman's beauty and obvious wealth. "She's beautiful," she said, referring to the older woman. "Don't watch him; it'll make him nervous." Looking at the woman another moment, listening to Walter, Myra turned away. Oh, yeah, as though anything could make him more nervous, Mitchell stood between, and a pace behind, the two women. Wanting his mezzuza to be in plain sight, he'd spread his collar, giving the girl and himself that much, at least, that they had in common. His heart pounding, "Excuse me." his voice, oddly though, was unwavering. The women and the girl turned towards each other, and the voice behind them. Quite often distance will help people appear to look prettier or handsomer, but upon coming closer the illusion frequently changes; blemishes and facial lines appear, eyes become shadowed and light-colored hair will sometimes show roots of black... But it was not that way with these two. The older woman did wear makeup, but as a complement, not as a cover-up. And the girl... Oh, God! From across the counter she'd appeared to be beautiful, but now, standing near her, looking at the girl from a scant three feet away... Mitchell's thumping heart jumping from his chest to his throat, moisture erupted on his forehead and his armpits. He looked from the girl to the woman and back at the girl... As, waiting for Mitchell to say something, they looked back at him. To him it seemed forever, but in fact it was no more than three or four seconds until, somehow, someway, the words and accompanying gestures materialized. Knowing in order to meet the girl--at least in a place such as this and in a way such as this--he must first gain the good will of the mother, forcing his eyes from the girl's--Oh, God, they're beautiful--eyes and, looking directly into the same light brown eyes of the mother, praying it was his best, all-time, prize winning smile, "Excuse me Ma'am. My name's Mitchell Lipensky and I'm here with my mother and father..." He'd been told, at least a million times, that it was not polite to point, so rather, as though presenting royalty, he extended his right arm, palm upward towards Myra and Walter. Turning their heads in unison, the women looked across the counter. On the other side of the counter, Walter and Myra were doing their best to appear nonchalant, but when they saw their son's "presenting gesture," not quite sure what to do, smiling, nodding their heads, turning to each other, they went back to their non-existent conversation. "We live in Skokie and came here, uh, to Evanston to go shopping." Doing his best to look and sound sincere, which he most positively was, "So please, Ma'am, I hope you don't think that I go around doing this all the time because as a matter of fact I've never done anything like this before!" Stopping, he caught his breath. "But your daughter..." turning from the woman he looked at the girl, got lost in her beauty and for a moment his mind went blank and his mouth went slack, and, Ulp, swallowing audibly, he turned back to the woman, "Uh, your daughter..." Oh, my God! What if it's not her daughter and I'm insulting her? "Uh, unless she's, uh, your sister?" Trying to make amends, just in case. "No," the woman couldn't help but smile at the boy's now bumbling effort, "she is my daughter."

BECOMING A relieved, muttered, "Whew," caused both the mother and daughter to smile. "She's... Your daughter is, uh..." Looking into the girl's brown eyes, "You're beautiful." Looking into the boy's green eyes, So are you, Mitchell, the girl thought, so are you. Cocking her head, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, Who's he remind me of? she wondered.

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Pulling his eyes from the face of the girl, turning back to her mother, "I know this isn't right, uh, the way I'm doing this, but there isn't anyone here to introduce your daughter and me... uh, your daughter and I, uh, me..." Smiling a sparkling white, perfect-toothed smile, "Either way," the woman said. "Either Me or I seems to be the correct way to say it." "Thank you, Ma'am. Anyway, you've got to think that I'm some kind of a jerk, but I'm not, I'm really a nice guy who's out with his mother and father, and would a bad guy ever be out shopping with his mother and father?" Speaking quickly, answering his own question, "No! Of course a bad guy wouldn't be out shopping with his mother and father! So please..." catching his breath, looking from the woman to the girl, "please let me have your phone number." To the mother, "You don't even have to give me your address or tell me your last name. Just let me have the phone number so I can talk to her." To the girl, "And then, if you decide that you don't want to see me or talk to me again, I'll throw it away and never bother you again." Taking a deep breath, he studied the girl's face, then turned to her mother. "I promise," holding his right hand up, "that if your daughter doesn't want me to call again after we talk on the phone, just once, then I'll never bother her again!" If she were alone there'd be no question; certainly she'd give him her phone number, but, "Mom," she asked, "what do you think?" Looking at Mitchell, He's well dressed, she thought. Well, as well dressed as most of the kids now'a'days, and his parents are well dressed, looking at Walter and Myra--who were now watching the unfolding drama with rapt attention--and the father's good looking, could even be a doctor or a lawyer, and the boy is certainly handsome enough. Well... turning to her daughter, "Susan..." Susan! "... if you want to..." Oh, God! Her name's Susan! "....give, uh...?" "Mitchell," Susan said quickly, a bit louder than necessary. Both Mitchell and her mother looked at her, and she blushed. "Yes, 'Mitchell.' If you want to give Mitchell our phone number, it's all right with me." I'm going to get it! He couldn't believe it. I'm going to get, oh, God, Susan's phone number. Reaching into her purse, Susan rummaged a moment, found a pencil and a blue envelope, tore the flap off the envelope, swiveled to the counter, wrote on the flap, swiveled back and handed it to him. Looking at it, Susan Friedman... She's even given me her last name. Sh 3-5758. Mitchell recognized the

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Sheldrake exchange as a north side number. He'd been afraid that she might be a rich girl from Evanston, Wilmette, or someplace along the wealthy north shore, and now felt that she and he were on somewhat equal ground. "Thank you, Susan." Turning to Mrs. Friedman, "Thank you, Ma'am." He folded the flap in half, put it into his shirt pocket, patted it once and, "When's a good time to call you? Uh, later today or this evening?" Looking at her mother, "We should be home five, five-thirty?" Shrugging her shoulders, "Yes, about then." "Okay, Susan." God, what a beautiful name! "I'll call about then." Looking at Mrs. Friedman, "You won't be sorry." "I know, Mitchell. Go on, your sundae is melting." He looked at Susan, turned away, and as he walked back to his stool, his eyes rolling upward, Thank you, God. Thank you! "Got her number, eh." "Yes. Oh, God, Dad, yes, I got her number." Clasping his son's shoulder, "Good for you." The unaccustomed praise from his father warmed Mitchell almost--not quite, but almost--as much as knowing that he was going to know Susan, and whenever he looked across the counter, which was almost constantly, it seemed to him that Susan was looking at him also, and their eyes touched, and held until she, or he, averted them. Outside again, the first signs that the snow was beginning to stick was evidenced by the semicircles of slush left by automobile wiper blades. * Home again, the afternoon went so slowly. The minute hand crawled, and the hour hand, God! The hour hand didn't move at all. 3:22... 3:41... 4:01... 4:18... 4:31... 4:49... 5:00... 5:16... He'd told himself, I'm not going to call before 6:00. 5:20... Oh, come on, already! 5:28... 5:35... Shit, what's twenty-five lousy minutes? His hand shaking, he dialed: S-H-3-5-7-5-8. The phone rang once... twice... and ri... into the third ring. Susan had been sitting on the sofa with her legs folded under her with a book on her lap that had been opened to page 123 for the last half-hour. The phone, on a long cord, was on the cushion beside her... 4:47... 4:53... 5:14... 5:21... 5:29... She had been eagerly, oh, yeah, awaiting the call.

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5:31... 5:35... and when the phone did, finally, ring, it startled her. Ringing once... twice, she'd told herself that, I'm not going to answer it in less than four rings! But upon the third, ri..., her heart pounding, "Hello." "Susan?" His heart pounding. "Is this Susan?" Oh, God, his voice sounds so nice! "Yes," doing her best to sound indifferent, "this is Susan. Who's calling, please?" His heart dropping to his stomach, But, of course; anyone could be calling. "Susan, hi! It's Mitchell." "Mitchell? Mitchell, who?" Dropping even further, his heart is stopped from oozing out of his rectum only by his belt. "Lipensky. Susan, it's Mitch Lipensky. You remember? I met you today, in Evanston." "Oh, yes, that Mitchell." That Mitchell? "Susan, please," trying his new warm-'em-up line, "don't call me that." Biting, "What shouldn't I call you?" "Mitchell. Don't call me Mitchell." "Why not, it's your name, isn't it?" "Sure, but Mitchell sounds so formal. Please, call me Mitch, or when you get to know me better, Mitchie." Wanting to sound aloof, but unable to, "Okay, then you don't call me that either." "What shouldn't I call you?" "Susan. Don't call me Susan." Smiling, going with it, "Why not, it's your name, isn't it?" "Yes, but Susan sounds so formal. Call me Sue, or when you get to know me better... if you ever call me Suzie, I'll kill you!" " 'When you get to know me better,' huh?" he repeated, understanding, possibly for the first time in his life, what a girl really, maybe, means when she says something: She wants us to know each other! "Know what?" Blushing because he'd caught what she hadn't planned on throwing, "What?" Susan asked. "Susan has always been one of my all-time favorite names." "Oh, yeah, sure, come on." "Yeah, it's true. I've always loved the name Susan because every Susan I've ever known has been beautiful... except for you." "Huh?"

BECOMING "Yeah; you're unbelievably beautiful! You do know, don't you, that you look like Elizabeth Taylor?"

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Susan was well aware of her looks. As a matter of fact, much like Mitchell, the way she looked also made her feel self-conscious and shy, and this, to those that did not know her, also came across as conceit--which to some extent it was--and with a girl, if you're too good-looking guys will often feel intimidated or not good enough or they will assume that the girl is "taken" and stay away. So Susan Friedman did not have as many dates, and was not as not popular as one Mitchell Lipensky might think. Besides, this girl, and her mother and father were very particular when it came to what boy she dated, or what boy she was seen with. But so far the boy on the other side of the telephone line--omitting the unconventional way they had met--did meet Susan's lofty criteria. "Well, yes," Susan said softly, attempting to sound honest but still modest in answering Mitchell's extremely complimentary question, and now--though she had been searching her mind since first seeing him on the other side of the counter--she suddenly realized whom Mitchell reminded her of. "And do you know you look like John Derek?" In the past he'd been compared to Tyrone Power, and recently to... "John Derek?" he said, not attempting, in the least, to sound modest. "The guy in the movie Knock On Any Door who said, "'Live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse'?" Flattered she'd noticed, "Me, look like John Derek? Nah!" "Where do you go to school, Mitchell, uh, Mitchie." Mitchie! "Niles. I'll be graduating in the spring. You?" "Senn. I'm a junior. Are there many Jewish kids in Niles?" On the one hand, thinking, She's a junior, perfect! On the other hand, Mitchell had always felt--and was fairly correct in his thinking--that the most beautiful girls on the north side went to Senn High School, and the richest and most conceited. "Yeah, lot's of 'em. Actually, besides me, I think there's only one other." "In the whole school?" "Yes, I think." "Susan," Mrs. Friedman called from the kitchen, "dinner's ready." "Mitchie," truly not wanting to end this conversation without a date to meet being set, "dinner's ready and I've got to go." The very last thing he wanted to say at that moment was goodbye, so, "Hey," he said hopefully, "you busy tonight?" The question came so fast and was so unexpected that Susan didn't have time to think the boy/girl thing. Besides, she didn't want to think the boy/girl thing, "No," so answered honestly. Yea! "Great! Listen, Sue, you don't have to give me an answer right now, but what if I come by tonight, say at about, oh, eight, and we go someplace for dessert." At the least it would give him an opportunity to call back, and at the best she'd go. "I know you don't know me," thinking of Sandra's parents, "so we won't drive. I'll leave the car by your house and we'll walk. There's got to be someplace within walking where we can get hot chocolate or coffee and pie or cake, where we can just sit and get to know each other... And Sue, I really want

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to get to know you. So if your answer is going to be yes don't eat dessert and I'll call you back at... what say I call you back around seven and then you can tell me yes or no. But I'm warning you that if you say no I'm going to kill myself, really! So please don't say no! Please say yes! So I'll..." not wanting to give Susan a chance to say no, speaking rapidly, he did not allow her the opportunity to say a word--although if he had allowed her a word, the word would have been yes--"talk to you," glancing at his watch, "in about an hour. Bye." Pressing the button, breaking the connection, looking at the ceiling, "Oh, God," he whispered, "please, please let her say yes!" * The phone answered on the second ring, "Sue, it's..." "Yes! I don't want the responsibility of being the reason that the only other Jewish kid at Niles killed himself." "Yes? You said yes?" "Yes. But under one condition." "Anything, Sue. You name it." "My dad wants to talk to you. He wants to know who's this guy that goes around picking up girls at Walgreens drug stores." "That's it?" He'd always gotten along pretty well with the parents of girls that he'd dated, sometimes even better than with the girls. "Fine. When should I come?" About as anxious to see him as he was to see her, "Anytime. Now's okay." "Okay," he said excitedly. "Be there in a little while. Bye, Sue." About to hang up, "Hey, what's your address?" "Gee, Mitchie, I thought you'd never ask. It's 6133 Talman. That's three blocks east of California and just north of Peterson. Writing the address on the envelope flap she'd given him, "I'll find it. Believe me, I'll find it." "Don't you want to know what bell to ring?" Bell to ring? They live in an apartment! "I know," he said. "Friedman." Surprised, "How'd you know that?" "You. When you wrote your number you also gave me your name." "Gee, Mitch," she said honestly, "I don't remember doing that." "Oh, sure! You just wanted me to be sure to know who you are." Quiet a moment, thinking, That's true. Susan said, "Maybe you're right. Okay, see you at about... what? Eight." "You bet'j'ya! See you in a while." Dropping the receiver on the cradle, "Yeah!" Thank you, God!

BECOMING Still at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, Walter was dawdling over his coffee. "Dad, you remember that girl I met today?"

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"Do I remember Susan? You haven't shut up about Susan since you met her. I'm almost sorry I encouraged it." "Would you believe..." smiling broadly, "that I'm on my way to her home to take her out for dessert... Okay to take the car?" "How's it look outside? Much snow there?" Bending two slats, Mitchell looked through the Venetian blinds: snowflakes swirled in the glow of streetlights and there was about an inch of accumulation on the ground. "Nah, it's fine out there, Dad." If need be, on this night he'd walk through a blizzard to get to Susan. Without looking up, "Okay, but take it easy." Turning a page, "It could be getting pretty slippery out there." * The streets were slippery, and what would normally take twenty to twenty-five minutes took over an hour. Worried because of the growing accumulation of snow, and knowing that nothing short of an accident would keep him away, she had been standing by her bedroom window watching for him. Headlights flickered as a slowly-moving car traversed the street, made a U-turn at the next cross street, came back, stopped and parked across the street. When the driver door opened, the dome light lit the car's interior, He's here. Breathing a sigh of relief, Susan stood back, out of sight, watching as he crossed the street. "He's here!" "Okay," in the living room, "he made it." Mister Friedman said. "Now, will you please relax!" "Yes, Daddy, now I will." Going to the intercom by the door, Susan waited for the bell to ring. It was a newer, two-story, yellow brick building. Inside there were two shiny brass mailboxes on either side of the marble-paneled foyer. Standing in the foyer, composing himself, Mitchell unbuttoned his coat, straightened his shirt collar, looked at his reflection on the cover of the mailbox marked Friedman, took a deep breath and pushed the button. After counting to five, Susan pushed the button, and... It took five very long seconds until... "Hello," the voice on the intercom said. Assuming... rather sure the voice belonged to Susan and not wanting to hear 'Mitch who,' "Hello," he said. "It's Mitch Lipensky." Knowing why he'd said 'Mitch Lipensky,' smiling, she pushed the button. He heard the pop of the lock in the plate-glass security door. Wiping his feet on the cocoa floor mat, opening

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the door, he began up the stairs. Half way up the first flight, the door on the west side of the first floor landing opened. Looking up, Mitchell stopped two steps short of the landing... It had happened in the past: Mitchell would meet a girl and, being a guy, he would build the girl's physical attributes to spectacular proportions in his mind and to some degree was usually disappointed upon seeing her the next time. Now, though, his heart began to pound, his breath catching in his throat he blinked and swallowed because Susan had not been built to unreal proportions in his mind at all and, if anything, she was even lovelier now than when they'd met. Barely able to speak, emotion clogging his throat, "Hi," he whispered. Crystals of melted snow sparkling in his dark-brown hair, his cold, flushed complexion caused his eyes to appear even greener and, her breath catching in her throat, Mitchell's features were more alluring to Susan now than they had been when she had first seen him sitting across the counter... when she had silently prayed that somehow they would find a way to meet. The two stood in the hall, Susan in her open doorway and Mitchell just steps below the landing, a distance of about four feet, and as an electric spark arcs from contact to contact, a deeply felt emotion arced from one to the other. Jolted by his expression, realizing the depth of his feeling... realizing the depth of her feeling, attempting to smile, "Hi," she answered back. Mitchell saw a... kind of a look in Susan's thin smile, but because it was far more than he remotely expected, having no idea what the look may have meant, "Uh," thinking, Why's it so hard for me to talk? "sorry I'm so late, but the streets are kind'a bad out there." "Yes, I, uh," having a hard time speaking, too, "kind of figured that. Come on, they're waiting to meet you." Subconsciously wanting to touch him, to have him touch her, Susan reached to him. Not expecting this, wanting to touch her, desperately wanting to touch her, reaching froward... When Mitchell had been with Gina, but more so with Sally because he'd truly liked her--actually, at the time felt that he loved Sally--the first taste of the taste of the breast of both girls had caused a deep felt sensation of reverence. Now, the very touch of Susan's hand caused that same deep felt sensation. Now, though, the sensation was not sexually motivated. The sensation of the mere feel of the touch of Susan's hand was, to Mitchell, sacred, and to Mitchell love had but one meaning, and the meaning was synonymous with one word: Susan. And as if unable to believe that he was really there, really holding Susan's hand, turning their hands so hers was knuckles up, he fought an all but uncontrollable urge to bring her hand to his lips... to kiss Susan's hand. Yet watching the rapt look on his face, Susan's heart began to beat even faster, and she knew that if her parents were not just on the other side of the open door, even if this was their first moment alone, she would certainly be in his arms... Tightening the grip on his hand, "Mitchie," she said softly, "the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get out of here." Pulling gently, she urged him up the remaining stairs." "Mitchie." How sweet the word sounded coming from Susan's lips. Looking up, "Yes," swallowing, "guess we'd better." Hands held, they entered the Friedman living room. Richly furnished, the floor of the large room was covered with plush, forest green, wall-to-wall carpeting. A

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sofa, a grouping of two wing chairs and an elegant glass-topped coffee table dominated the wall and the space facing the door. Sitting on the sofa, watching as their daughter and the boy entered the room, a glance passed between Mister and Mrs. Friedman. "Daddy, this is Mitchell." Nodding at his daughter, standing, "Mitchell," Mister Friedman extended his hand. Tall, about 6'3", he had dark, curly hair, dark-brown eyes and a ruddy complexion. An extremely handsome man, between he and his wife Mitchell could easily see where Susan got her good looks. Mister Friedman wore sharply pressed, gray wool slacks, a white, lamb's wool sweater, and shiny black loafers and looked as though he'd stepped from the pages of Esquire... So unlike Walter, who usually lounged about the house in a pair of wrinkled wash pants and tattered deck shoes. Shaking hands, "Mister Friedman, glad to meet you, Sir. He looked from Mister to Mrs. Friedman, who was wearing sharply pressed, black wool slacks, a gray silk blouse and white satin slippers... So unlike Myra, who usually lounged about the house in a formless, albeit cleanly pressed housedress. "Mrs. Friedman," nodding to her, "it's nice to see you again." As before, Mitchell felt the way to soften the forthcoming inquisition was through the mother. "Why don't you kids sit down." Mister Friedman motioned to the wing chairs on either side of the coffee table. Mitchell sat on the chair to the right, Susan to the left. "Mrs. Friedman, I'd like to tell you something." Looking directly into her eyes, sincerely spoken, "You are the most beautiful lady I've ever met, and it's hard to believe that anyone as pretty as you could be anyone's mother, and that's the honest to God truth. And I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate you giving Susan permission to..." glancing at Susan, "let me have your phone number, and I do want to thank you again." Obviously taken back by the sincerity of the compliment and his good manners, "Why thank you, Mitchell," Mrs. Friedman replied. "That's a very sweet thing to say." Clearing his throat, "Mitchell," Mister Friedman said, "Susan tells us that you're a senior at Niles." "Yes, sir." "You've been going there long?" "We moved to Skokie in August, sir. This is my first semester." "Oh. Where were you before?" Removing the top of the crystal cigarette box on the coffee table, lifting the box, holding it towards her, Mister Friedman offered a cigarette to his wife, who took one. He then held the box towards Mitchell... Who, though he desperately wanted a cigarette, "No, sir, thank you," wisely declined. "I went to Harrison before."

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"Oh?" Lifting the matching lighter, Mister Friedman lit his wife's, then his own cigarette. "On the west side." This said more as a statement than a question. "Yes, sir." Drawing on the cigarette, "Taking any particular classes?" Never doing more work in school than was absolutely necessary, "How do you mean, Mister Friedman?" 'Well, Mitchell, what are your long-term goals? What do you plan on majoring in, in college?" Uh-Oh! Not expecting this type of questioning, waiting for his answer, three sets of eyes looked at him. Glancing at Susan, who was watching him intently, Oh, yeah! Uh-oh, indeed! Realizing that this could break it with her before it really got started, Mitchell remembered a suggestion that his father had made some time back regarding college and a career that he had rejected out of hand, but, "Photography!" he said. "Photography? In college? What do you mean, Mitchell?" "My dad owns one of the best commercial studios in Chicago, and I'm..." lying through his teeth, "planning on going to R.I.T.; that's the Rochester Institute of Technology, uh, for photographic arts..." "Rochester?" Susan asked. "In New York?" "Well, yeah, R.I.T. is in New York, and it's the best university for, uh, photographic arts in the world." Adding, "It's sponsored mostly by Eastman Kodak, you know." "I suppose one could make a decent living in photography," Mrs. Friedman said. "Especially if one's father owns the business. How long has your father been in it?" "My folks bought the Park Studio right after the war. It was portraits at first, but my dad got tired of trying to make peoples' daughters look like Shirley Temple, so he switched to commercial and moved the studio downtown. Matter of fact, we were the first studio in the city to do commercial, three-dimensional photography," he said proudly. "Jesus!" Taking a last drag on the cigarette, Mister Friedman ground it out in the matching crystal ashtray. "If I had to deal with a bunch of crazy parents that insisted that their daughters looked like Shirley Temple I'd go out of my mind." Thinking he was out of it, at least for the moment, "Or Elizabeth Taylor." Looking at Susan, Mitchell forced a smile. "How's your grade average?" Mister Friedman asked. Uh-Oh! "Susan's went from A plus to an A last semester, but she's working extra hard to bring it up again. Aren't you, dear?" Looking at her mother, "Yes, Mom," Susan said, then turned expectantly to Mitchell. From an A plus to a regular, old-fashioned A! Exaggerating slightly--well, lying through his teeth again--"I carry a B..." glancing at Susan, "plus average, but," he added quickly, "that's improving this semester also."

BECOMING Seeing a look of disappointment on Susan's face, "Switching schools and all, you know, kind of threw me off." This being a somewhat plausible answer, looking at each other, Eric and Rose Friedman nodded imperceptibly.

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Rose did come from a wealthy North Shore family, and Eric Friedman was a graduate engineer. After the war, though, engineers were a glut on the job market, so, unable to find work in his chosen profession, needing a job, Eric went into the sale of printing presses. Social status and a college education obviously meant a lot to Mister and Mrs. Friedman and, from what Mitchell could see, to their daughter, too. "What do your folks do for entertainment?" Mister Friedman asked, meaning, Do your parents belong to any social or country clubs? Ah-ha! He'd been waiting for a question that he could answer honestly, more or less. "My dad loves sailing and we've got a..." better not exaggerate too much, because, God willing, sooner or later Susan'll see it and a sixteen-foot Snipe doesn't exactly qualify as a yacht, "sailboat moored in Belmont Harbor, and we belong to the Columbia Yacht Club." Impressed, "Oh," Mister Friedman asked, "do you know Commander Metzenberg? I sold him a printing press last year." He's not out of Esquire! He sells printing presses! "Yes, sir. Last summer, his son, Karl, needed another man to crew on their yacht for the Chicago to Michigan City race, and I crewed for him." Once again the Friedmans looked at each other, and once again Rose and Eric imperceptibly nodded their heads. Unnoticed by Mitchell, catching the inflection of her parents' body language, Susan smiled with relief. "Well," Mister Friedman stood, "it's a shame Butchie's asleep. We'd like him to meet you." Looking about, "Butchie? He's your dog?" "No, silly." Going to his chair, Susan punched him playfully on the shoulder. "Butchie's my baby brother." "Hey, I got some of those." "Dogs?" Mister Friedman asked jokingly. "No, sir, baby brothers. How old is he?" "Four." Realizing she knew nothing about him--besides the fact that Mitchell was a B+ student, was going to college in New York state to learn to be a photographic...? artist, and that his wealthy parents owned a yacht--"How many brothers have you? Any sisters?" Susan asked. Envisioning many happy hours spent with Susan babysitting Butchie, "Two brothers, no sisters." he replied. "If you kids want to go out for a while, it's okay with me." Mister Friedman looked at his wife. "Okay with you, honey?" "The streets must be pretty bad by now. You said you'll walk wherever you're going?"

BECOMING "Yes, Ma'am. I'd rather walk anyway."

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"Mitchell, Mrs. Friedman and myself think you seem like a rather nice young man, and even if your approach in meeting my daughter was unorthodox..." Orthodox? Conservative? Reform? Being rather liberal in the practice of their Judaic beliefs, Eric fleeting wondered how staunch the Lipenskys might be. "...I understand the reason you did it, and, to be honest, I admire your chutzpa. So, so long as it's okay with Susan, it's okay with Mrs. Friedman and myself if you two kids see each other." Sensing, He's not going to be just another boy. And, Even if he's not going to be a doctor, lawyer or--at the very least--a C.P.A., maybe we can get the boy to change his mind. And if not, he could be a good catch anyway. "But," he said, "don't give us any reason to be sorry that we made this decision. Okay?" "No, sir!" Looking directly into the older man's eyes, "I promise you won't be sorry!" "And bring that B+ average up to an A, okay?" Answered a bit less enthusiastically, "Yes, sir." * Susan wore a fur-lined black leather coat along with fuzzy, white knit mittens and a matching hat that tied beneath her chin. Looking at her as they walked down the stairs, Jesus, he thought, fighting the urge to take her into his arms and kiss her, she's so beautiful! And still could not believe that he was really there, with Susan. Outside, the temperature was still barely below freezing and snow still fell, but there was no wind, and even though the vapor of their breath was visible, they were not cold. "Your parents are nice people, but God, for a minute there I thought they were going to burn me at the stake." "Kind of reminded you of the Spanish Inquisition, huh?" "Yeah, it sure did." They walked slowly, hesitantly. Their hips touched frequently and Mitchell's bare hand often, "accidentally," brushed Susan's mittened hand. Walking on the outside, as they came to a curb he took hold of her elbow, then, reaching the other side of the street or alley, reluctantly releasing her elbow, Susan's arm would fall back to her side. Content to be together, at this close proximity, neither had spoken, but now, "Mitchie," looking at him over her shoulder, "did you tell them... did you tell my parents everything?" Oh, God! He desperately wanted to tell her the truth about himself, about the type of student he really was, but was positive that if he did it would put a strain on--if not completely sever--their barely-budding relationship, especially now that he had lied about just about everything to her parents. This whole thing was so improbable: Going shopping with his parents; he never went shopping with his parents. His father wanting coffee just at that time, just across the street from Walgreens. Mrs. Friedman and her daughter coming into Walgreens just at that time, too. And finding the courage to talk to her. And she'd listened to him! And now, By God, he was here, with her! And, he was sure--although having no idea just how much she did--Mitchell was sure that Susan liked him also. And the thought that, It is! That, It must be God! That, God wanted me to meet Susan! Why else? How else could this have happened? Earlier, as it was happening, he'd responded to Mister Friedman's questions--with the exception of the size of Walter's

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boat--without thinking beyond the moment, but now, Work! The inkling of a thought coming to him. Maybe, if I work my ass off, maybe I still have time to buckle down. Maybe I can go to Rochester to take an entrance exam. Maybe, if I work my ass off, maybe I can make it! At that moment Mitchell decided: If college is that important to Susan! If that's what she wants, then dammit! I will do it! "Well," he said, "I did stretch the truth," holding his thumb and forefinger a fraction apart, "just a little." "Mitchell," Stopping, turning, she looked at him. "It's important that I know, right now! What did you stretch the truth about?" Looking at her, "Uh," swallowing, "the boat." "The boat? You mean you don't have a boat?" "Oh, yeah," forcing a chuckle, "we've got a boat alright, but I think, maybe, your folks got the wrong impression because maybe I made it seem like it's a yacht, and it's not quite... well, yeah, it's my dads yacht, but even so, it's only sixteen feet long." No doubt about it, Susan did like Mitchell; she liked him more than she, at the moment, comprehended or would admit to. If his family were rich--which they well may be--and if they did have a yacht, a real yacht, it would certainly be icing on the cake. She was disappointed, but, beginning to walk again, "Okay, Mitchie, if that's the worst thing you, uh, stretched the truth about, it's okay..." The plume of vapor from his mouth evidenced a sigh of relief. "...but I did think that maybe we'd be able to go sailing off to Tahiti or someplace," attempting to make a joke of her disappointment. "Yeah," looking at her wistfully, "that would be nice!" Beginning to walk again, when their hands brushed, he took hold of hers, and was gratefully reassured when he felt her fingers curl about his. * Their coats hanging on hooks on the outside of the booth, hands held atop the table, sitting across from each other on cracked, Naugahyde seats, "Hot chocolate and apple pie, please." Cold air having painted a red blush on her cheeks, unable to take his eyes from Susan's face, "Me, too, I'll have the same." "Mitchie, You're embarrassing me, stop it!" "What? Oh, sorry." Lowering his gaze, thinking a moment, "You know," he said, "it all seems so improbable. Why did I go with my folks today? Why'd my dad want coffee? Why'd I suggest Walgreens, of all places? And why did you and your mom come in just then and sit directly across from us? And also, looking at your mom, she doesn't seem like a Walgreens kind of a lady." "No, she really isn't. As a matter of fact, before we went to Walgreens we tried the coffee shop at Field's, but it was so packed that we decided to go across the street." "That figures... And then there's meeting you like I did, with your mother there! And now I'm here, looking at

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you. Just looking at you," he said emotively. "God..." searching for the right words, "Susan, you make my eyes feel good." Stopping, looking out the window, thinking, "I know it sounds crazy," his eyes back on her face, "but... I don't know. But, Sue, I think I..." He knew what he wanted to say, but was afraid to say. "Mitchie," sandwiching his hand between hers, "what were you going to say?" "Nothing," looking out the window again. "I wasn't going to say anything." "Yes... Yes you were!" Lifting his chin, turning his head, looking into his eyes, "Tell me, Mitchie! What were you going to say?" "Susan, I can't! It'll sound so stupid you'll think I'm an idiot." "No! I will not think it's stupid! And unless you want to have our first fight right now, you'd better tell me!" Smiling wanly, holding the first two fingers of his right hand, squeezing them in her closed fist, "Better tell me, Mister, or I'll bust 'em off!" "You're going to bust 'em off, huh? God," he smiled, "you're so sweet." The smile fading, the look on his face suddenly serious, "Sue, I..." Waiting to hear the words. Wanting to hear the words but afraid of the words, and her response. "This is crazy. We just met each other, today. This is the first time we've been out together, or, for that matter, now's first time we're even alone." Stopping, looking out the window, collecting his thoughts, "But, Sue," turning back, looking into her eyes, "I feel like I've known you all my life, and right now--and believe me, I know it sounds screwy--but I cannot remember what life was like this morning, before I met you." Moving her hand to his lips--giving into the compulsion he had less than an hour ago, when they were standing in her hallway--he kissed Susan's hand. "You're what I dream of when I dream of a girl. It's you I've always dreamt of," he said passionately. "Oh, God, I feel so dumb, but I can't help it, I knew it the second I saw you today." Hesitating, whispering, "I think.... No, Sue, I know, I do; I love you." Overtaken by a tide of emotion, his throat thickening, Mitchell's eyes became moist, then overflowed. She'd wanted the words, expected the words, but never expected the deep-felt sincerity witnessed by his tears. "I love you," he repeated. "That's why I did what I did today." Scrubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, "I knew it the second I saw you. I couldn't just walk out of your life, or let you walk out of my life. What I told your mother is true: I'm not like that! Actually I'm kind of shy and thought I'd never go up to a girl like I did," he smiled, "especially if she's with her mother, and say, 'Hi, there, I'm Mitch Lipensky and I just fell in love with your daughter, so can I have her phone number so I can call her so we can get to know each other so that, maybe... Oh, God, so that maybe she'll fall in love with me, too'." "Mitchie, I don't know what to say." She did, though. Susan knew exactly what she wanted to say. "God, Susan, I'm such a jerk." "No you're not! Why would you say such a thing?" "Why? First off," exaggerating slightly, "I'm sitting here,"averting his face, "crying like some kind of a baby." "Here you go, kids." Mitchell turned back when the waitress left.

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"Mitchie, I don't think you're a jerk at all. Guys always think they've got to act like... guys. I think it's really beautiful." "Oh, yeah! Grown men always cry!" "What I mean is, it's wonderful that you can show your feelings this way." Trying to get a hold on her own emotions, cutting into the pie, Susan put a piece in her mouth. "Maybe you think it's neat for a guy to cry when he tells you he loves you, but personally I think it's really dumb and I feel like a dope." Placing her fork onto the edge of plate, looking him in eye, "No, it's not dopey at all! Don't feel that way, Mitchie. Do you think you'd have ever gotten my number if I didn't want you to have it? I saw you there too, you know. And I was wondering how I was going to meet you, but a girl can't just go up to a guy and introduce herself, especially," smiling, "if she's with her mother." Stopping, debating with herself, wondering if she should go on, and if she did, just how much she should say. "Then, when you stood up, I thought you were leaving," her throat thickening, "and when you put your jacket down and came over to me..." hesitating again, thinking, No, don't tell him! But, her emotions at play, too, "it was like God was answering my prayer." Absorbing her words, quiet a few seconds, "Praying?" he asked incredulously. "You were actually praying to meet me?" Swallowing, "Yes," blinking back tears, Don't say it, but, "Mitchie, I feel like you do," Susan whispered. "I love you, too." "You love me?" Daring to believe, but fully overwhelmed by this emotional declaration. "You love me!" Feeling the thickening in his throat once again, but able, this time, to hold back tears, touching his thumb to her cheek, lifting a running tear, putting the tear onto his tongue, "There, Sue, now we're a part of each other." Taking her hand, holding her palm to his mouth Mitchell kissed Susan's hand, and kissing it, smelling the fragrance of Susan's flesh, God! Thinking his thought again, "Susan," he said, moving her hand from his lips, turning it, studying her hand as if to confirm that this was truly happening, that this was truly Susan's hand, "This whole thing..." he said reflectively. "I'm not a religious guy, Sue, not at all. But don't you see why it happened?" So long as she had mentioned God and praying, even though he fully believed it, still, he didn't feel too "corny" saying, "It's God! God wanted us to meet each other. Why else would we both be at Walgreens, of all places, at the same time? And how come, all of a sudden, did I have the nerve to go over to talk to you and your mother? And why would you and me... you and I... fall in love with each other the second we saw each other? Why?" Truly believing, "God." Susan answered. "God!" * ...Samson. Walking slowly in the thickening snow, strangely, the feel of Susan's bare hand in his brought biblical Samson to mind. And as Samson knew his hair, his strength, was a gift from God, Mitchell sincerely felt that Susan was his gift from God. And with her inexplicable, seemingly completely reciprocal love, for the first time in his life he felt he could do monumental things--yes, even pass a college entrance exam. Walking with Susan, Mitchell Lipensky felt a spiritual warmth and an aura of physical comfort that gave him the sensation of literally walking on air. Turning off brightly lit Peterson Avenue onto the comparative darkness of Talman Avenue, at a point between

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the waning light of one streetlight and the increasing brightness of the next, as though arriving at a preordained location, stopping, turning to each other, his arms about Susan's waist, her arms about Mitchell's neck, for a long moment each looked at the shadowed face of the other through the falling snow and semi-darkness... Their lips touched... Soft... Pure... As soft and pure and chaste as the falling snow that swirled about them. Each standing within the arms of the other, the bulk of their winter clothing separating their physical bodies, both sensed the deeply felt mental warmth of loving, and being loved. For this, their first kiss, sensing their universes' spin, nothing more... nothing other than this purely chaste kiss was needed, nor wanted. Mitchell had a far-off sense of kissing this kiss before, of being in this place before. Other than snowflakes, though, he had a remembrance of... fireflies. And this sensation of dj vu added to the mysticism of this night, and of this soul-moving kiss. In wonder, the simple word, "Oh," was said, because now, for the first time in the years of her life--other than the love of a child for her parents, or baby brother--Susan Friedman realized the meaning of love. * Six months younger than Mitchell, Susan would be seventeen in February. An exceptionally pretty girl, beyond her face, however, Susan was fairly average. Standing a bit above five foot, six and a half inches, she weighed 132 pounds, was extremely light-completed, and, according to her, would like her breasts to be larger, her waist narrower, her hips and buttocks curvier, and her legs more shapely. In truth Susan Friedman did not have the kind of figure that caused boys to drool, drop their hot dogs and follow her down the beach. A very good student, due to her parents' urging she strongly believed that the better things in life came only to those with a superior college education. Many of Susan's classmates came from families that were considerably more affluent than the Friedmans, which gave her somewhat of an inferiority complex that she covered by being standoffish and a bit of a loner. Consequently, between her shyness and aloof attitude--much like Mitchell before his transfer to Niles Township High School--her fellow students thought Susan to be stuck-up, and although she did have dates, they were infrequent and she often went through bouts of loneliness. She loved her parents dearly, and though her father was fairly successful at his sales job, Susan knew that they could have much more in the way of prestige and monetary benefits if he were able to work in the field he had trained for. But now too many years had passed for him to start anew in engineering. The Friedmans lived well, but not nearly as well as Rose had lived before she'd married Eric, when she lived in the big house in Wilmette with her parents. * "How's about tomorrow?" Standing hand in hand on the steps between the entry and first floor, "Can I see you tomorrow?" "I'd love to see you tomorrow, Mitch, but I don't want my parents to think that we're moving too fast. But..." thinking, she looked at the ceiling. "Look, call me tomorrow at about, uh, eleven. Tell me you're going to take your brothers sledding... Think they'll want to go?"

BECOMING "Sledding? You kidding? They'll love it!" "Okay, then. When you call, tell me you're going sledding with...?" "Larry and Mortie."

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"Yes, Larry and Mortie. Tell me you're going sledding with your brothers and wondered if Butchie and I want to go along... Think your dad'll let you take the car again?" "You kidding? If my dad can get Larry'n'Mortie out'a the house so he has nothing to do but lay around and read the paper all day he'll probably even fill the tank... But what about your parents? They going to want you and your brother away from them on a Sunday?" Smiling, "You kidding? My mom and dad love being alone. I don't know what they do..." She blushed. "Well, maybe I do, but they love being alone and you'll be a real hero to them and Butchie." "Being a hero's okay." He smiled. "Okay, let's try it." Walking up the three remaining steps, Susan looked down at Mitchell. The hallway being warm, Susan's coat was unbuttoned and, putting his hands on the slight curve of her hips, looking into her face, "Thank you." he said. "For what?" "For lots of stuff. For being you. For taking a chance on me. And most of all--and I still can't believe it--for telling me you love me." "Mitchie, don't be silly." Taking his head between her hands, Susan kissed his forehead, then, in an emotional, spontaneous move, pressed it against her chest. Putting his arms about her waist, holding her tightly, he could feel and hear the reverberation of Susan's heart. He smelled the spicy fragrance of her perfume and sensed the gentle, soft swell of Susan's breasts upon either side of his face... Surprisingly, he did not get an erection, and felt as though he could stand there, like this, for the rest of his life, but, in a few all too short seconds... "I'd better go in now." Susan kissed him lightly on the mouth, opened the unlocked door, backed into the apartment, mouthed "I love you," and threw him one last kiss. Returning the kiss, Mitchell also silently mouthed, "I love you." * "Hey, Mom, Dad," he called from the front door, "I'm home!" And received the reaction he'd expected. In the den, watching television, "Straw's cheaper than hey!" his mother said. And, "Glad you're home," his father said. "Weather reports say the streets are getting pretty bad out there." "Nah, the streets ain't all that bad!" And again got the reaction he had expected. "Ain't ain't in the dictionary, Mitchell!"

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"Dad," in the den, sitting on the edge of the desk, astonishing both his parents, "That offer you made to send me to R.I.T.," Mitchell asked, "it's still open, isn't it?" Glancing at his wife, Walter looked at his son. "Why?" "I've changed my mind, Dad. I do want to go!" "Mitchell, when I suggested R.I.T., it was because I thought it would be an investment in your future, and the studio's. But when's the last time you even set foot in the studio? Also, when I made the offer you still had two years left in high school, and maybe, just maybe, if you worked your tuchas off, maybe you'd have made it. But now, with... what? Less than six months to go before graduation you suddenly want to go to college! Forget it! You'll never make it!" "Dad, are you telling me that if I do pass the entrance exam, and if R.I.T. does accept me, you won't keep your bargain?" "Bargain? What bargain? Two years ago I told you that if you worked your ass off and got accepted to R.I.T. I'd pay. You've worked your ass off? Since when?" "Mitchie, what's this all about? This has something to do with the girl you met today, hasn't it?" "Mom, "Appealing to his mother because he thought she, rather than his father, would better understand. "I know this'll sound really strange, but I love her." Not getting quite the reaction he'd expected from his mother... "Love? You just met her! You just want to get laid." Wincing at her words, "No, Mom! That's why I know I love her, I don't want to get laid! Look, I know you and dad have always been after me to work harder in school, and I know that I've always been a screw-up, but that's all changed now. I've got to go to R.I.T., and I don't care what it takes, or how hard I've got to work to do it." "You've had girlfriends before. Remember how you raved about Sally? And that lasted...? What, about two weeks? The time with Sally, not counting the time he'd spent trying to get her to go out with him again, actually lasted four days. "What makes you think that you and this girl will even be together that long? You don't know a thing about her! You've only been with her tonight. What makes you even think you love her?" "Why? Because of the way we met. Because... You won't believe this, but I knew I loved her from the second I saw her... And believe it or not, she told me that she felt the same way then, too. And I know," he said with finality, looking at his mother, "that Susan will be my wife! And she will be the mother of your grandchildren... That's if I get into R.I.T.!" Silent a few seconds, looking from her son to her husband, digesting "grandchildren." "It's so important, R.I.T.? Why not Wright?" "You don't understand, Mom. Wright's a junior college. It's not that all of a sudden I want to go to college, to any college; it's that Susan's a real good student! And her and her parents believe in a really good college education, and when I first got there tonight I got grilled by her parents like you wouldn't believe."

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"You meet a girl you say you love, and suddenly college--and not just any college, but the Rochester Institute of Technology--becomes the most important thing in your life! And I'm to pay for it?" "Dad, I told you, everything's changed now. I want to go to R.I.T.! I want to work with you! I want to be part of the studio!" Walter looked at Myra, who shrugged her shoulders. "So, Walt," she asked, "you think he'll pass the entrance exam?" "Not in a million years! I'd make book on it." "Okay, so if he'll never get in, we can afford to be generous." "Okay," jabbing his well-known finger in his son's direction, "if you work your ass off," jab, "if you pass the entrance exam," jab, "your mother and I will pay for college." Taking a deep breath, "Thank you!" coming off the edge of the desk, kneeling in front of the sofa, "You won't be sorry." He hugged his father, "Thank you!" then his mother. "Yeah? Don't thank us so fast; you've got to get accepted first." "Don't worry, Dad, I will!" Beginning to leave the room, "Oh, yeah," turning back, "when you meet Susan, don't mention how I've been in school up to now, because she thinks I'm a B-plus student." "Mitchie, that's no way to start out with a girl you say you love and are going to marry, by lying." "I know, Mom, I hated doing it, but you had to be there to understand." "Oh, by the way, if I can use the car, I'll take Larry and Mortie sledding tomorrow." "Jesus Christ!" Walter said, "You're volunteering to take your brothers someplace?" "I'll be damned!" Myra said. "When did you say you were getting married?" * In bed with his hands crossed behind his head, "Dear God," he whispered to the milky darkness of the ceiling, "I know I don't talk to you a lot, and I'm sorry for whatever bad things I do and that the only time I do talk to you is when I want something. But tonight, God, I don't want anything. Tonight, God, I want to thank you for bringing Susan to me. And please, God, please keep us together forever. And always let her love me as much as I love her. And help me get into Rochester and to do whatever I have to do to make Susan happy. And please, God, please let us be married someday... Well, God, I guess I did want to ask you for something after all. Anyway, God, thank you for Susan and today. Amen... Oh, yes, and God, as long as I have Susan I promise to never do 'it' again. Amen." Turning on his side, imagining his pillow is Susan, hugging it, Mitchell Lipensky fell asleep with his face next to hers. At 6133 Talman Avenue, already asleep, Susan Friedman slept with her face next to his also.

BECOMING December 9, 1951 Too good to be true, afraid it was a dream, or possibly that she'd changed her mind, making the call with apprehension, "Hi, Sue, it's..." "Hi, Mitchie!" Each knowing the other was on the line, both silent a moment. "Sue... Honey, I've got the car and whenever you want, me'n'the kids..."

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"Mom, Dad," Susan called. "Mitchie's on the phone and he's taking his brothers sledding and wants to know if Butchie and I want to go." He heard the muted background voices, then... "Yes, Mitchie. They told me to tell you that they think it's very nice of you to ask and wondered, if later, when we come home, if you and the boys would like to go for hot chocolate or ice cream." Now whispering, "They're crazy about you! They think you're the nicest boy I've ever brought home. And you know what? So do I! Hurry up, I miss you." Oh, God! Thank you, God! December 10, 1951 "Mitch, come on! No one's that good looking!" "Yeah, she is, Jack." "Just like Elizabeth Taylor, huh? Sure she does!" "Yeah." "If you believe that, Brandon, you'll believe anything." "Westguard, you shit! Yeah, she does!" "Yeah, Mitch, an' I'm the spittin' image of Robert Taylor." "Yeah. An' how's 'bout me, Brandon? 'Cept for the little womb-broom, everyone says I'm'a double for Clark Gable." "The two'a you guys are a couple'a dicks. Wait; you'll see! * "Mrs. Noblett." "Yes, Mitchell?" "Mrs. Noblett, something happened over the weekend and, well, I've changed my mind about college."

BECOMING "Really!" "Yes, ma'am. And I want to go to R.I.T.; that's the Rochester Institute of Technology."

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Peering at him over her glasses, "Mitchell," his class counselor said, "wouldn't you say it's a bit late, to say the least, for you to be thinking of going to a university?" "Yes, ma'am, I know, but I've got to do it, so I'll do anything to get in. I know I'll have to take an entrance exam and I'm ready to go to New York to do it, but I've got to know what I'll need, and I need you to find out so can get to work." "Work?" Knowing his record, she knew that work was not one of Mitchell Lipensky's better habits. "You have no idea of just how much work you're going to have to do!" "I don't care! I'll do whatever I have to!" "Okay, I'll check on the curriculum and get back to you as soon as I find out. Think you'd like a tutor?" "Mrs. Noblett, I'll do whatever you think'll help." "What I think is, Mitchell, is that it's too late. But I'll find out what you need." * "Suzie, hi!" Coming from him, she didn't mind being called "Suzie." "Mitchie, you just called a half-hour ago. Don't you and Tom ever work?" "Yeah, sure. But we have these contests, see, and if we don't stop every few minutes to let 'em cool off, the drills'll melt." "Mitchell!" "Yeah, Sue, it's the truth, honest. I wouldn't lie to you." Fingering the gold initial ring he'd received from his grandparents for his Bar Mitzvah, "Sue, I know we just met three days ago, but..." he added quickly, "I feel like I've known you all my life, and I was afraid to ask yesterday because then we'd only known each other one day, but... Sue, I'd love to go steady with you!" Please, God! "Will you?" "God, Mitchell, I thought you'd never ask... Yes!" By mutual agreement, seeing each other only on weekends, Mitchell spent Saturday mornings in the Skokie Library with a tutor, and during the week, on the evenings he didn't work, outside of one call right after school--which was okay with Susan because she studied then, too--he spent every minute attempting to make up for three and a half years of wasted time. * For Christmas he gave Susan a gold and seed pearl bracelet, and she gave him the most beautiful gift he'd ever

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received: a cranberry-colored, long-sleeved, V-neck, butter-soft cashmere sweater that immediately became his most prized possession. * Wearing a rented tuxedo, Mitchell was invited to accompany Susan and her parents to the New Year's Eve dinner and dance at Mister and Mrs. Friedman's country club. January 5, 1952 "Bye, kids." The front door closed, the foyer and outer doors next, then, within seconds, there was one, then the second, solid thunk of the driver's door of the Friedman's 1951 white Cadillac. Three days short of a month since they'd first met, baby-sitting for Butchie, this night was their first opportunity to be alone in a home, on a sofa. They'd "schnoogled," oh, yeah, usually for a short time in the stairwell between the lobby and first-floor landing of Susan's building, and on two occasions when it wasn't too cold in the front seat of the Buick. Though he hadn't attempted to touch Susan's breasts, or anything else, their long, no-longer-chaste kisses had caused Mitchell to have erections that became, in his opinion, casebook examples of "blue balls," and Susan a flood of fluid that, by the time they'd say goodnight, left the crotch of her panties drenched. Having made no such vow to God as Mitchell, Susan occasionally--after each such session--"relieved" herself. As difficult as it was, although he was, oh, so sorely tempted to do so, Mitchell, though, true to his word--outside of one nocturnal emission that he rationalized as something he had no control over so didn't feel guilty about, and truly enjoyed, and, you bet, hoped for again--never did. Now, on this night, reclining on the sofa, Mitchell was leaning against the padded armrest. On her left side, facing him, lying across his chest, Susan's upper torso was cradled in his left arm, while his right hand, twining her hair between his fingers, was supporting her head. Enjoying the feel, taste and thrill of each other's mouths and tongues, unaware of time, depending on where they were, they would often kiss, sometimes without coming up for air for five or ten minutes at a time. With closed eyes, breathing each other's air, replacing his usual Old Spice, she smelled the fragrance of the after shave lotion Mister and Mrs. Friedman gave Mitchell for Christmas while he smelled Susan's own unique scents. Their prolonged, passionate kissing always caused an erection that, if they were standing, Susan would feel pressing against her thigh, or--usually by her design--her pubis, which, of course, she pretended not to notice, which, of course, she did nothing to encourage, other than, of course, giving him, and permitting--actually, encouraging--full mouthed kisses, and, of course, allowing her thigh and, most especially, her pubis to be pressed, and sometimes rubbed against, which, because she loved him and, as they were not using their hands, she felt was okay because they were not going beyond her--changing--accepted protocol... But secretly Susan was always thrilled, and, oh, yeah, loved the feel of Mitchell's erected penis pressing against her thigh, and especially her pubis... Kissing deeply, the kiss lengthened...

BECOMING Lying against and across Mitchell, the position of her left arm becoming somewhat uncomfortable, Susan, "innocently" and "unknowingly," rested her elbow in... and onto his crotch.

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Oh, God! Feeling Susan touch him, there, even if the touch was innocent, even if the touch was unknowingly, even if it was only her elbow, Oh, God! He moaned softly... And, within a few seconds, moving his hand from behind her head, cradling her chin in the palm of his hand, of course, having no place to put his crooked elbow, he, just as "innocently," just as "unknowingly" put it on, and into her crotch. Oh, yeah, Mitchell was acutely aware of where Susan had her elbow, and where he had his elbow... And if Susan did realize where her elbow was and where his elbow was she did nothing to move either hers or his. She may or may not have been aware that within minutes both he and she were slowly, minutely moving their elbows... But if she was she did nothing to stop the, Mmmmm! erotic motion of either his, or her elbow.... Susan may or may not have been aware that she had arched her hips upward and opened her thighs wider and that Mitchell was asserting more pressure onto and into the rapidly dampening fissure beneath the crotch of her tan colored slacks... nor that she was rubbing her elbow harder, asserting more pressure, and friction onto the long, hard protrusion alongside the seam of his jeans... What did register with Susan, however, was that she now felt a combination of sensations that she had never felt before. "Ummmm!" Never! The writhing from over and beneath his jeans having caused it to poke through and wiggle its way out from under the elastic leg-band of his Jockey shorts, Mitchell's penis was now pressed between his thigh and the material of his jeans and the sensual pressure of the now rhythmic motion of Susan's elbow. Her breath coming harder faster, twitching her pelvis in orchestration with the rhythmic, circular motion of Mitchell's elbow... His breath coming harder, faster, draping his free arm over her shoulder, Mitchell tentatively touched Susan's breast over her sweater. And touching Susan's breast without Susan moving his hand caused his heart and, minimally, one other component to jump. Gaining instantaneous courage, stretching his arm even lower, touching the cross seams of her brassiere, thinking it an excited nipple, his passion leapt even higher, and his mouth, on her mouth, opened even wider... causing his jaw to pop with a noise that, in his head, sounded like the shot of a pistol. But if Susan heard his jaw pop she said nothing as... Being allowed to hold Susan's breast, along with her "excited nipple," the purposeful movement of both their elbows giving him even more assurance, giving him even more courage, as he passionately rolled the seams of her brassier between his thumb and forefinger, Mitchell moved his elbow even harder, even faster, and even deeper into and against the fissure between Susan's thighs. Said into her mouth, "I love you, Sue!" Moving her elbow even harder, even faster, "I love you, Mitchie!" she said into his mouth, as... Faster... Harder...

BECOMING Gasping, "Mitchell!" Gasping, "Susan!" "Oh, God! Mitchell!" "Oh, God!" Oh, no! Having built "a head of steam" because of too much--as if for him there ever could be too much--shnoogling, and--but for one nocturnal emission--no release, powerless to stop it... Oh, no! Mitchell's passion ran out of space and had no place to go but... "Uh-oh!"

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In the throes of her own long-lasting, unbelievably pleasurable orgasm, Mitchell's "Uh-oh!" did not register with Susan. Okay, so he came prematurely in a pitch-black room with Gina and in a dark car with Ina, and, yeah, as he had jumped into Lake Michigan when he was with Sally. But never while he was dressed... Well, not counting that day in 1945 during a geography lesson, and that wasn't exactly what one would call premature because, after all--his penis poking through the hole in his pocket--he'd brought it about with his own hand. But now, this, this was different! Outside of the possibility of having sex... of "screwing" Gina or Ina, he could not have cared less about Gina or Ina, and, yeah, he truly did like Sally... But this was Susan, and Susan was his life. Susan was his world... and he was dressed, so... "Uh-oh!" She realized that something was wrong because he'd stopped all movement. Also, suddenly the underside of her forearm felt wet and a bit sticky. "What's wrong?" Lifting her arm, she saw a widening wet spot inches under and to the left of the fly of his well-worn, faded Levi's, and immediately thought that she was, maybe, pushing her elbow a little too hard, and that, maybe, she broke something that was causing him to bleed, and... Susan Friedman knew the facts of life. Well, Susan sort of knew the basic facts of life, but she knew nothing of penile ejaculation, nor that it sometimes, no, often, came--no pun intended--when it was not intended, or, if you will, prematurely--especially with inexperienced, extremely hard-up young men--and Susan did not equate the sticky stuff on the underside of her forearm, or the darkening of his jeans, with the male fluid component necessary for the formation of human life, so... "Mitchie," she asked in near panic, "what happened? That's not blood, is it?" Jesus, what the hell do I say? "No, Sue," he said, that's not blood, almost wishing it were. "Excuse me." Annoyed at himself and momentarily Susan, he attempted to stand, but as she was still lying across his lap he couldn't. "Sue, will you please let me up!" Bewildered by his somewhat unfriendly attitude, and also the, whatever it was that was staining his jeans, asking again, "What's wrong?" sitting up, she moved aside. Hurrying into the bathroom, really, having no idea of what to say, "I'll tell you when I get out." Still sensing the heat of her orgasm, shaken by how hot she was... still was, Susan was also surprised by the amount of secretion that was soaking the crotch of her old lady, double-crotched underpants that she'd secretly purchased after their first long schnoogling session in the Buick, and planned on burying in the garbage so as not to be found by her mother.

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Also, she thought of what she had been doing with her elbow, and what he had been doing with his elbow... Also, He was touching my breast! No boy had ever been permitted to do anywhere near any of the things that Mitchell had been permitted to do. And also--most of all also--Not only was I letting him do it--forgetting that it was she that had invented and instigated the "elbow job"--but I was doing it back! And what happened? Did he get sick? Did I--once again thinking the thought--break something by pushing too hard? Is he, God forbid, hemorrhaging in there? Going to the bathroom door, "Mitchie," knocking softly, "is everything okay?" Praying that his jeans would dry, having taken them off, he was holding them, wet side up, towards the air vent near the ceiling. Still embarrassed, "Yes!" Realizing he'd spoken curtly, "Sue, honey," he said, changing the tone of his voice, "everything's okay. I'll explain,"--What the hell am I going to say--"when I come out. Okay?" "Okay." Going to her bedroom, Susan closed the door. Easily able to see by the light of the streetlamp that was directly opposite her window, walking to her dresser she removed a pair of panties. Glancing at the door to be sure she'd closed it, pulling both down, she stepped out of her slacks and the old lady underpants, dabbed at her still-wet crotch with the old lady underpants and redressed. Knowing that, Unless I hide in here for an hour it ain't going to work. Further thinking, May as well get it over with. Pulling his jeans back on, coming out of the bathroom, he saw that Susan was not in the living room and that the door to her bedroom was shut. Taking his jacket from the hall closet, well aware that it was not long enough to hide the still noticeable wet spot, he sat on the sofa with the jacket across his lap. "Mitchie," coming from her room, seeing him sitting on the far end of the sofa with his jacket across his lap, "you're not leaving now, are you?" "Sue, honey, sit there," pointing, "will you." "Sure." Confused, and slightly hurt because he didn't want her on the sofa, next to him, she sat on the closest wing chair. "Look, honey, I, uh, sort of had an accident." Looking at him blankly, "Accident?" "Yeah. We were, uh, very hot there, you and me." "Yes," nodding her head, "we sure were." "Sue, when a guy gets too hot, sometimes something happens... I... You've heard the word"--the word ejaculation not, as of yet, in his mental dictionary--"come?" "Yes, sure. Of course!" Of course she has! But in this context? Mitchell could not imagine that a girl as innocent as he believed Susan to be could possibly know what he was referring to. "I mean like when a man and woman are, uh, together... You know, like... sexually, and he's got his, uh," pointing to his lap, "thing in her, and he... comes?" "Yes," nodding her head, "sure I know."

BECOMING "You know what I'm talking about? Looking at her closely. "You're sure?" "Yes!" She said with annoyance in her voice. "When men and women make love... have sex." Remembering when Walter had attempted to tell him the facts of life, "Yeah. Well, before, being with you like we were, I got so hot that that's what happened. Only my... 'it' wasn't in you."

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Realizing, "You, uh..." thinking of the way she had felt just minutes ago, and how embarrassed she'd be if he knew just how wet her underpants had been. "That's what happened to you?" Maybe she does know. "Yes. I'm sorry, but I can only hold it off for so long then... Jesus, Sue, you made me so hot it just happened and I couldn't hold it back!" "And what I saw," touching her elbow, "that was..." "Yeah, that's what it was." Amazed that he was able to conjure the stuff up, mentally snapping her fingers, Just like that! Blushing, "Know what, Mitchie? she said, "I'm kind of glad it happened." "You're glad! Why? I find it damned embarrassing." "Because I love you. And because I'm glad that you love me enough to do it, uh, the way you did, and not, you know... So we didn't do anything that both of us would be sorry for." Oh, yeah. Like I planned it. "Maybe it would be best if we promise to never let it go that far again." On the other hand, thinking of where she'd been touching him and where he'd been touching her reactivated the itch in her vagina. And now, also, empowered with the power to... If I can get him to come, snapping her mental fingers again, just like that, and so long as he doesn't touch me there... at least with his hand, and so long as I don't touch him there... at least with my hand... Although, really... "No, Susan," well knowing that would be a promise he'd never be able to keep, "we don't have to take such a drastic step as to say never! And besides, believe me, I do not want to go any further than just now. And I would never go even one inch further than you'd want me to, even if I thought that you wanted me to do it, because"--a thought of Sally flitted through his mind--"I know that you'd be mad at me later, and I don't want you to ever be mad at me, ever! I love you too much for that, Sue, and..." Though they had never really discussed it, both knew that marriage, a distant, far-in-the-future marriage, was a very viable consideration, and... "I'm willing to wait for... it, uh, that." That night, Mitchell, and his semen-stained Levi's, were long gone by the time Mister and Mrs. Friedman returned home. January 12, 1952 Having a full week to think about it, the physical flavor of their, by then, almost, chaste relationship changed on the very next Saturday when, because her parents implicitly trusted Susan and Mitchell, the two, once again were left alone to baby-sit, when, once again... He, coincidentally, took the same position on the sofa, and Susan, discovering that she had a heretofore

BECOMING hidden randy streak, took her same position on the sofa, and Mitchell's lap, and...

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Yes, when he said it last week he did mean it. But last week he'd been embarrassed, and his passion had been spent. But on this night, operating under a very revitalized head of steam, though he'd told himselfl I will not even try to go any further than before, then just touching, or kissing... or, or, most of all, seeing what Susan'll let me see. Meaning, of course, he dearly wanted to see her breasts, so... Through trial and error: he trying, as she moved his hands from various parts of her body, and moving his hand, holding her hand, from that one part of his body, he'd been told... "You're in error, Mitchell, if you think I'm going to let you touch me there!" Or, "If you think I'm going to touch you... there!" But, true to her code of ethics, just as she'd never touch him there... with her hand, or allow him to touch her there... with his hand--as much as Susan truly wanted him to, and truly wanted to do herself--she did allow the "innocent and accidental" laying on of elbows. Since their first kiss, beyond their present brand of kissing, which still excited him almost beyond comprehension, Mitchell had held himself in close check. At this time, however, wanting to be prepared if there should be a repeat of what had happened on the previous Saturday--and he certainly hoped that there would be a repeat of, minimally, what had happened on the previous Saturday--he'd thought of ways to do it and, being rather inventive, using good old Yankee ingenuity, remembering Norman's National Guard idea, using tiny safety pins, he'd pinned a piece of absorbent fabric to the inner side of his left pocket--because his penis, for some reason, always seemed to go to the left--and when things became too hot to contain--even if she had said that she didn't mind seeing, and, unbeknown to him, Susan actually wanted to see it because she marveled at the fact that she had the power to make it happen--he was able to avoid the embarrassment of her seeing the results of his eruption by simply adjusting his blotter-like pocket. This change in their physical love caused Mitchell to love Susan, if possible, all the more, because now there was a sexual intimacy he knew no one but he had ever had with her before. Besides, still true to his word to God, it gave him a sexual release by other than his, or truly, anyone else's hand. January 19 Through May 24, 1952 On the next Saturday, this night on the front seat of the Buick, growing tired of having to move his hand, and, in all honesty no longer really minding if he did touch her there, actually, wanting him to touch her there, "Okay," Susan declared, "you can hold me here," pressing his hand to her left breast. "But only over my clothes! Not under!" Adding sternly, "Do you understand me, Mitchell?" "Over your coat, too?" "No, Mitchie," she smiled, "not over my coat." Oh, God! "Yes, Sue! I understand." Putting his mouth to her mouth, he moved his hand onto her stomach... But now that he'd been given permission, not knowing quite how to proceed, feeling obvious and awkward, hesitating, closing his eyes tighter, becoming lost in their lengthening kiss... Holding Susan's breast, feeling the weight and warmth and softness through her brassiere and cashmere sweater, Thank you, God! On the next Friday, with his right arm crooked in her crotch--oh, yeah, they'd figured a way to do it in the car--stretching his left arm further over her shoulder, his hand lingering on, feeling the warm hardness of her

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bare chest, he was able to put his hand beneath her blouse--on this night, rather than the per-usual cashmere sweater, Susan had worn an open-necked blouse--hesitating, Mitchell waited for her to remove his hand... but there was no change in the movement of Susan's tongue against his, nor was there any change in the circular motion of her crotch against his elbow. Slowly, moving his hand further, his penis jerking, Mitchell's fingers touched the soft flesh of her bare breast... And still, Susan did nothing to stop him... Lost in the taste of her kiss, the feel of her breast and now the harder, faster motion of her elbow, his fingers, grazing her nipple, holding Susan's breast in the palm of his hand... Oh, God! Feeling its heat! Its wonderful, bare heat! Squeezing it. Palpating it. His index finger touched, and circled, Oh, God! the hardening areola of Susan's small, excited nipple. Knowing, far from numb there, not caring, the touch of Mitchell's fingers on the sensitive tissue of her nipple exciting Susan even further, widening her thighs--only sheer willpower and common sense, whatever vestige of will power and common sense she had left, keeping her from--Oh, God I want touch him! I want to feel it! "Mitchie," moving the mound of her vulva harder onto his elbow, "I love you!" The last vestige disappearing, moving her elbow, willing her fingers not to close around 'it,' but feeling it, Oh, God! Feeling it, Susan rubbed the palm of her hand hard over Mitchell's penis. Playing the flesh of Susan's nipple between his fingers, aware, looking, seeing her hand, seeing her hand there... "I love you, Sue! I love you!" The thought of Susan touching... really touching him, there! And the thought that he was holding her breast, touching her nipple... Actually touching Susan's breast and nipple, naked, transmitted from his brain to his penis causing a spasm that triggered... Rubbing her palm harder. Grinding... Pumping her vagina onto his elbow... Sucking his tongue even deeper into her mouth... Clamping his eyes shut... "Ummmmm!" Clamping her eyes shut... "Oh, God!" "...Mitchie..." Sitting up, moving back to her side of the car. The wetness on the crotch of her old lady underpants changing from hot to cool, "we can't..." she wanted to say, "do this anymore," but knew that it was as much she--at least as much she as he--that wanted to, so instead... "let it go any further than that," she said. "Please, Mitchie!" Turning to him, looking at him in the muted, semi-darkness. "Promise me that you will never let what we just did go any further than that... Than what we just did, Mitchie!" Completely missing the blotter on his pocket, feeling the semen upon his thigh changing from hot to cold, and sticky, "Never," he said, more reflectively than as a statement. Hearing the word as, "Never? "No, not never, Mitchie. Only until we're married." Married? Though he had thought about it, oh, God, how he had thought about it, and prayed to God that it would happen, Married? Now was the first time that either he or she had actually spoken the word married, and it was Susan that said it. "Oh, God!" he said, "Yes, Sue! This is fine! This is wonderful! We don't have to do a thing more than this... More than what we just did till we're..." Thank you, God! "married!" *

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In the more than two months since they'd met, having no doubt that she loved him more than ever, Mitchell was convinced that his future with Susan depended--unequivocally depended--on a college education, even if that education was for something as mundane as commercial photography, and she was never given the slightest hint that he was anything but a B+ student. Susan had recently been to the house in Skokie, and having met Walter and Myra knew that the Lipenskys were far from what she thought of as wealthy and, though disappointed, loving Mitchell as she did had stated that, "We'll make our own future together, darling." And had not told her parents that the Lipenskys--even though they did own a boat--well, somewhat of a boat, and were members of the Columbia Yacht Club--were of but moderate means. Having adjusted their minds that, so it possibly seemed, their future son-in-law may not be a doctor, lawyer, or, at the least, a CPA, but because of the Lipenskys apparent wealth: a home in Skokie; a privately owned, successful business; a yacht and membership in the prestigious Columbia Yacht Club, because of these materialistic things, Mister and Mrs. Friedman lowered their standards for their only daughter and did nothing to hinder the--in their minds--still chaste relationship between Susan and Mitchell. They were aware of and acknowledged the mutual love the two young people had for each other. And besides, they liked Mitchell; he was courteous, well mannered and showed exemplary respect to the both of them, and, they were sure, to their daughter. And besides, envisioning the appearance of a far in the future grandchild, "Don't those two kids look beautiful together!" Loving Mitchell as she did, feeling the mortar of her resolve crumble a bit more each time they were alone together, each time they went into one of their lengthy kisses, at those times Susan was more than happy to let their sexual progression advance slowly. What frightened her, however, was that it was she that set the standard, and it was he that never went beyond... until she re-set it. Loving Susan as he did, positively overjoyed with whatever leeway she would allow, Mitchell never went beyond the lead she set, which, up to that time--in the more than two months since the time of their first meeting--was that she would allow only his elbow to touch her crotch, and would allow him to touch one bare breast only, the approach of which was to be from atop her brassiere only... The first touch of which always triggered a twitch in his heart and a spasm in his penis... ...And not being numb--far from being numb--upon feeling the tip of his finger circle the areola of her nipple, which she could actually feel tighten under his touch--constantly fighting the urge to touch it bare, to feel its bare warmth, because she did feel the heat his penis generated through the material of his pants, very much afraid of the next step, unable to bring herself to close her hand around it, Susan still allowed herself, and him, only the feel of her circling palm, and... ...No longer wearing underpants, having removed the blotting material from the underside of his pocket, feeling her hand... Feeling the circling motion of the palm of Susan's hand upon him... Knowing that she knew he had ejaculated... Knowing that for some reason she actually enjoyed the feel of the warm moisture of his semen that soaked through his pants... Oh, yeah, going only as far as Susan would allow... Feeling the penile spasms, feeling the spreading heat, together... Clamping his eyes shut, "Ummmm!" Clamping her eyes shut, "Oh, God!" Sweetheart Swing... The Valentine's Day dance was the first time that any of Mitchell's school friends met Susan and his heart

BECOMING swelled with pride as Jack Brandon, dancing by, gave him the big "OK" sign with his circled thumb and forefinger.

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A few minutes later it swelled even further when Bill Westguard whispered, purposely loud enough for Susan to hear, "Yeah! You were right. Just like Elizabeth Taylor." He introduced Susan to Sandra and Sally, both of whom looked at her with envy, then, as the girls were pulled onto the dance floor by their dates, "Hey," Susan said, pretending to look and sound angry, "who's next?" "Huh? What do you mean?" "Tell me, Tammy, Tessie and Tilly?" "Tammy, Tessie, Tilly? What the hell are you talking about?" "Don't kid me, kiddo! I know what you're trying to do! You're trying to work your way through the alphabet." Looking at her blankly, "Huh?" "Come on! Sandra, Sally and Susan? Tammy, Tessie and Tilly? Uh, Unice... Ureitha and, uh..." Laughing, she searched for another U name. "Eureka!" "No, baby!" He hugged her. "Never further than Susan! God, but I love you!" * For her birthday he gave Susan a monogrammed white cashmere sweater, took her to dinner, and to see the movie Moulin Rouge. Whenever we kiss, I worry and wonder, your lips may be near, but where is your heart? And the beautiful theme became their song. Susan urged him to save money for his own car, so that when he did go to Rochester he'll be able to drive home whenever possible to see her. He began to put every spare cent into a savings account. In an effort not to see too much of each other, and possibly--althought it seemed impossible--grow tired of what they did to, and with each other, and maybe--more than just maybe--allow their passion to progress further than Susan may want, but was afraid would allow, they saw each other only on Friday or Saturday nights, and then again, usually, during the day on Sunday. Which was all right with Mitchell because between school, cramming for his oh-so-rapidly-approaching entrance exam, and his job at the knob factory, with but one telephone call a night to Susan, each minute of each break was spent poring over his books, and, since meeting Susan in December, five months ago, he had spent every possible minute cramming for the exam. Having confidence that he would pass it, on Thursday, the twenty-nineth of May, hating the lie, telling Susan that was going for a required orientation and to find living quarters, Mitchell boarded a train in Union Station bound for Rochester, New York. He returned on Saturday in a highly elated state of mind.

BECOMING June 12, 1952 "Hi, Mom! The mail come?"

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"Yes, Mitchell, it came. I've a cake in the oven, don't slam the d..." Coming from the kitchen, Myra watched as her son anxiously opened the envelope. * "Sue, I've got to see you today, as soon as possible." Wondering at the tone of his voice, "You know the rules. Can't you tell me on the phone?" "No, I can't, Sue. It's real important, please." "I can't imagine what could be that important. But okay, when can you be here?" "My dad left the studio early, and should be home any minute." "Okay, but it's almost dinner, and you know how my mom gets." "Yeah, Sue, I know. I'm sorry." * "...Sue, I'm sorry." He'd never allowed himself even the thought of this moment. "I'm so sorry." Sitting in the Buick in front of her building, "I don't understand, Mitchie." fighting back tears of both, disbelief and anger, "How could this happen?" "Sue... honey, we met each other on a Saturday, and I've been studying for that damned test every spare minute I could since that next Monday... And I thought sure I'd pass it." "I don't understand!" she repeated. "If you carried a B-plus average you wouldn't have a problem getting into almost any college! And you wouldn't have to take a stupid entrance exam! What happened?" God, how do I tell her? "Sue, I..." His head hanging dejectedly, not looking at her, "I guess I, uh, lied." "Lied?" Disbelieving. "You lied? About what?" "Sue, on that first night... When I met your folks... I saw how important college was to them..." lifting his head, turning to her, "and you, and..." tears coming to his eyes. "Oh, God, Sue! I knew that if I..." Sighing, "I lied about my average, and even about wanting to go to college." "I asked you if you told us the truth that night! Didn't I?" "Yes," his stomach tightening in fear of losing her, "you did." His voice rising in desperation, "But what was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to say? It wasn't like I could just walk out of your life, Sue. I loved you the second I saw you! What could I do? I knew if I told the truth it would be over right then! What the hell was I supposed to say? You think we'd be sitting here, now, if I told your folks then? No! You'n'me would never have even gotten started together! You'd have said goodbye to me on that first night and we'd have never happened!" Taking a deep breath, he swiped his hand over his eyes. "Tell me, Sue, what should I have

BECOMING done? Should I have told your mother and father that their A-plus daughter was about to start dating a dummy?" "Oh, Mitchie," turning her face aside, she began to cry. "I'd never think you were a dummy." "No! I know you're not saying I'm a dummy! I'm saying I'm a dummy."

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Taking hold of her chin, turning her face in his direction so he might see her eyes, "Sue, right there, right then, when your dad started grilling me about my average and my goals, I promised myself that I'd do anything for you!" Forcing himself to speak slower, to speak softer, "And that's why I lied, because I'm not a dummy; I'm just lazy. And I thought that if I worked harder than I'd ever worked in my life I'd be able to do it. Shit! I had no plans of going to college before I met you!" His voice rising again, making an effort to bring himself under control, "Hell, Sue, all I ever did was screw around in school before I met you. I never even cared about college before I met you. But then I did meet you, and I knew that if I wanted to be with you, that if I wanted to marry you someday, I have to go to college! And thought if I worked my ass off, really worked my ass off, I'd do it! And also... and I've told you this so many times, I really believed--do believe--that God brought us together. And if God would do that--bring us together--then he'd surely help me to get into college so that we would be together... And if I did get into R.I.T., then why would you ever have to know what a complete fuck-up I've been?" Never having used this type of language in front of Susan before, seeing her wince at the word, fighting for control once again, "I love you so much!" Taking her hand, he kissed her palm. You can't believe how hard I've worked! That's one of the reasons I didn't care if I saw you on Saturday because on Saturdays I was being tutored. God, Susan, I'd do anything for you, honey! Anything in the world." Quiet, concentrating on his every word, "I know you would, Mitch. But what are we going to do about college?" We! His heart lifting, What are "we" going to do about college! "Look, I'll have no problem getting into Wright. And I'll keep working on it, and as soon as I can I'll reapply to R.I.T." Lifting her chin, looking into her eyes again, "Please, baby, please don't let this hurt us. I promise I'll make it, Sue. I love you so much I don't know how I'd be able to live without you, if we weren't together." "It'll be okay, Mitchie." Caressing his cheek, "I just don't know what I'm going to tell my parents." "Sue, let me do it! I'm the one that lied. Let me talk to them!" "They think the world of you, Mitchie, and knowing that you lied to them from the start is going to let them down terribly. No, I know how to handle my folks"--though, really, she had no idea of what she was going to tell them--"I'll do it." "Susan," he asked, "do you love me?" "Of course I do!" she answered without hesitation. "Okay, It's our lives! We love each other and can't let this come between us. I'll do everything I can to get into R.I.T.! I promise!" June 19, 1952 On commencement day, Susan came with Myra, Walter, Lawrence and Morton.

BECOMING The Thursday evening ceremony took place outside.

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As he walked across the stage to receive his diploma, Mitchell searched the audience looking for them. As the scroll was handed to him his eyes met Susan's. Smiling, she threw him a kiss. Oh, God! All's right with the world. June 21, 1952 "Jambalay'an'a'crawfish pie an'a'fila'gumbo!" He hadn't seen Susan since saying goodnight to her after they'd gone to dinner to celebrate his graduation with his family. Going for dinner at Walter and Myra's favorite restaurant in downtown Chicago, rather than taking everyone home then driving back with Susan alone, having to be in early that night because she still had school the next day, with his family waiting in the car--at Susan's urging he hadn't yet spoken to her parents, so, not wanting to push it, giving Mister and Mrs. Friedman a little longer to cool off--the kiss in the stairwell was...? Perfunctory. Yesterday evening, when they had spoken on the phone and made plans to spend Saturday at the beach, Susan had told him, "Mitchie, don't come up. My mom and dad are still really hurt and they don't care to see you right now." "Sue, you know that I like your mom'n'dad, and it bothers me that they're still mad at me. I think if I can just talk to them, I'd be able to get them to understand why I did it. Why I had to lie." "No," she answered. "I think it'll be better if you just let it be a while longer." "Okay, if you think it'll be better that way." "I do!" "Whatever you say, baby... Pick you at eleven, okay?" "Yes. That'll be fine." "Susan..." "Yes, Mitchell?" "I love you." "...I love you, too, Mitchie." * "Jambalay'an'a'cawfish pie an'a fila'gumbo..." It was a beautiful Saturday, and taping his hands on the steering wheel, Mitchell sang along with Hank Williams. As always, his heart quickening at the first sight of her, Susan was there, sitting on the stoop waiting for him.

BECOMING Pulling to the curb, leaning across the seat, "Hi, beautiful!" he said through the open window. Standing, Susan walked slowly to the car. Rather than a bathing suit and a beach robe, she was wearing blue jeans and a blouse. "Hey," looking at her face, "where's your bathing suit?"

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Susan's skin was sallow, the flesh around her eyes puffy and, as though she had been crying, her eyes glassy and bloodshot. "Susan, what's wrong?" Opening the door, "I have to talk to you." She sat down. "Sue?" He attempted to put his arms about her, but, resisting, she held both hands, her fists clenched, against his chest. "What's the matter?" Staring out the window, she didn't answer. "For God's sake, Sue," becoming alarmed, "what happened? What's wrong?" "Mitchie..." Opening her hand, she looked down. His eyes follow her eyes. On her palm there was a gold ring. "Sue?" His mind not yet accepting what his eyes saw, lifting her other hand he looked for a like ring, a ring with adhesive tape wrapped around the shank, a ring that looked exactly like this ring... that should be on her finger... but wasn't. "Oh, God! Susan, no!" "Mitchie... Mitchell, I..." Her chest heaved. Tears welled in her eyes. "I..." The words catching in her throat, barely able to whisper... "I... Oh, God. Mitchie, I can't... I..." taking a deep intake of breath, "I can't see you anymore." Turning her face forward, she closed her eyes. "No! Sue, you can't...!" His eyes stinging, feeling a constricting of his throat, and within his heart, "Susan, you can't mean that!" As if afraid to look at him, Susan's eyes remained closed. "They did it! Sue, don't let them! Please, don't let them do this to us!" "Mitchie, I'm sorry... Oh, God!" She looked at him. "Mitchie, please, if you love me..." "If I love you? Oh, God, Sue, I love you more than anything!" "If you love me like you say, then please don't try to see me, or call me again." She stared at him, as though committing his face to memory. "Please, Mitchie... Oh, God!" Putting the ring on the dashboard, Susan stepped out, and without looking back hurried from the car. Looking at her through the mist of his tears, "Susan!" calling after her, as... "It's because of college," she disappeared through the entry door... "isn't it?" Susan was gone.

BECOMING Gone? There was no memory of life before Susan. June 25, 1952 He waited four days.

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Somehow Mitchell lived through four days without speaking to Susan, then, taking a deep breath, he called at 5:30 p.m., at a time when he was sure she'd be home and her father wasn't; meaning he would have a 50/50 chance of either Susan or her mother answering the phone. "Hello." Silent a moment, the sound of Susan's voice destroying his intended composure, "Sue," his throat thickening, barely able to speak, "it's me, Sue." Mitchie! Feeling her heart pound, swallowing, fighting back tears, desperately wanting to talk to him, to tell him, Oh, God, I love you. I miss you... Susan said nothing. "Sue," finding his voice, "honey, I had to talk to you one more time." He waited three heartbeats for her to speak, and when she didn't, "I love you! No one! I promise you that no one in your entire life will ever love you as much as I love you! And I know that you love me, too. I know that this is because of Rochester and I promise that I'll do anything to get into college, Sue. Only please don't let them do this to us! Please, Sue!" "Mitchell..." Oh, God... he sighed. "Yes, Mrs. Friedman." "Mitchell, Susan does not want to talk to you, and she does not want you to call her again!" "Mrs. Friedman, I know what I did was wrong! But I got trapped on that very first night and had to say what I said! But I swear that I did everything possible to make it right. You have no idea of what I did and how hard I worked to make it right! And I promise that I will make it right! Please, Mrs. Friedman, I'm still the same guy, and I know that you and Mister Friedman like me... liked me." "No. Mitchell, apparently you are not 'the same guy' we thought you were, nor 'the same guy' my daughter thought you were!" "Mrs. Friedman, I love Susan, and know she loves me, too! Please!" "No! Susan does not love you, Mitchell! Susan thinks what you did was reprehensible and she does not want you to call here again! Do you understand? And if you do, we'll call the police! Do you understand me, Mitchell?" Not answering, dazed, he broke the connection. June 26 to September 1, 1952 The summer was spent in an eclipse of unbearable loneliness. Wanting as little time on his hands as possible, Mitchell asked Jim Rogan, "How's about me working full time this summer?"

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As the Korean War was still in process, and as the military, so it seemed, ran on knobs, and as 1952 was an "up year" in the knob business, Mister Rogan told Mitchell, "I got Gus and Duke off on vacation these next two weeks, then Willie and Stan, and then Carlos... Sure, why not." But sitting at a drill press eight hours a day doing mindless, monotonous work five days a week was not the way to keep one's mind off lost love, and after a month, needing something new in his life, closing his--and, so he thought of it, as Susan's savings account also--after a weekend of shopping around with Norman, Mitchell bought a 1948, gray, two-door DeSoto with Fluid Drive, that also came with twelve, twenty-two dollar a-month payments. Having no doubt that it was the worst thing he could do, but yet, as if drawn by an irresistible force, Mitchell tortured himself by returning to the Walgreens where he had first met Susan, where he sat on the same stool he had sat on then. Looking across the counter, he envisioned Susan as he had seen her then down to the slightest detail... But he could only sit for the minute it took for tears to come to his eyes and, to the confusion of the waitress, ran from the store. * July passed into August... And Mitchell passed his eighteenth birthday in black despair. Refusing to go to out to dinner with his family, he could barely pretend to be thankful for the gifts they had given him and, making an excuse, he even refused to speak to Norman when he called. Sneaking a half full--not in a very optimistic mood--half empty bottle of Canadian Club from Walter's liquor cabinet at 11:30 that night he drove to Talman Avenue, parked in a tight, but perfectly situated space directly across the street from the building and shut off the motor. Though the window shade was three-quarters of the way down to allow a breeze, Susan's back-lit bedroom window was opaquely visible. Leaning against the passenger side door with both legs stretched across the seat, opening the bottle of bourbon, Mitchell took a full-mouthed drink... And, grimacing, had to concentrate on keeping it down. Lighting a cigarette, taking another near-gagging swig, putting the bottle between his thighs, he stared up at Susan's window... His heart lurched when the bedroom light went on and the shadow of a person he knew was Susan passed back and forth behind the partially drawn shade. Then the light went off and his heart pitched again as the shade was lifted higher to allow the passage of more air. He imagined Susan pulling the summer quilt back, lying on the bed and closing her eyes... And the bittersweet memory of that one time--that one time only--when, in the darkness of her bedroom, Susan had allowed her nude breasts to be kissed and a nipple to be suckled and, stretching her hand under the top of his pants, she'd actually touched his bare penis. And knowing where that was leading! And knowing where his next touch would be and, desperately, Oh, God, she had thought, I want him to! Desperately wanting Mitchell to touch her "there," "Mitchie, no!" Standing, pulling her brassiere over her breasts, Susan had left the room--he remembered that once Susan and he had lain on that bed together, and... Though the words were for Susan, "Susan," the words were a prayer, too. "Susan," he whispered, "do you remember me?" Taking another drink; this time, though, the liquor went down much easier. "Do you think of me, Susan? Damn you! Do you know what you've let them do to us, Susan?" Holding back tears, closing his eyes, drawing on the cigarette, taking another drink, fixing his mind, said firmly under his breath, "Think of

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me, Susan!" Concentrating, willing his thoughts to her mind. Cry for me, too, Susan! His tears came. Miss me like I miss you, Susan, because... "Oh, God," he said aloud, "how I miss you!" Crying, his chest heaving with his sobs. Crying... Forcing himself to stop. Trying to force himself to stop crying, at the moment wanting, needing, physical rather than emotional pain, he bit his lower lip until he tasted blood. But still, he cried. Another drink. Mixing with blood, giving him a bit more pain than he'd wanted, the bourbon stung his cut lip. Drawing on the now raggedy end of the Chesterfield he got a mouthful of tobacco and, not knowing if the cigarette was wet from bourbon, his tears, blood or the snot that ran from his nose, he flipped the cigarette out the open window. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, Mitchell wiped his eyes, blew his nose, dabbed at the double cut on his lip... and took another swig from the bottle, and his mind, for a blissful minute, left there and went back to the only other time he had ever been this drunk. He thought of Gina Lambos and, momentarily, their afternoon tryst, and then... "Oh, God, Frankie!" He hadn't thought of Frank Rizzo, at least since meeting Susan. But he now remembered. "Frankie, my ol' pal, you're dead!" And as if now was the first time that he truly understood, "Really dead!" And once more the pain swelled in his throat, mind and heart. Mumbling to himself, "Frankie, my ol' pal, I ain't never gonna see you again. If I live to be a hundred I'll never, never see you again." He envisioned himself at nine years of age, wrestling with Frank on the floor at Baylor. "Oh, Frankie." Then he saw Susan and himself at the Valentine's day dance. "Susan! Oh, God, Susan!" And Mitchell Lipensky cried for a friendship killed by a North Korean land mine, and a love killed by a failed entrance exam, and he mourned Frank and he mourned Susan, and he cried for himself, because at age eighteen--he looked at the luminous clock in the dashboard: 12:22; eighteen years and one day--he knew that he was an absolute, complete failure, and the total of his anguish became so excruciatingly painful that he thought that if he had some painless way to do it he would kill himself... But he didn't, so he took another drink, then another, until eventually... Emotionally drained, and thoroughly soused, Mitchell's eyes closed and his chin dropped onto his chest. Not awake and not asleep, even in this, for him, usually peaceful twilight place he could not escape the ache of his boundless dark depression... But now, things started to happen: his head began to spin, the car began to spin, the world began to spin, and, oh, yeah, his stomach began to spin. Ulp! Faster. Ullpp! And, "Uh, oh!" faster yet. Wrenching the door open, staggering to the rear of the car, bracing himself against the right rear fender of the DeSoto and the front fender of another car... a white, 1951 Cadillac. Mitchell Lipensky had done dumb and, oh yeah, even stupid things in his now eighteen years and one day, but he had never been spiteful, and he had never purposely hurt another person or damaged someone else's property, but now...

BECOMING Mister and Mrs. Friedman's 1951 Cadillac. "Fuck 'em!" Mitchell turned his head to the left and.... * "Normie!" "Uh, huh." "Look, Normie, I'm sorry about the other day, when you called for my birthday, but I was kind of... Shit! I didn't want to talk to anyone! So, please, don't you be mad at me, too!"

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"Yeah, Mitch, I know. Don't worry," Norman said begrudgingly. "I'm not mad at you. But you've got to pull yourself together... What time you picking me up Tuesday?" "Seven, seven-thirty. Okay?" "Yeah, fine... You doing anything with your family on Labor Day?" "Yeah, the whole mishpocheh--the whole family--is going to the beach in Kenosha, so I thought I might as well tag along... You working with your dad?" "Yeah. Thought I'd give the old man a treat and do the air show with him this year." "Okay, pal, make lots'a money... See you on Tuesday." "Yeah, thanks... So long, Mitchie." 35 Wright Junior College September 2 to October 2, 1952 The gray DeSoto crisscrossed large and smaller side streets for almost a half-hour before finding a place to park. "Jesus, it's a good thing you picked me up early." "Yeah," backing into the tight space, "there must be a million kids going here." * "Take a look at that, will you!" Motioning to a group of girls on the other side of the street. "There's more broads here than you can shake a stick at." Knowing him, Norman knew the way to Mitchell's heart, and was doing everything possible to pull him out of his doldrums. Following closely behind three other girls, all three sets of tightly clad, each very well defined set of buttocks wearing slacks, Levi's or a skirt. "And kate a kool [take a look] at the saaes [asses] on these three!"

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Hearing him, one of the girls understanding Franklin Park, turning her head, "Drop dead, jerk!" the girl in the slacks said, giving Norman the Italian salute. Nudging him in the side with his elbow, "Shit, Mitch," Norman laughed, "with all the good looking broads here, you ought'a be in nookie heaven." "Yeah," he said flatly, "some of them look pretty good." Becoming angry, "You've got to stop, Mitch. It's over! Forget her, will you! Look around," sweeping his arm in an arch, "there's a million shiksas here just waiting for you'n'me!" Watching the swaying buttocks, "Yeah!" Feeling, for the first time since the breakup, a stirring in his crotch, "Those asses look real nice!" he said louder than necessary, not caring if the girls did hear, which still was very much out of character for Mitchell Lipensky. Turning, the middle girl was about to say something, but looking at Mitchell, smiling, "Hi!" she said, and started to slow down, but, taking her by the elbows, the other two girls hurried her along. Encouraged by the girl's reaction, "Normie, from now on we're going to have all the ass we want." "Yeah! You remember what Jack Armstrong always said?" Thinking a moment, "No, what did Jack Armstrong always say?" "Winners never quit..." "Oh, yeah." Remembering. "And quitters never win!" "Yeah!" September 4, 1952 Cutting his second period class, in the student lounge, an over-flowing ashtray balanced on its arm, sitting on a cracked, Naugahyde-covered sofa, between puffing on a cigarette and studying the girls in the lounge, he disinterestedly leafed through one of his textbooks. So far, the only things that had impressed him about Wright Junior College were the abundance of good-looking girls, and that the students were allowed to smoke in designated areas within the building. His bravado of three days ago--"Normie, from now on we're going to have all the ass we want"--having left him because whenever he saw a girl that he'd thought he would like to know, upon approaching he would change his mind because the girl dyed her hair, because she was too tall, because she was too short, because she was too thin, because she was too heavy, because... Because she wasn't Susan. "Hi! You're Mitch Lipensky, aren't you?" Taking the cigarette from his mouth, looking up, "Yup, guess I'm guilty'a that one." "I'm a pal of Norm's. We went to Roosevelt together." Shaking hands. "Name's Ron Lurey." "Any friend of Norm's a friend of mine... Come on, sit down."

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Moderately good looking, at 5'10", Ron Lurey had light brown hair, closely set light brown eyes, a prominent nose, strong chin and broad shoulders. "I wanted to meet you anyway, Mitch, but you know that contest they're having here?" "Contest? Oh, yeah. You mean the Mister and Miss Freshmen Contest?" "Yeah. Know how it's done?" "Nah." Contests being the last thing on his mind--actually, other than Susan, there was nothing on his mind, "Never thought about it." * "The way it's done, during registration the counselors keep tabs on the best-mannered, best-looking freshmen, and guess what?" "What?" he asked cautiously. "You're one of freshies, and I can get you to win!" "I'm glad to meet you, Ron, but no thanks. I'm not interested." "Listen to me first!" Ron said excitedly. "You're a Wej!" "Okay, so I'm a Jew. So what?" "Mitch, they're mostly Polacks and Dagos that go here." "Yeah, I know that. So what?" "It would be great to have a Wej win for once." "If they're all Italian and Polish here, how could I win?" "First off, you are the best looking guy here." "Oh, come on!" Mitchell said modestly. But he was flattered, and besides, he didn't doubt it. "Listen, most of the kids here won't vote, and most of the girls that do vote will vote for you because you are so damned good looking, and I'll personally get every Wej in the place to vote for you. So you're a lead-pipe cinch to win. And there's a..." Mitchell needed something to re-build his shattered ego. "...fifty-buck prize that you split with Miss Freshman and..." "Twenty-five bucks each?" "Yeah! And... And you get to go on a date with the best looking freshie here, and Wright pays for the date." The best looking freshie here! Thinking, looking about the lounge, Mitchell's eyes returned to the beautiful

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girl sitting on the chair by the window, with long, auburn hair, and great up-pointed breasts. "Ron," he asked, "are you saying that you want to be my, uh, campaign manager?" "If you want. Sure, why not?" "See that girl there?" nodding his head. "The one with the tits? Sure." "Think she's a freshie?" "I never met her." Ron told the truth. "But we were in the same graduating class at Roosevelt," he lied. Still looking at the girl, "Okay, I'll do it." For the past three months, ever since the breakup with Susan, Mitchell had eaten little more than enough food to survive on. His belt notched on the fifth, rather than the third, hole and he weighed twenty pounds less than he had in June. His face had taken a leaner look and, if anything, Mitchell looked better than any other time in his young adult life. The girls still considered his shy and--due to his incessant love of Susan--indifferent attitude as conceit. But at this age the girls had all been with conceited boys and it didn't matter too much to most of them. As a matter of fact, any unattached freshmen girl, and even some that were attached, and even some that were not freshmen, would have been more than happy to be asked out by the aloof Mitchell Lipensky. * Norman, Ron Lurey and Mitchell had quickly become good friends and, except for classes, were rarely seen apart. As for classes: Mitchell found it impossible to concentrate and soon began to think that there was something wrong with his mind because whenever he tried his hardest to determine what a professor was talking about, it was as though a impenetrable fog covered his mind causing what the professor was attempting to teach to became wholly incomprehensible. Within days he had fallen behind, and at the end of the third week, if he had any idea of what he would do if not going to college, he would quit altogether. * Ron Lurey was right! Mitchell easily won the contest and became the first Jewish Mister Freshman of Wright Junior College. But it was a hollow victory that he did not enjoy because, after all, no one really knew him and, to him, it was nothing more than a beauty contest and he, oddly, actually felt degraded by it. Miss Freshman was an eighteen-year-old, big-busted, blonde-haired beauty by the name of Maria Slywka, who happened to have a well-muscled boyfriend by the name of Vince Malczewski, who kissed Miss Freshman... and glared death at Mister Freshman The $50 prize was split between Mister and Miss Freshman. The pre-paid date was secretly given to Maria and Vince, and Mitchell didn't really care too much because no, not even Miss Freshman of the class of

BECOMING 1952/53 was Susan.

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The day after being crowned Mister Freshman, Mitchell did not go to Wright. Instead he drove to Talman Avenue, stopped in front of Susan's building, looked at her bedroom window, drove to the corner, made a U-turn, passed the building without a glance, went east on Peterson, north on Ridge, east on Howard until he found the building, then stopped, parked, put three pennies into the parking meter and walked through the door of a one-room, storefront office. * "...A test? I've got to take a test?" Tapping the eraser end of a pencil onto the desk-set blotter, "That's right." Mitchell looked about the sparkling clean office. Centered on the wall behind the desk were two flags: one, the Stars and Stripes; the other, deep blue with a gold, nautical emblem. Between the flags was a picture of President Eisenhower. Hanging on the wall were a number of black and white photographs of ocean-going vessels. On an easel to the left of the high-sheen varnished desk was a large poster of a sharp-prowed ship slicing through mountainous seas. "So, you in?" "Yeah," straightening his back. "Yes, Sir, I'm in." "Good. You won't be sorry." Opening the top drawer of the desk, Chief Petty Officer Brian Walters removed a sheath of papers. "We do the paperwork here, then tomorrow you go to Civil Service downtown for the physical exam and written test, and if you pass 'em both--" Walters looked at the young man over his glasses, "and I can't imagine why you wouldn't--you're in the United States Coast Guard... You do know the term of enlistment is for four years?" Four years away from his home. Four years away from his family. Four years! But Mitchell could not stay here! He could not stay in this close proximity to Susan and not be allowed to see Susan, to love Susan. He could not! "Four years... Yes, Sir." "Name: last first, first name, middle initial. "Lipensky, Mitchell, M." 36 Leaving

BECOMING October 8, 1952, 5:06 a.m. to October 9, 1952, 0749 Hours

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Finding it all but impossible to sleep on his last night at home, sleeping but a few hours, awakening before dawn, he already felt the anticipated loneliness as a factual weight in his stomach, and upon his heart. With hands crossed behind his head he stared into the shadowy darkness until daylight began to mottle the ceiling and walls, then, coming off the bed, sitting on the floor before his dresser, taking it from the bottom drawer, removing it from the plastic bag, holding the luxurious folds of the cranberry-colored cashmere sweater tightly across his face, he closed his eyes, and the emotion of the past four months, along with the knowledge that in two hours he'll be leaving his home and all that he loved, ripped through Mitchell Lipensky as dynamite upon a floodgate. Sitting cross-legged on the cold linoleum floor with the softness of Susan's sweater held against his face... Mitchell cried. Mitchell cried until there were no tears left to cry, then, carefully putting the sweater back into the plastic bag, he replaced it in the dresser. Lifting himself from the floor, going into the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and washed and shaved. Back in his room... No! His room was no longer his room. His room was now Larry's room and would only be loaned to him when he came home on leave. He dressed in Levi's, a long-sleeved, oxford-cloth shirt, and his dirty, white-buck shoes. His orders were to take one change of underwear and toilet articles only, and these were packed in the same canvas bag he had used when he'd visited Frank Rizzo, a lifetime ago. Hung in the middle of the long walk-through closet, his clothing was covered with a bed sheet. At 6:40 a.m., five days after taking a physical exam and a written test, after signing papers and swearing to defend the United States of America, Mitchell gave his car keys to his mother, and after tearful hugs and kisses goodbye to her and his brothers--although he was certain that Larry was overjoyed to be rid of him so that he could have his own bedroom and could hardly wait until he was out of the door and on his way, which, actually was pretty much the way it was--they waved goodbye from the curb of the pie-shaped lot, and Mitchell, carrying his canvas bag in one hand and a manila envelope containing his indoctrination papers in the other, was driven to Union Station by his father. Waiting for the "All aboard" call, they stood on the same platform that Mitchell had stood on four and a half months ago when he had waited for the train that was to take him to Rochester for the entrance exam that inadvertently brought him back to this exact place, at this exact time. The father and son waited in silence. Each smoking a cigarette, both tried to think of appropriate words to say to each other. "All aboard! All aboard!" Dropping their cigarettes to the concrete, they ground them under the toes of their shoes. "Well, Mitchell..." "Yeah, Dad, I guess..." Suddenly, as though pushed by some unknown force, their arms wrapped around each other and Mitchell felt the roughness of his father's unshaved cheek against his. His eyes moistening, "Dad, I love you." Saying what he had never said, "Me, too, Mitchie. I love you, too." Breaking the hold of their arms, "Take care of yourself."

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"I will, Dad." Picking up his bag and manila envelope, he turned from his father, but turning back, giving him one last, fast hug, Mitchell saw something he had never seen before: his father's eyes were bloodshot and watery... Turning away, without looking back, he ran to the train, up the steps, and into the coach. The train left Union Station at 8:05 a.m. 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 p.m. 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 you 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 p.m. 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 The Late Show. 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 suddenly 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... *

BECOMING "Hey, boot!" His shoulder being shaken, opening his eyes, "Huh?"

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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!" Going to the next member of his ward, "Hey, boot!" Standing, stretching, looking at his watch, 6:05, then out the window. There was traffic now, and as the train passed bisecting roads, buses, cars and trucks waited for it to speed by and for the clanging, black and yellow barricades to rise. At some intersections double rows of vehicles were backed up for a block or two, and at others only a few waited. Stretching again, taking his canvas bag from the rack above the seat, he went to one of the toilets that were at either end of the coach. The late night train was not crowded, and it took no more than a few minutes for the man before him to vacate the toilet. "Atlantic City! Next stop Atlantic City!" With hissing steam and screeching wheels, the train ground to a stop. The thirteen boots, led by Yeoman Third Class Khepers, disembarked the train at 6:43 a.m. When he had boarded the train nearly twenty-four hours ago, it had been a balmy, Indian Summer day. Here on the East Coast the air was raw and a bone-chilling mist coming off the ocean caused the thirteen young men to zip their jackets and button their coats. "Hey, Khepers!" one of the Chicagoans called. "Is it always this fuckin' cold here?" "Cold? You think this is cold?" Opening his pea coat, Khepers fanned himself with the sheath of manila envelopes. "Hey, this here's hot!" Smiling, "Wait'll they get you fuckers into one'a them longboats for rowin' and abandon-ship drills... at oh-four hundred." "Oh-four hundred? That's in the afternoon, right?" "No. That'd be sixteen hundred." Khepers smiled again. "Four! In the fuckin' mornin'?" "Yeah, 'four in the fuckin' mornin'! Okay, we all here?" Counting heads, "Come on!" Khepers motioned for them to follow. Coming off the outside platform, the group went through the depot and onto the street. Plumes of white exhaust flowing from its tail pipe, the Coast Guard emblem with the words U.S. COAST GUARD painted on its side, a gray bus waited at the curb. Khepers knocked on the closed door, then banged it with his fist. The head of the driver, a dozing Seaman First Class, lifted and blearily gazed at Khepers for the moment it took the man to orient himself, before pushing the handle that opened the door.

BECOMING Khepers scowled at the seaman, who looked at him blankly, then averted his face and looked out the windshield... "Okay, come on!" Standing aside as the thirteen boots climbed aboard, "You," poking the seaman with the packets of indoctrination papers, "let's go home!"

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Cape May is approximately forty-five miles south of Atlantic City, and U.S. 9 took the gray bus in and out of stretches where the ocean could be seen. "Hey, Khepers!" Sitting on the seat behind the driver, turning around, looking towards the rear of the bus, "Yeah?" "That's the Atlantic?" One of the New Yorkers asked. "Nah, it's the fuckin' Mediterranean. Yeah it's the fuckin' Atlantic Ocean! What the fuck you think it is?" Ignoring the sarcasm and curt answer, "Gee, the Atlantic Ocean," the man said. "You're from New York City and you ain't never seen the ocean?" Khepers asked. "I live in the Bronx," came the logical reply. "Oh, well, that sure explains everything. Don't you dumb farts from the Bronx know New York's on the fuckin' Atlantic Ocean?" "Sure I know!" the man said indignantly. "I just never seen it." "You ain't never seen the Statue of Liberty?" "Yeah, I seen the fuckin' Statue of Liberty!" "Oh, God!" Khepers sighed. "For your information the Statue of Liberty is in the Atlantic Ocean!" "Yeah, I know that! But I was little when I saw it and forgot." "Last I heard they're still givin' that test before they let you fuckers in the Coast Guard. They are still doin' it, ain't they?" "Givin' a test? Yeah?" "An' still they let you in?" Turning away, "Fuck you!" the recruit looked out the window. "Jesus H. fuckin' Christ!" Khepers said loudly. "What a bunch'a fuckin' fuck-ups!" Feeling as though he had heard these same words in another place, in another time, smiling as he listened to the back and forth harangue, slouching lower in the seat, putting his knees on the back of the seat in front of him, Mitchell looked out the window. Driving through a moderately small city, "This here's Wildwood," Khepers announced. "An' this is where you'll probably be spendin' most'a your time when you're on liberty."

BECOMING The bus stopped for a red light. "An'," going on, Khepers said, "it's only four miles from Cape May, an' it's got a couple'a movie theaters, some okay restaurants, a U.S.O., an' a few bars..." "Bars! You said the magic word, Khepers." Glancing at the man that had spoken, Khepers eyes touching the entire group,"...that are off limits to all boots!" "We ain't allowed no fuckin' booze for the whole fuckin' sixteen weeks?"

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Looking at "Bronx" again, "We got beer in the PX, an' if you fuckers want somethin' stronger, tough tittie! Wildwood's a nice little city..." As if for emphasis, the bus passed the city limit sign. "...an' in nice little cities they don't like drinkin' with temporary shits like you guys that don't care how bad you fuck up a place 'cause you ain't going to be there tomorrow. And they don't like you fuckin' with their ladies; least not with the ladies you meet in bars. So, for the good of the City of Wildwood, and the Coast Guard, all bars are off limits to all boots all the time!" "Fuck! No booze!" "Fuck! No broads!" "Fuck! If id'a fuckin' known, I'd'a never fuckin' joined up!" "There it is!" the driver called. Cresting a rise in the road, the facility came into view. Rectangular in shape, the camp began at the highway and ran about a quarter of a mile butting to the edge of the ocean. The facility was near two-thirds of a mile wide and all visible structures--row upon row of long, squat buildings--were painted white. Making a left turn, the bus went about thirty feet to the entrance. A white guardhouse in the center of the road divided the road in two: one side, the ingress, and the other, the egress. In front of the guardhouse was a huge, white painted anchor. Above the entrance, covering both the ingress and egress, was a white sign with black lettering reading: U.S. COAST GUARD TRAINING CENTER--CAPE MAY, N.J. A white-helmeted guard wearing a sidearm came from the guardhouse. The bus came to a stop. Reaching through the window, Khepers handed the sentinel an envelope. Removing a sheath of papers, studying them a moment, the guard handed the envelope back and motioned the bus to move on. Driving into the camp, the bus made two left turns, one right, and stopped in front of a barracks with the number 7 painted above the doorway. Two men came out of the structure. One wore military khaki slacks and shirt, an officer's peaked hat and a

BECOMING khaki jacket with a fur-like collar. The other man wore G.I. jeans, a blue chambray shirt, a sailor cap that seemed to sit on the bridge of his nose, and the same type khaki jacket.

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"Okay, you're home now." Khepers put his cap on, squared it over his eyebrows, and nodded at the driver, who opened the door. "Move it!" Followed by the thirteen recruits, stepping off the bus, going to the man in khaki, handing him the sheath of manila envelopes, "Here you are, Chief." "Thanks, Yeoman." Without a backward glance at his ex-wards, Khepers climbed back onto the bus. The driver put the bus in gear and drove away. "Fall in!" the man in the jeans ordered. Pointing his finger at the tallest man in the group, "You, there!" Flicking his wrist to the left, "You, here!" Motioning to one after the other until the recruits stood in a semblance of order. Turning to the man in khaki, "Okay, Chief." "Men," the man in khaki said, "I'm Chief Boatswains Mate Slattery, and as of..." looking at his watch, "0749 hours, you are actively in the United States Coast Guard!" 37 Boot Camp October 9, 1952 to February 8, 1953 A handsome man, well over six feet tall, at thirty-nine years of age, Chief Petty Officer John Flattery had prematurely gray hair, light blue eyes, a ruddy complexion and, unless crossed, an extremely likeable disposition... and he immediately became the father figure to a number of the new recruits. "I'm the boss here! But when I'm not around," jerking his thumb towards the man in the jeans, "this is Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, and he's the boss." Tapping the edges of the thirteen envelopes on the palm of his hand, he studied the ragtag line of men from one end to the other, then, "Carry on, Gunny." Turning, allowing the door to slam shut behind him, Slattery went into the barracks. "Like the man said, I'm Gunnery Mate Monroy..." Tall, with a deep commanding voice, "and for the next sixteen weeks I'm going to be your training office. While here on base, when you talk to me you'll address me as Sir. If you should run into me ashore, my name is Monroy. Remember that! The Chief, to you boots, is always Sir... We know you haven't eaten since last night, so we're going to get some chow now, then you'll draw your gear." Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, "Stow your bags on whatever empty bunk you find. Permanent berths will be assigned later." If not for the white, rather than olive-colored blankets, the interior of this barracks was almost exactly as Mitchell remembered Camp McCoy. "Hustle it! Fall in!" The group was marched, more or less, to the mess hall where they had fresh orange juice, scrambled or sunny-side-up eggs, pork sausage or bacon, toast, a choice of three jellies, and coffee or milk... Very unlike what Mitchell remembered of Camp McCoy.

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Finished eating, the thirteen were marched, more or less, back to the barracks where they were issued bunks that had not been assigned to the recruits that had arrived on the previous day, that at this time were in the field doing drill. Noticing the name printed on the adhesive tape on the frame of the bunk next to his: Schwartz, Michael J. Could be Jewish, Mitchell thought. That would be nice. Motioning to the open space between the foot end of the two long rows of bunks, "Fall in! As of now," Monroy said, "and for the term of your enlistment, civilian time is officially over. From now on you will run on Coast Guard time only! And when I say fall in I mean drop whatever the fuck you're doing and fall the fuck in!" The military disease, the "fuck" disease, as Mitchell well remembered of Camp McCoy, also ran rampant at the U.S. Training Facility: Cape May, New Jersey. The balance of the morning was spent at the quartermasters. Mitchell was issued six sets of underwear: T-shirts and boxer shorts--that he had always hated because, used to the snug feel of Jockeys, boxers always made him feel as though his penis were dangling--six pairs each of black and white socks, ten handkerchiefs--that felt as though they were made of stainless steel--the large, silky, black neckerchief that was to be worn with winter and summer dress uniforms, one set of dress blues and one set of dress whites--the bib front, 13-button, bell-bottom trousers had been out of issue for years, but were allowed and could be worn once out of boot camp, if one were willing to pay a civilian supply house--three sets of denim jeans and chambray work shirts, one pair each of black, dress, and work shoes, blue and white web belts with plain black buckles--brass buckles with the Coast guard emblem could be purchased at the Post Exchange and were allowed to be worn--a white sailors cap, a blue knit watch cap, a pea coat, a white ditty-bag to hold dirty laundry, and a large, blue sea-bag to hold everything. The clothing, unless the recruit knew his sizes--Mitchell had still relied on his mother to buy, at least, his underwear--was issued through the practiced eye of the Quartermaster. Later, as he began to wear his issued clothing--except for the boxer shorts, which were slightly snug in the waist--Mitchell was surprised at just how well everything fit. At the end of the line a stencil was made with his name--last name first--and his serial number. In barracks 7 again, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy was showing the men how their gear was to be stenciled--in indelible white ink on the dark clothing and indelible black ink on the white clothing--when the original thirty-seven men of Company Seven, wearing watch caps, jeans, chambray shirts and pea coats, each carrying a Garand, M1 rifle, marching from the drill field at 1145 hours, was led into the barracks by a thin, pockmarked sailor with one red chevron on his sleeve. "Tench-hupp!" Monroy called the company to attention. The day-old recruits, plus Mitchell--having prior military training--"snapped to." The twelve others sluggishly came to attention. "For you new men, this here's Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand, and he's my assistant. You can call him Sir, or you can call him Boats, Sir."

BECOMING Gustand nodded his head at the new men.

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"In case you're wondering," Monroy went on, "about 'siring' and saluting non-commissioned officers; it's only for the duration of your training here. Once you're out of camp you don't salute us," nodding towards Gustand, "and you don't 'sir' us! But while you are here, anyone that's got more on his sleeve than you rates a sir and a salute. And you'll notice that none'a you fuckers got shit on your sleeves. To make things real easy for you," looking at the new men, "just remember that you fuckers are lower'n whale shit, and you all know where you find whale shit!" Now looking at the men that had arrived from the field, "don't you?" "Yes, Sir, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, Sir!" the thirty-seven "old timers" yelled in unison. "At the bottom of the ocean, Sir!" "And there's nothin' lower'n whale shit! Is there!?" "No, Sir, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, Sir!" "You're right! ... Fall in for chow!" * After lunch the balance of the day was taken to show the men how to roll their clothing, how the clothing was to be stowed in their sea bags, how the dress neckerchief was to be folded and knotted, how to square their caps... and how to make a bunk, the Coast Guard way, when... He yawned again. "You! You tired? You fuckin' bored, sailor?" "Uh," straightening his body, "me, Sir?" "Yeah, you! What's your name, sailor?" "Lipensky, Sir." "What the fuck kind'a name's..." Holding his breath, waiting to hear La-pimp-sky, but... "...Lipensky?" "Uh," Let him prove it isn't. "French, Sir. It's pronounced La'pensky, Sir." Smiling, "French, huh? Okay, La'pensky," ripping the tautly tucked blanket and sheet off the bunk, "let's see you do it!" "Yes, Sir, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, Sir!" Flicking the sheet in the air to remove the wrinkles, letting it drift onto the mattress, Mitchell rapidly made the bunk the Coast guard way, which was exactly the Baylor way, which coincidentally was also the U.S. Army way. "Very good, La'pensky! Where'd you learn to do it?"

BECOMING "Me, Sir? In the Army, Sir. I'm a, uh... Korean veteran. Uh, sort of." "A Vet! You? I don't fuckin' believe it!" "Yes, Sir. It's in my file, Sir." "And you can bet your ass I'm going to check it." Glancing at his watch, "Oh, yeah! You girls got an appointment at the beauty shop. Fall in outside!" * By the time they'd had their haircuts, it was 1700 hours and time for supper.

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After eating, the recruits were given time to go to the PX to purchase items they would be needing: writing paper, envelopes, stamps, sewing kits, shoe polish and, of course, shiny brass buckles with the U. S. Coast Guard emblem. Until lights out at 2100 hours, it was their time for writing letters, becoming acquainted, shining their dress shoes and, of course, polishing their U.S. Coast Guard brass buckles. He had gone to the PX directly from the mess hall, come back to the barracks, taken a shower and, having had only about five hours sleep in the past 48 hours, as most of the men who were planning on turning in early, wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of his new boxer shorts--being a bit tight anyway, especially after eating, having unsnapped the top snap--Mitchell was sitting on the edge of his bunk spit-shining his dress shoes. Anxious to meet "Schwartz, Michael J." he glanced at the bunk to his right. But to his knowledge the man hadn't returned all day so the only thing Mitchell was able to conclude was, He's probably on KP. Until friendships were formed, for the same reason a Lipensky wanted to meet a Schwartz, having found their "own kind," a number of the men had assimilated into groups of their own ethnicity. "Hey, you! La'pinsky!" "Putting the shoe on his lap, "Yeah?" he looked at the man standing at the foot of his bunk. One of the group from Chicago, Anton Sobileski had a sharp face, a light complexion and blonde, almost platinum-colored hair. Slightly taller than Mitchell, although not exactly skinny, he was on the thin side. In shorts only, Sobileski's upper chest and back were pocked with pimple scars. "La'pinsky ain't no fuckin' frog name!" Sobileski said loudly, belligerently. "You're a fuckin' Jew! Ain't'j'ya, La'pinsky?" Glancing about the barracks, Mitchell saw talking had stopped and that the men were all looking in his direction, and he knew that -- Mitchell Lipensky was a peaceful person, actually considering himself a coward. Having both occurred before the age of ten, he had had only two punching fights in his entire life and still had an occasional nightmare over those few terrifying minutes he had spent with Guido and Al, but knew that--now he was a man and how he was going to be accepted throughout the entire four years of his enlistment might very well depend on how he handled this situation, now, on the very first day of his enlistment and, What the hell, he thought, I might as well get into it with this skinny schmuck as some big shlub! So... "Yeah! That's right, Slob'ileski! I am a Jew, and you're a Polack! So what?"

BECOMING Coming closer, "This thing," lifting the mazozza with the tip of his index finger, obviously showing off, looking over his shoulder at his new-found friends, "this what'ch'ma'call'it? It's somethin' like some kind'a kike cross, ain't it?"

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Two remembrances came to mind: of Guido yanking on his mazozza, the chain cutting painfully into the back of his neck, and of Sargent Martinez and Skorupski outside the armory. Now--not actually cognizant of the move--clasping Sobileski's finger, standing suddenly, bending the finger sharply backward... The smirk instantly leaving his face, his complexion becoming even whiter, bending at the knees, attempting to go with the pressure, Sobileski leaned forward, but, the pressure increasing, "La'pinsky," trying to hide his pain, "you're, uh," the pain getting the better of him. "You're hurting me!" "No shit!" For emphasis he pushed even harder, causing Sobileski to drop to his knees. And Mitchell would certainly have been enjoying the fact that for once in his life he was the master of the situation, except... Uh, oh! The top snap unsnapped, his boxers were falling. "Le'go'a'me, La'pinsky! Please!" "Okay, but..." Releasing Sobileski's finger with a shove that pushed him against the bunk on the opposite side of the aisle, he caught his shorts just as they begun to slip past his buttocks. "...stay the fuck away from me!" "Yeah, okay, I didn't mean nothin'! Ya don't gotta go getting' all ticked off." "Fuck you!" "Bravo!" "Hey, I've been wondering when you were coming home." "Yeah, me, too. Been on KP." "That's what I kind'a figured." Reaching across his bunk, "I'm Mitch Lipensky." "Mickey Swartz." His hand clasping Mitchell's, "I like what you did to that goyish'a dick." "Yeah," grinning, "me, too... "Swartz"?" Smiling, "Yeah, these red-necked schmucks can't figure out how to say "Schwartz," so they call me "Swartz," Where you from, Mitch?" "Chicago. You?" "Detroit." About 5'7", stocky, partially bald with dark, thick stubble on his face, Michael Schwartz looked considerably older than his 32 years. Surprised at his appearance, motioning towards the barracks, "You look kind'a old to be with this bunch." Mitchell said tactlessly. Sighing, "Yeah, I spent three years during Korea in the Merchant Marine thinking I'd be excempt from the draft, but guess what?"

BECOMING "Jesus, no shit?"

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"Yeah, no shit! They wanted to draft me into the fucking Army, so here I am... Look, I'll talk to you later. I want to hop in the shower before lights out." "Yeah, sure, Mickey. Talk to you later." Mitchell had spent the long hours during the trip from Chicago rationalizing his reasons for a four-year enlistment. First off, the war in Korea had ended in July and no one would be shooting at him. Also, unless in college, he would be eligible for the draft within the next year and, really, the only thing he had been doing at Wright was taking up space and Mitchell didn't know how long he would have been able to last there. He further rationalized that in four years, after he was out of the Coast Guard, maybe he would be better prepared for college. Also, maybe he would learn a vocation in the Coast Guard. All rationale aside, though, the reason for his enlistment, the real motive, was that he could not stand the thought of being that close to Susan and not be allowed to see her, not be allowed to be with her. Other than that, he had thought about the Coast Guardsmen stationed at the Randolph Street Lifeboat Station in Chicago Harbor. The Coast Guard seemed like romantic, adventuresome, not-too-difficult duty that would get him away from Chicago, and Susan, and bring him into contact with any number of girls. He had also felt, especially since taking the written Coast Guard exam, that the quality of people he'd meet in as elite a branch of the military as the Coast Guard would be better, intellectually, than the Army.... Oh, yeah! "Day is gone. "Gone the sun," Taps. Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand threw the switch turning off the lights of barracks 7. "from the lake. "from the hills, "from the sky." His fingers absently caressing the stubble of his military brush, lying on his back with his hands behind his head, he listened. From the far end of the camp the mournful sound of the bugle echoed softly... then all was quiet. Sad, lonely; feeling the thickening in his throat and the stinging behind his eyes, swallowing, he attempted to hold back tears. In Barracks 7 there was the rustle of fifty beds, the breathing of fifty men, and the muffled sobs of more than

BECOMING just a few, when... "Hey, y'all!" In a light, chirpy, southern accent. "Y'all ever see a fuckin' rocket ship a'blastin' off?" "Aw, no, ya rebel son-of-a-bitch! Don't y'all go an' be doin' that ol' shitty shit again!" Slightly deeper, the second voice had the same southern accent. "Aw, come on, Mac. These ol' northern cock-suckers ain't never seen a fuckin' rocket blast... Don't j'ya'all rookie, fuckin' boots wanna see a fuckin' rocket ship a'blastin' off?"

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"Wha'j'ya mean, 'rookie, fuckin' boots'?" In a New York accent, coming from the other end of the barracks, "You two fuckin' rebel sons'a'bitches got here yesterday, an' that makes you two fuckers fuckin' old salts? An' where the fuck you think you are?" the voice asked good-naturedly. "This here's the fuckin' Coast Guard, an'..." "You! The Yankee fucker with the big mouth! Shush! Don't'j'y'all go on an' be encouragin' the little fucker like that!" "...not the fuckin' Air Force," New York going on. "An' we ain't got no fuckin' rocket ships! An' even if we did, we sure as shit wouldn't go givin' 'em to any dumb-ass, asshole, rebel fucker like you!" "Y'all hear that, Mac? That Yankee som'm'bitch thinks that just 'cause this here's the fuckin' U.S. Coast Guard we ain't got no fuckin' rocket-ships!" "Shit! Now y'all done it! Y'all went an' made the lil'l fucker mad! Aw, shit!" In the dark, on their elbows, the entire barracks was looking back and forth, towards the directions of the three-way harangue. "Y'all ready, Mac?" "Well, I warned'j'y'all. Yeah! May as well get it over with." Scklech. The sound of the flywheel of a Zippo cigarette lighter on the flint, and the northeast corner of the barracks was illuminated by the high, flickering flame. The, "Uhh!" sound, "Uhh!" of someone, "Uhh!" grunting. "Lord'a'mercy! The lil'l fucker's conjurin' up a bad'un." "I's almost ready, Mac. Uhh! I's almost ready!" "Oh, Lordy!" Except for the rustling of springs, there was not a sound in barracks 7. Suddenly, illuminated in the wavering orange glow, someone's naked buttocks were pointed upward... "Oh, Lordy! Lordy!" Phhhzzz!

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As his intestinal gas hit the flame of the lighter, a bright blue flame jetted five feet from the anus of the rocket man and the rotten stench of burning sulfur percolated throughout the barracks. "Jesus, K-rist!" Coming from the northwest corner of the barracks, "You fucker! You stink worse'n fuckin' shit!" "I tol'ya'all! But no, y'all wouldn't listen! Y'all wouldn't believe me! Serves all'a'ya fuckin' Yankees right!" Covering his head with his pillow to keep the stench out, "Mmffm!" The overhead lights going on, frowning, "So you want to play, do you?" Chief Slattery was standing in the doorway. "Reveille's at 0500, and we'll see how much energy you boots got then!" He'd seen it, heard it, and smelled it all before. His frown turning to a smile, "And the guy that blew out his asshole better get to the sick bay first thing in the morning... Smells like something crawled up your ass and died." For Mitchell Lipensky a whole bunch of realizations came to mind: There's no war going on and smart guys don't enlist for four years! It's okay to be drafted for two years, but--at the moment forgetting the real reason he had enlisted--only an idiot would enlist for four fucking years! And that southern guy, did he and me take the same test? And if we did, am I so dumb that I even thought it was hard? Or was he smart enough to pass it? Hell, any guy that sticks a lighter up his ass and farts so he can pretend he's a human flame-thrower can't be all that smart. Smiling to himself, What if he'd'a hiccuped? 0500. Reveille: "You can't get'em up, "you can't get'em up, "you can't get'em up in the morning!" The bugle that had sounded so mournful playing taps the night before was now loud and raucous... just the way it was meant to be. "Reveille!" Walking the aisle between the two rows of bunks, "Reveille!" Clanging a truncheon from bunk to bunk, "Reveille!" Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand called, "Reveille! Drop your cocks and grab your socks! Reveille!" Jarred awake. Shove your pee erection back into your two-snap, slightly snug, U.S. Government issue skivvies and, holding your towel and toilet kit in front of your crotch to hide it, rush to the head. Civilians, the Army and the Air Force have washrooms, bathrooms and toilets. The Navy, Marines and Coast Guard have "heads." Stand in front of the communal urinal straining against your full bladder, and as badly as you have to make, it seemes an eternity until, finally, red-faced from straining, you do. Wait until there's an opening in the long row of sinks and brush your teeth, wash and shave. Uniform of the day: dungarees. Thirty minutes from reveille: "Fall in! Hustle! Fall in outside!" Slattery, Monroy and Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand stand at ease, waiting for the formation to form.

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Wearing pea coats over their dungarees, caps at precisely two finger-widths above their eyebrows, as they had been taught the day before, the breath of the fifty boots came in white plumes on the early morning, frigid air. "Tench hup!" Faces, red from the cold, stared straight forward. "Dress right dress! Tench hup!" "Left, face! Forward, harch! Hup, two, three, four! Hup, two, three, four!" Chow... Drill: "Hup, two, three, four! Left shoulder, arms! Hup...." Semaphore: "B! No"--not having the sense of humor of Monroy, to Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand it was--"Lipensky, the right flag is at nine o'clock and the left at six! Okay. Now C. That's it; right at eleven, left at six." The men of Company Seven considered Chief Petty Officer Slattery the personification of the salty Coast Guard lifer, and without realizing, the more impressionable began to take on some of Slattery's characteristics: the way he held his body; the way he walked; what, and how he smoked. The "Hava Tampa" is a thin cigar held in a wooden mouthpiece. When lit, the tobacco gives off the sweet odor of chocolate-covered orange peels. Within a week of first seeing Slattery smoking a Hava Tampa, more than half the men in the barracks were smoking Hava Tampas, and they smoked them held at the far corner of their mouths, with the wooden mouthpiece clamped between their teeth, just as Slattery did, and in barracks 7, the harsh odor of cigarette tobacco had been overcome by the sweet smell of chocolate-covered orange peels. Drill: "Hup--two--three--four! To the rear, harch! Hup..." Knots: "Yeah, La'pinsky, over and under, now the running end goes through the loop. Yeah! That's the way to make a running-bowline." Drill: "Hup--two--three--four! Right shoulder, arms! Hup..." KP... And a week later, KP again. Drill: "To the rear, harch! Column left, harch! Hup..." Guard duty... And a week later, guard duty again. Drill: "To the rear, harch! Left shoulder, arms! Hup--two--three--four! Hup..." Rowing: "Pull them fuckin' oars! You're pullin' like a bunch'a pussies! Come on, Lippy, give it some muscle! Stroke! Stroke!" The days occupied his mind... But the nights found him lonely, and in his loneliness his mind went to Susan. Having no outlet for his feelings, finding he had a penchant for poetry, Mitchell became the poet of barracks 7, writing corn-ball poetry for his shipmates to send to their girlfriends or wives... at a dollar a throw.

BECOMING Drill: "Hup--two--three--four! Hup--two--three--four! Hup..."

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Calisthenics: Fifty push-ups... Two laps around the field... "Come on, you can make it up that fuckin' rope! Use the knots! Use the god-damn knots! You got it! Good work, Lippy." Drill: "Right shoulder, arms! Left shoulder, arms! Hup! Hup!" Morse code: "Dash, dot, dash! Not dot, dash, dot! Come on, Lippy, use your fuckin' head." Drill: "Left oblique, harch! Right oblique, harch! Hup..." "Drill! Fuckin' drill! Is that all we ever do around this fuckin' place? What the fuck are we, the Coast Guard or the fuckin' infantry?" Lifeboat drill: "Come on! Even up on them davits! Soboleski, you're spillin' the fuckin' passengers into the fuckin' ocean! God-damnit, Lippy, even up on that fuckin' line!" "Hup--two--three--four!" "Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!" "Bend them elbows! Straighten them bodies! Come on, you fuckers! You ain't no bunch'a fuckin' pussies! You're the U.S. Coast guard!" And, "Yeah you can do a hundred pushups easy! Damn it, Swartz, get your ass outta the air!" NOTICE The Wildwood Jewish Congregation invites all men of the Jewish faith to attend Sabbath services this Friday. After services a traditional meal will be served. For those attending, dress blues are the uniform of the day. (signed) Base Commander 11/12/52 Far from religious, under normal conditions Mitchell would shy away from religious services of any kind. But after almost a month and a half of Coast Guard food--although he had to admit that, really, it wasn't too bad--what caught his eye was the "traditional meal" part. * "Excuse me, young man." "Yes, sir." "We're Mister and Mrs. Fox..." holding his hand forward, "and my wife and myself would like to invite you to our home for supper." Shaking the offered hand, "Hi, I'm Mitch Lipensky. And thank you, I'd love to. And who's this?" Squatting, offering his hand to the little girl, "Hi! My name's Mitchie. Who are you?"

BECOMING * November 15, 1952 Dear Sue,

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You must really be surprised to get a letter from me after five months, and from a place like Cape May, New Jersey. I've started to write to you at least a hundred times, and I don't know whether you'll be glad to get this letter or not, (I pray that you are), but something happened to me last night and I could not hold back writing to you any longer. Sue, after you gave me back my ring and told me that you were not going to see me anymore I didn't know what to do and almost went crazy. I did go to Wright, but could only think of you and could not concentrate on anything else, and believe me, Sue, I really tried. So, to be honest, I ran away. You see, I simply could not go on living that close to you and not be able to see you, so I enlisted in the Coast Guard and arrived in boot camp on October 9th. At first the training was very hard, but by now I'm getting used to it. Hey, you ought to see me! (God, how I wish we could see each other.) I've lost about 25 pounds since the last time you saw me. And believe it or not, I've even got a muscle. Anyway, what happened last night, and the reason I've worked up the nerve to write to you now is because of this. Wildwood is the town closest to base with a big Jewish population, and the Jewish men on base were invited to attend Friday night services last night and after the service to go to their homes for an old fashioned Jewish meal. You know I'm not religious, but I miss my family a real lot, (and you, Susan, more than I can tell you) so I got permission to go. The service was real boring, but when it was over this nice lady and her husband, Mr. & Mrs. Fox, invited me to come home with them for dinner, and the thing is they have a daughter. She is five years old and everything I would hope for if I had a sister, and exactly what I would want my daughter (someday) to look like when I do have children. This little girl is what got to me and the reason I am writing to you now. She has the prettiest little face, with light brown eyes and dark brown hair, and she looks exactly like what I imagine you looked like when you were five, and what our daughter would look like if we were married (God I wish) and had a daughter. And you know what else? I couldn't believe it, but the little girl's name is Susan too (Susan Friedman, Susan Fox), and when I heard that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The Foxs have invited me to their house again for Thanksgiving and I've put in a request to see if I can go.

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Sue, I'm going to be in the Coast Guard for four years. But if you think about it, I'd have been drafted for two anyway, so it is only like two more years. I know that is a long time, but less time than the army and college would have been, if I had gone to college. I can get training in the Coast Guard for all kinds of things, like radio or electronics, so I will be able to earn a good living when I get discharged, and I'll have the G.I. Bill to go to college on, and if we are together I certainly will! Susan, you've got to know that I have never stopped loving you, and I know that you still love me. I am sure that you didn't break up with me because you wanted to. I know it was your parents that talked you into breaking up with me and I would like to spank you for letting them do this to us, to both of us, to you and me. Please, sweetheart, think about this letter very carefully and know that my heart beats only to hear from you. But also know this, Sue. I've been hurt very badly by this, and really cannot take much more, so if I do not hear from you, or if you do write and tell me that you really don't love me, then I promise that this letter will be the last time that you will ever hear from me. Like I said before, no one will ever love you as much as I do. Mitch He spent all his free time on Saturday and Sunday writing and re-writing the letter. Although Mitchell thought he would never forget Susan's phone number, her address, though, he'd only looked at twice: when she'd given it to him over the phone that first night, then later when he looked for her building. Taking the blue envelope flap from his wallet--where Susan had written her phone number, and that he had later written her address--Mitchell addressed the envelope, wrote his return address on the corner, put an airmail stamp on it, then returned the envelope flap to his wallet. Wanting the letter on its way on this night, even though he knew that it would not go anyplace until the next day, as it was just a half-hour to lights out, he ran to the base post office, was about to drop the letter into the slot when, remembering the prayer he had said on the day he'd met Susan, and it had worked then, to a point, so, "Oh, God," he prayed, his words just above a whisper, "please let me hear from Susan! Please let her tell me that she still loves me! Please!" Kissing the envelope, he dropped it into the slot. * Wednesday he knew that it was too soon, But it did go airmail, and if she got it on Tuesday and wrote to me right away and sent hers back airmail, too... There was a letter, but it was from his mother. Thursday: Yeah, it'll be here today! But no mail on Thursday, or Friday. On Saturday there was a letter... from his father. Dear Mitchell:

BECOMING All of us at home hope that everything is going well with you and the Coast Guard. We are all fine here.

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Yesterday I received a very embarrassing phone call from Mr. Friedman. He told me that Susan had repeatedly told you that she did not want to hear from you and that you sent her a letter anyway, and that in the letter you threatened to beat her up for breaking up with you. He also told me that if you ever write to her, call her, or try to see her again, they will contact the police and the commander at Cape May, or wherever you are stationed. Mitchell, your mother and I are well aware of how you feel about Susan, and we know you better than to believe that you would ever threaten to beat her up, but it is well about time you realized that it is over between you two, and the sooner you forget her, the better off you will be. Don't take this too hard, everything works out in the end. All our love Dad Never! He reread the letter. I threatened to beat her up? To beat up Susan? Never! My, God, I'd never hurt Susan! He further thought, How could she show my letter to her father? How could she!? Because one's private letter and the U.S. mail are, after all, sacrosanct, and being nave and basically honest, the thought that his letter did not reach Susan, that his letter might have been intercepted, never entered Mitchell's mind, nor that, possibly, Susan never saw the letter... Possibly... Taking his wallet from his pocket he opened it, removed the blue envelope flap and looked at it: Susan Friedman, Sh. 3-5758, along with her address in his handwriting. Going outside without his coat, the cold wind pressing his shirt and jeans to his chest and legs, Mitchell walked beyond the comparative shelter of barracks 7 to where the Atlantic wind blew the fieriest. Looking at the bleak, winter sky, carefully tearing the triangle of blue paper into pieces... "Goodbye, Susan." He opened his hand. "Goodbye, Susan." The wind taking the bits of paper, Goodbye. * "...Hi, Mrs. Fox, it's Mitch Lipensky." "Mitchell, hello. How are you?" "Fine, Mrs. Fox, but I'm sorry, I won't be able to make it for Thanksgiving." "Oh, what a shame. Susan will be brokenhearted. You do know she's got a crush on you, don't you?" "Uh, I've got a crush on Susan, too." Biting his lip, "Please tell her I'm sorry and that I'll call her next week... Bye, Mrs. Fox." But he didn't.

BECOMING *

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She liked him. She knew it didn't pay to like any of these boys because they're so young and so... transient. But he'd been to the U.S.O three times, that she knew of, and each time he'd had a glass of punch, one or two doughnuts, and had danced with her, once, and then only after she'd prompted him, and then only to the slowest of dances, and he had held her closely, but not, she was sure--a girl starts to get a feel for these things--for the touch of her body, but more so for the warmth of human contact. She's kind'a cute, he'd thought the first time she had asked him to dance, but, really, he hadn't wanted to and besides, "I'm really not very good at dancing." he had told her. On his third visit to the U.S.O., when the record player began a slow one, without asking, she had taken him by the hand, pulled him to his feet and onto the floor and... What could he do--be rude? Other than his mother, this was the first time he had touched a female hand in nearly six months, and he wondered at the softness, and seconds later, the warm, human touch of her body pressing next to his almost brought tears to his eyes. Dancing to two more slow ones, Mitchell and Connie had spent the balance of the evening talking, and minutes before he had to leave, "Mitchie, come on! Come with me!" "Connie, I'm a Jew. Jews don't go to Christmas Eve mass!" "You said you didn't have to be back till eight the next morning, so come on, Mitch! The midnight mass is so beautiful, and even if you are Jewish"--knowing there was a sadness within him that this might help dispel--"I'm sure you'll like it. Please come with me!" * "...What do I do? Should I wear my cap inside?" "No." Taking his hand, she led him through the arched doorway and into the crowded church, where it took a few minutes until they found a pew with two vacant seats. Apart from the Ark holding the Torah, the interiors of whatever synagogues and temples he had ever seen had all been free of ornamentation, and he was all but overwhelmed by the trappings of the Catholic church. As the mass began, even though Mitchell knew nothing of the Latin verse, closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to become surrounded and overcome by the beauty of the mass... And he came away from the mass somehow feeling more at peace with himself then he had felt in months... In six months, to be exact. A light snow falling, "Mitchie," the streets deserted, they walked with their collars turned up and their hands held deeply in their coat pockets--their own pockets. "Here's where I live," Connie said. Then, surprising herself, "Would you like to kiss me?" Surprised, too, thinking, Oh, God, it's been so long since I've kissed anyone. "Yes, Connie, I would like to kiss you." Taking his hand, opening the outer door, she led him into the dark hallway. Their lips meeting, his hand, finding the opening to Connie's coat, went about her waist.

BECOMING He felt her lips on his. He tasted the kiss. He smelled the floral scent of her perfume. He felt the curve of her hips. But... The kiss didn't taste right. Her perfume didn't smell right. The curve of her waist didn't feel right. Mitchell didn't want to hurt her feelings, but breaking the kiss...

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Orphaned, raised in a Catholic orphanage, having given up a few of her virtues already, willing... wanting to give up "that" virtue again, "You said you didn't have to be back till morning, Mitchie, and I don't feel like being alone on Christmas Eve, so if you want... If you'd like to, you can stay with me tonight." She wants me to spend the night! She wants me to sleep with her! But... "I can't, Connie!" She's not Susan, and, I can't! I just can't! "I forgot, but I do have to be back tonight..." Glancing at his watch, "Now!" "Now, Mitchie? Now?" "Sorry." Backing out of the hallway, "I'll see you at the center." But, never going back, he didn't. * ... KP: Serve chow, scour pots, scrub pans, swab the deck. Yeah, peel potatoes... but not mountains of them. Serve chow. Scour pots. Scrub pans. Swab the deck, and then... Dinner. Start over again. Guard duty: Back and forth. Back and forth in the dead of night with the stock of your rifle growing heavier on your shoulder. Back and forth for four hours in the dead of night with the collar of your pea coat pulled up and your watch cap pulled down with the arctic wind still blowing down your back with that god-damned M1 on your shoulder. March, "Hup-two-three-four!" "Stroke! Stroke!" Semaphore. "Up that rope!" March... "Gi'me another fifty!" Morse Code... "Faster!"

BECOMING March... "Faster!" * It's over! Finished! Boot camp is done! Permanent duty assignments: "I got a fuckin' buoy tender." "So what? Least ways you'll be stationed in port." "In fuckin' Buffalo!" "Buffalo! It's colder'n'a witch's tit in fuckin' Buffalo!" "No shit!" "Damn, I'm on the fuckin' Westwind!" "The Westwind's a fuckin' weather ship." "No shit! Six fuckin' weeks at a time in the fuckin' Atlantic Ocean!" "Christ! Better pack the fuckin' cold weather gear. I got me a fuckin' ice breaker." "So? What's so fuckin' bad?" "Out'a fuckin' Newfoundland?" "Fuck, I got a fuckin' lighthouse in Boston. I'll be beatin' my meat watchin' the fuckin' seagulls." "Hey, Lenfield, where's Far Rockaway?" Looking at Mitchell, "Huh?" the New Yorker asked. "Far Rockaway?" "Yeah, Far Rockaway." "Lippy, don't tell me you've got duty at fuckin' Rockaway!" "Yeah," looking at his papers. "C.G. Patrol Station, Far Rockaway, New York." "You..." Lenfield said unbelievably, "got duty at fuckin' Rockaway?" Becoming concerned, "It's bad at Rockaway?"

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"Bad? Son of a bitch! Outside of, maybe, Hawaii, it's the best fuckin' duty in the fuckin' Coast Guard! There's more fuckin' broads in Rockaway then you can shake a stick at! Far Rockaway's a fuckin' resort place!" More broads than you can shake a stick at! Becoming excited at the prospect of duty at C.G. Patrol Station,

BECOMING Far Rockaway, but enjoying Lenfield's consternation, "It's got'a be kind'a cold'n'lonely in the winter, then, huh?"

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"Asshole! Rockaway's across the fuckin bay from Coney Island! It's across from Sheepshead Bay!" Lenfield said excitedly. "It's an hour to Times Square! Rockaway's a fuckin' paradise! Jesus Christ! How the fuck can anyone be lucky enough to pull fuckin' Rockaway, and not even know what the fuckin' place is? I'd give one'a my balls for Rockaway!" * ...The formal graduation ceremony over, assembling together one last time, their sea bags at their feet, the men of barracks 7 stood at ease. Chief Petty Officer Slattery, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy and Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand standing before the group. "I want to thank you men for your fine effort," Chief Slattery said. "And I know I speak for Gunny and Boats here when I say that working with you men has been a pleasure. Men such as yourselves make our job easier." He came to attention. "Tench hup!" Monroy called. Coming from this man, swelled with pride, barracks 7 snapped to attention. Still before them, Slattery, Monroy and Gustand saluted the men. "At ease!" "Two last orders! If you ever see us again," cocking his head, Slattery motioned to Conroy and Gustand, "don't salute us and don't call us sir. Your bus is waiting. Good luck. Dismissed!" Each man carried a manila envelope with his orders, military record and a mimeographed copy of how to get to his duty station, along with the proper transportation tickets and, for those traveling longer than eight hours, additional chits for food. The Coast Guard bus took them to Atlantic City where they boarded a train for New York City. At Grand Central Station the group splintered into parties of men going in the same general direction, and individuals going in different directions... But not before sentimentalizing. "Swartz," Mitchell smiled. "Mickey, good luck, buddy." Bound for Staten Island and the weather ship Westwind, "Look," Mickey said, "we're really not all that far from each other. I'm just a ferry ride across the channel to Staten Island, and you're down at the tip of Brooklyn. There's no reason why we can't get together every once in a while; maybe meet at the U.S.O in Manhattan and see if they've got tickets for a play, or take in a movie, or maybe just go to chow together." "Yeah, Mickey, I'd really like to do that." "Okay, then," clasping each other about the shoulders, "let's stay in touch." "Hey, Lippy. Look, man, I'm sorry, you know... About that time..."

BECOMING Offering his hand, "It's okay, Sobileski. No hard feelings." "Thanks." Shaking hands, "So long, Lippy." "Yeah, be seeing you." Suddenly alone. Feeling lost, Mitchell stood within the hustling crowd in the cavernous edifice of Grand Central Station for a full minute, then, taking the mimeographed directions from the manila envelope, studying them, he caught a south-bound subway, got off at Canal where he transferred to an east-bound subway. At the end of the line he took the Flatbush bus as far as it went, then caught a second bus. Traveling through the southern end of Brooklyn, the bus passed Floyd Bennett Field, and within a minute crossed the Marine Parkway Bridge and... There, below, just to the west of this huge, center span lifting bridge is the three-structure compound of U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station.

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Making a loop in the wide turnaround, "End'a the line, fella." the driver said to his lone passenger. Stopping, facing in the direction they had come from, "Rockaway Beach!" the rear door opened. Standing, "Yeah, thanks." Glancing at his watch, still thinking in civilian time, 3:43, he buttoned his coat, put his cap on, slipped the web belt of his sea bag over his shoulder and stepped down the two steps to the curb. The cold wind hitting him, turning his collar up, he jammed the cap further onto his head. Shutting the door, the driver put the bus into gear and drove away. 38 U.S.G.C. Rockaway Lifeboat Station February 8, 1953 to March 19, 1954 He stood at the crest of an asphalt- and concrete grade that overlooked Brooklyn to the north, Long Island to the east and Far Rockaway to the west. Below, to the south, row upon row of white-capped waves furled out of the ocean, slammed onto the sand and rolled back into the dark green sea. Except for the swarming sea gulls that hovered in the air and milled on the sand, the beach was vacant and, becoming lost in the mist in either direction, seemed to go on forever. The sharp cries of the gulls could be heard above the wind and crashing waves. The wide street made a hairpin turn to the right, narrowed to two lanes, went down the incline, turned to the left, passed the station about a quarter mile below and went through the narrow, Rockaway peninsula for as far as Mitchell could see. Dropping his sea bag to the curb, he put his gloves on, swung the bag onto his shoulder and started down the incline. Still above it, he saw that three sides of the compound were fenced in six-foot-high chain link, and that the fourth side was open to the bay. There were three structures: a red brick, oblong, two-story building; a smaller red brick building; and a white, clapboard boat house.

BECOMING Coming closer, he heard the whine of a high-powered marine engine and the sounds of men at work.

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Opening the plate-glass door at the front of the two-story building, he stepped into an alcove entry. Directly across the wide hall was another alcove leading to the bay and work area. In the exact center of the bisecting hallways, in the high sheen, dark-blue linoleum floor, was the gray and blue Coast Guard emblem. To his right there was an up-going stairway. To his left was the closed door to an office and an open, small sliding glass window. Two men were in the office. At the far desk, wearing work blues, the younger man had the double red chevrons and crossed quills of a yeoman second class on the sleeve of his tunic. At the desk directly below the window, wearing sharply pressed khakis, the second man had the silver boatswains symbol on the point of one collar and the emblem of a warrant officer on the other. As Mitchell approached the sliding window, both men looked up. Letting his sea bag drop to the deck, "Hello," nodding at the sailor, handing his orders through the window, "I'm to report in today, Sir." His eyebrows knotting over his dark-brown eyes--causing the young man to squirm under the man's intense gaze--Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing stared at the face framed within the window for seven full seconds before... Taking the envelope, turning away, opening it, removing the sheath of papers, he laid them on the desk and, "Holy shit, Mac!" he said. "Will you look at what they sent me!" Standing loosely at ease, now bringing his head through the window, looking at his papers, Mitchell tried to see what might have caused the man to make that kind of an exclamation. "Uh, something wrong, Sir?" Ignoring him, taking the papers, "Christ, Mac," crossing the room, "just look at what they sent me for a fuckin' replacement!" Slapping the papers on the Yeoman's desk, Ewing pointed a stiffened finger to something on the top of the first sheet of paper. McDonald glanced at the paper, then looked at Mitchell and, when their eyes touched, quickly averting his, "Yes, Sir." he said to Ewing. Smiling, his thin lips twitching, "I know what to do with his kind," jabbing McDonald on the shoulder with his elbow, "don't I, Mac?" Answered with minimal enthusiasm, "Yes, Sir." "How do you pronounce your fuckin' name, sailor?" He'd only been there for about two minutes, certainly not long enough for this man to form any type of an opinion, to dislike him, yet he knew he did, but had no idea why. "Lipensky, Sir." "Well, Lipensky," going back to his desk, "I'm Captain Ewing, and I'm the boss here!" His mouth twitching, "And you know what?" Thinking the man was smiling, relaxing somewhat, "No, Sir." Hardening, his eyes made contact with Mitchell's--who looked back a moment, then lowered his--"Your ass is grass," Ewing said. "And I'm the fuckin' lawnmower!" His stare stationary, turning his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder, "Who's he go with, Mac?" Looking at a clipboard, studying the roster, "210, Captain."

BECOMING "Who's in 210?" "Minnossa, Machinist Mate Three, Sir." "Minnossa and Lipensky, eh? Sounds like a fuckin' vaudeville team."

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Looking at the chronometer on the wall, "1602... Looks like the Coast Guard can still get some work out of you before chow, Lipensky. Take your gear to 210, stow it and get into denims and report back to the bridge in five minutes." "Uh, the bridge?" "Sir! Whenever you speak to me you say Sir or Captain! Here! You don't understand English? This is the bridge!" Waving his hand. "Now get your ass in gear!" "Yes, Sir... Uh," pointing upward with his thumb, "210, Sir?" "Yeah," Ewing said facetiously, "seems like a pretty good bet that 210 would be on the second deck." Feeling a bit queasy in the stomach due to his reception at U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station, "Yes, Sir." Hefting the sea bag onto his shoulder, he went up the one flight of stairs, turned right, then, noting the brass numbers on the doors, realizing that he was going in the wrong direction, turned back. The second floor contained the enlisted men's quarters with ten bedrooms on either side and one head at each end of the highly polished, blue and gray linoleum-floored hallway. The doors were open and Mitchell could see that nearly all the rooms were exactly alike: twin beds against the walls on either side of the room, with two three-drawer dressers and a window. Room 210 was the last room on the north side of the building, in the corner, and this room had two windows: one overlooking the peninsula and the other facing the bay. As in the other rooms, the beds were tautly made with blue bedspreads with the Coast Guard emblem in their exact centers. Ain't too bad, he thought, real beds and... turning, he saw two closet doors, opened one, found it full of hanging clothes, government issue and civilian, closed it, opened the other and found it empty... my own closet, a great view and even cross ventilation. Remembering Ewing's order for him to be back in five minutes, dropping his sea bag, opening it, he rummaged till he found a pair of rolled jeans and a chambray shirt, then, digging deeper, felt for his work shoes. Kicking his dress shoes off, hanging his pea coat and uniform on wire hangers that had been left in the closet, he hurriedly dressed. Glancing at his watch as he ran downstairs: 4:10. Looking at the chronometer, "1610! That's eight minutes! I told you to be back in five!" "Sorry, Sir." "Yeah," Ewing's mouth twitching, "I'll bet you are, sailor... Down the hall," motioning with his thumb, "is a head. If you look in the paint locker there, you'll find everything you need to clean it. I want the deck swabbed, the urinals and commodes clean enough to eat off, and the sinks and faucets shining so's I can see my face in 'em. Got it?"

BECOMING Swallowing, "Yes, Sir." "And I want it done by seventeen-hundred." "Uh, seventeen-hundred, Sir? That's only..."

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"Yeah, Lipensky, I know how to tell time. And I'll be by at seventeen-hundred to check, so you'd better move your ass!" He hadn't eaten since breakfast at Cape May, and as the odor of food wafted from the galley down the hall, his stomach churned. "Yes, Sir." The head had a swinging door with brass kick-plates on the outside and inside. The deck was made of four-inch square gray ceramic tile. There were three sinks with mirrors and liquid soap dispensers, two urinals and one toilet stall with a door. Opening the paint locker--broom closet--he found a string mop, a wringer bucket, cans of scouring powder and glass cleaner, a toilet brush, a large sponge and a pile of blue waste rags. Scoured at 0800, it was now 1623 hours--4:23 p.m.--and the deck and sinks were muddy and dirt stained. Wondering why he was being made to do this job at this time of day, Well, he thought, if I want chow, I'd better get going. And besides, I'd like to get off on the right foot with... not remembering Ewing's name... that asshole. Working as fast and as effectively as possible, not caring how much water slopped on the deck because it was going to get swabbed anyway, he scoured the toilet and urinals, then buffed the white ceramic bowls with dry rags until they shined. He did the mirrors, but rather than using the waste rags that would leave a film of lint, he used sheets of that morning's newspaper that he'd found in the garbage can. After scouring the sinks and shining the chrome handles, with six minutes left, he swabbed the deck using the water that had slopped onto it earlier, then, working on his hands and knees, backing himself through the door, he rubbed the deck to a shine with the waste rags, and had just enough time to put the cleaning materials away before... The shrill, three-whistle, two-note piping sound of a boatswain's whistle came over the loudspeaker then, "Now hear this! Chow time!" The boatswain's whistle piped again. Where the hell is he? he thought, as, "Shit!" He quickly moved aside as three men rushed into the head. Soap, water and dirt splashed onto the recently cleaned, recently clean mirrors, sink and deck. Wet shoes left muddy imprints on the recently cleaned, recently clean deck as they tracked from the sink to the continuous towel dispenser on the opposite wall. "Why the fuck'd you clean the head now?" "Damned if I know." "New man, huh?" "Yeah. Got here less'n an hour ago."

BECOMING "An' the ol' man tol'j'ya to clean this fuckin' head now?" "Yeah."

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"Oh, well," the man said matter of factly, "he's..." calling Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing what he was lovingly referred to by his adoring men as, "a motherfuckin' cocksuckin' son-of-a-bitch... Well," motioning to the sinks, "sorry for the mess." The three men were gone, leaving the head dirtier than it had been forty minutes ago... And now the door swung open. "Thought I told you to clean this fuckin' head!" "Captain, I..." Mitchell realized that Ewing knew that he would never be able to do it at this time, and rather than using the excuse he was sure Ewing expected... "Sorry, Sir. If you want, I'll do it again." "Bet your ass, sailor!" Turning heading out the door, "Do it again!" Sighing, Mitchell opened the paint locker... The door opening again, "When you're through, secure and chow down." "Aye, Sir." The door swung shut behind Ewing, but, immediately opening again, "Oh, and Lipensky..." Taking a deep breath, "Yes, Sir?" "Welcome aboard." Floyd Richard Ewing: Born in Toledo, Ohio, in 1918, Ewing had joined the Navy in 1936. In 1941, at the start of World War Two, he had held the rank of Boatswains Mate Third Class. Ewing worked his way through the ranks receiving two battlefield upgrades during the war years. In 1948, at the time of his third "re-up," he'd transferred from the Navy--with the rank of Boatswains Mate First Class--to the Coast Guard, where he was immediately upgraded to Chief Petty Officer. Ewing had received his final promotion to Warrant Officer in 1951, during the Korean conflict. U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station was Ewing's first singular command and he ran it as though it were a ship, using sea-going terms for his land base: the office was "the bridge"; his quarters, "the Captain's state room"; the lookout tower, "the crow's nest." And Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing was always referred to as "Sir" or "Captain." In 1953 Ewing was thirty-six years old with slightly more than two years of active duty remaining before retirement with full military benefits. Standing 5'6", Ewing had a noticeable paunch that overhung his well-pressed slacks. His dark-brown hair rapidly thinning, he attempted to hide the fact by brushing the longer strands from left to right across his balding dome. He had an oblong face with close-set, dark-brown eyes and thick brows that met across the

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bridge of his nose. He had thin, pinched lips and, when angry--which was often--or prior to smiling--which was rare--the corners of his mouth would involuntarily twitch, confusing anybody about to receive--usually--a chewing out or--rarely--a smile. A bachelor, no one on base had ever seen Floyd Richard Ewing with a woman, which had caused--if he was not around--not too quiet speculation as to his sexual preference. Ewing was not bigoted; he just hated Niggers, Gooks, Kikes, Wops, Spicks, Pretty Boys, Civilians, Politicians and Philadelphia Lawyers--not necessarily in that order. And lucky him! Mitchell Lipensky fell into two of those categories. At U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station, Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing was as God. * Finished, again, Mitchell headed to the mess hall. Walking the long hallway, adjacent to the head he'd just cleaned for the second time, was an outside doorway; directly across the hall was the recreation room with a television, pool and ping-pong tables, two sofas, scattered easy chairs and a writing desk. Further down the hall, to the left, was the "Captain's State Room," then the alcove containing the stairway, street door and "Bridge." To his right was the alcove with the work area and bay-side door, to the left of the door was the Communication Room--the Con--containing a short-wave radio and a commercial, plug-in type telephone switchboard. At the far end of the hallway, on the right, was the kitchen, and directly across, the mess hall. Liberty at Rockaway Lifeboat Station was "port and starboard": one night off, one night on; one weekend off, one weekend on. Most of the men in the starboard section, who were planning on going "ashore," had either left the base without eating, or had eaten and were now in their rooms preparing to leave. Well past 1730 when he got to the mess hall, there were two men left sitting at one end of the long, dark oak table drinking coffee. One of the men was Yeoman Second Class Richard McDonald, who nodded at Mitchell, and the other... "Hey, you must be the new guy!" Rising from the table, an older, dark-complected man wearing a kitchen-stained apron, white slacks and a T-shirt, holding his hand out, "I'm Joe Mendez," he said, speaking with a slight Mexican accent, "the cook for this motley crew." "Mitch Lipensky," shaking his hand, "and if you're the cook, then I'm real glad to know you... I'm not too late for chow, am I?" "Fuck, no! I been waiting for you. How you like your T-bone?" "Excuse me, did you say T-bone, like in steak?" "Yeah, just like. Come on!" Motioning for Mitchell to follow, Mendez went into the kitchen, opened one of the doors to a huge, commercial refrigerator, lifted out a heavy package wrapped in white butcher's paper, kicked the door shut, dropped the package onto a wooden cutting block and opened it. Inside the package was mound of beautifully marbled T-bone steaks, each at least one-inch thick. Lifting a steak with his fingers, tossing it, sizzling, onto a hot stove griddle, "How do you like it?"

BECOMING "Medium rare. Where the hell do you get meat like this?" "Medium rare. Good thing. Only three ways I make meat around here: Rare, medium and raw."

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Taking a package of Camels from his rolled T-shirt shirtsleeve, turning a burner on, bending over the stove, Joe lit the cigarette. "We get all our goods from civilian stores. Matter'a fact, all the chow in this here kitchen came from the A&P over on Flatbush. And we're such'a good customer, that to keep our business there they give us little bonuses like premo T-bones for the price of not-so-premo T-bones." Lifting the lid of one of two pots that were still on the stove, he pointed to a cabinet. "Grab a dish and take some'a these here peas and..." lifting the lid off the second pot, "potatoes, so's I can get these pots scrubbed." Dropping the lid, picking up a long-handled fork, Joe speared the steak, turned it and slapped it back onto the hot griddle. "Don't you have help here?" Mitchell asked rather stupidly. "Ain't no KP here?" he asked--very hopefully. "KP? Bet your ass there's KP, and from what I hear, and from the way he started with you today, you'n'me is going to get to know each other real good." Opening the refrigerator, taking a gallon bottle of milk, Joe poured a dollop into his coffee mug. "You want milk with chow?" Having nothing to do with kosher dietary laws, the thought of drinking milk with meat truly repugnant, "No. No, thanks." "You ain't kosher, are you?" How's he know I'm a Jew? "Nah," Mitchell said. "I just don't like milk with dinner. With dessert, yeah, but not usually with dinner. You got anything else?" Motioning to the refrigerator, "Be my guest." Joe said, flipping the steak again. "Joe, let me ask. How'd you know I'm Jewish?" "With a name like Lipensky?" "Shit, Joe, Lipensky could be Polish if it were spelled with an I rather than a Y." "Mitch, word gets around, and we..." Joe said conspiratorially, "you'n'me and a couple'a others here are in the minority. It ain't no fuckin' democracy here!" Taking a deep, angry draw on his cigarette, jerking his thumb to the left, "This here's a fuckin' dictatorship, and there ain't nothin' you'n'me can do 'bout it but do our work, keep our mouths shut, and help each other the best we can." Absorbing what Joe had said, using a clean ladle that was on the sink, he dished out generous portions of peas and mashed potatoes onto a dinner plate. Turning the steak again, "Don't get me wrong, most of 'em here's good guys," Carrying the two pots to a large, galvanized garbage can, he dumped the peas and banged the potato pot on the inside of the can. "And there's only a couple here that I'd tell you to look out for. But maybe that's just my opinion, and anyway, I don't know you from shit and you might be a prick, too. But I do know you're going to have a tough time here, and just thought that maybe you'd feel better knowin' you're not the only one here getting' it from that motherfuckin' cocksuckin' son-of-a-bitch."

BECOMING He knew, but asked anyway: "The Skipper?" "Yeah, Captain Ewing!" he said contemptuously. "The fucker hates me 'cause I'm a spick, and he's tried to burn me, a lot, but I'm a cook first class, so's there ain't too much he can do to me so long's I do my job."

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At the sink, Joe ran steaming water into the pot. Using a steel-wool pad, he scrubbed the pot as smoke from the cigarette held between his lips spiraled upward, causing him to squint. "I'm glad you told me about it, Joe, but it seems so unfair. Can't anyone do anything about him?" "You don't want to try it. The skipper of a unit is the boss, and anyone tryin' to hang him better sure as hell have every man in the whole fuckin' unit behind him, or he'll end up gettin' his ass shipped to a weather station at the Arctic fuckin' Pole for the rest of his life." Wiping his hands on the apron, going to the stove, "Looks like you're about done." The overflowing dish in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other, returning to the mess hall, finding McDonald still there, alone, nursing his coffee, Mitchell sat at the far end of the table. After a few seconds, "I've put you in the port section, so if you want, you can pull liberty tomorrow," McDonald said. "And you got the 12 to 1600 watch so someone'll take you to the tower in the morning to break you in." He dropped his cigarette butt in the dredges of his coffee. "Oh, yeah, and your duty station's the upper deck." "The upper deck!" Remembering the width and length of the second floor passage, he swallowed. "The whole upper deck?" "Yeah. And it gets swept and buffed every day, and scrubbed and waxed and buffed on Friday. Duty station's from 0800 to 0900, except on Friday when it's 'field day,' then it's from 0800 to 0930, when the Captain has his white glove inspection." Thinking, That'll give me plenty of time, at least. Taking a bite of steak, chewing a minute, "Mac," he said, "can I ask you something?" Hesitating, "Yeah, I guess so." "What did the Captain see on my record when he said, 'Look what they sent us'?" Taking a drink of water, he looked at McDonald. Who looked away. "Nothing." "Come, on, Mac! He even brought it to you to see. I haven't been in the Coast Guard long enough to do anything that bad." Cutting another piece of steak, halting the trip to his mouth, "What was he pointing at when he brought my papers to you?" Standing, taking his cup, beginning to walk out of the mess hall, stopping, McDonald turned back. "Hebrew," he said softly. "Where it says 'Religion', it says you're Hebrew." "Yeah, that's what I thought. Thanks, Mac." "Hey, Mitch, I'm takin' off! When you're done, just wash your stuff and leave it on the sink, okay?"

BECOMING "Sure, Joe. See you tomorrow." *

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...He'd been lying on his bed, reading. "Hi." When Mitchell entered the room, the young man sat up. "I'm Sal Minnossa. Looks like we're roommates." Recognizing him as the man that had spoken to him in the head, crossing the room, shaking hands, "I'm Mitch Lipensky." Twenty years old, Minnossa had a thin, handsome face with dark-brown eyes and tightly curled brown hair. In clean denims, he had one chevron with the Machinist Mate emblem stenciled on the sleeve. "The asshole had you cleaning the head before you even got unpacked, eh." "Yeah. I wouldn't have minded, except he knew that by the time I'd finished you guys would be securing for the day and it would be getting filthy again." "Sounds like the cocksucker... Where you from, Mitch?" Taking his sea bag from the closet, putting it on the bed, he began to unpack. "Chicago... You?" "Brooklyn. Not too far from here." "That's great! You get to go home whenever you want." "Yeah. I spent more'n a year and a half on a buoy tender out of Boston, and when I got transferred here I could hardly believe it, and if it weren't for that motherfuckin' cocksuckin' son-of-a-bitch it would be like heaven." "You got a..." stopping, smiling, "gal, Sal?" "Minnie... The guys call me Minnie. Yeah, we're engaged... You?" "Nah," he sighed. "No one at home but my family." "Just as well you don't have a girl that far away, Mitch." Putting his underwear into the top drawer of the empty dresser, "At boot, the guys called me Lippy." "Okay," smiling. "You had a chance to see New York yet?" "No. I caught the subway at Grand Central and came right here." "If you're a drinker--or even if you're not--there's lots'a broads to pick up at bars." "Nah, bars ain't my thing, and the girls you can pick-up at them seem...?" "Yeah, I never liked that kind either. You ought to go to the U.S.O. over on 42nd Street. There's lots'a good looking broads there, and even if they're not supposed to, a guy looking as good as you should have no problem talking some of 'em into going out with you." "What about girls here, in Rockaway?"

BECOMING "In summer, yeah! Lots'an'lots of 'em. But in winter? Forget it!" Changing the subject, "So tell me about here, Minnie. What do we do here all day?"

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Lighting a cigarette, "Shit, don't worry about that. The old man'll be sure to keep you busy, even if it's just to go to the beach and move sand dunes around... Just a word of advice." Lighting a cigarette also, "Yeah?" "Do whatever you got to do and stay the fuck out of his way, and don't do anything to make him madder at you then he already is." "I got a feeling just being alive makes him mad." "Yeah, for the both of us. He don't like wops either. Mac's a good guy, though, and he tries giving guys that bunk together the same liberties and watches, so's we don't wake each other coming and going, so I'll usually be in the con, when you're in the tower." "Con?" "The communication room. I'll usually be on the switchboard there when you're in the tower. And if I know the fucker's coming, I'll give you a call to warn you. Problem is, sometimes the prick sneaks out and we don't know he's gone and, believe me, you'll always want to know when he's coming." "How's a jerk like Ewing get to be skipper of a place like this?" "He was a Chief Petty Officer during Korea and had a couple'a LSTs shot out from under him, and he even got wounded; the gooks should'a killed the motherfucker, but they shipped him stateside and made him a warrant officer and gave him Rockaway as his first command, and it went to his head and he became a first class asshole." Standing, "I'll help stow your gear, then how's 'bout we shoot some pool?" * At 0700 a recording of reveille blared through the halls. The men used the heads, dressed and ambled downstairs for a breakfast of cereal, eggs with bacon, sausage or ham, juice, and coffee or milk. After eating it was duty stations till 0900. Throughout the day they did whatever their daily assignments had them doing, which, for the first class and seaman apprentices, such as Mitchell, usually meant watches in the tower, the never-ending scraping, sanding and painting of the station's four wood- and steel-hulled boats, or work in and about the station. The second brick building was a garage and machine shop with two large sliding-door entries. One door, opening to the bay, had rails that ran into the water and a boat-cradle crane for the lifting, dry-docking and repair of the station's boats. The second door opened to the concrete-covered parking area. The third building, a white, clapboard structure, was nothing more than a roofed, three-sided faade that was fully open to the water on the fourth side. Inside that structure were two docks. Tied to either side of one dock were two powerful motor-patrol boats, and to the other dock, two sea-proof "crash boats." Anchored into the concrete alongside the boathouse was a large winch with a web sling that was capable of hoisting a medium-sized boat out of the water. The lookout tower was located four miles southwest of the station on a lonely wind-swept, rock, sand and

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weed-strewn finger of land that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean to one side and Sheepshead Bay on the other. The only way to the tower was by means of a bumpy, bone-jarring, two-lane road that ran past two well-used "gin mills" and groves of seedy summer cottages. Watches were set in four-hour shifts, giving six men to the lookout tower and six to the communication room in any twenty-four hour period. Unless there was an issuance of storm warnings, boat crews of six men each were designated as the port or starboard crew, and were on duty the entire twenty-fourhour period. At Rockaway Lifeboat Station there was one full time cook and two cook strikers. The personnel complement was thirty-five to forty men, including the commanding officer and non-commissioned officers. With Mitchell Lipensky aboard, U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station was fully manned. Using a powerful, commercial floor buffer--that, until he learned how to take it where he wanted it to go, rather than the floor buffer taking him where it wanted to go--Mitchell discovered that maintaining the mirror-like shine on the second floor deck was not quite as difficult as he'd first thought it would be. Duty stations over, he was driven to the lookout tower and shown the proper shortwave radio and log procedures. Upon returning to the station, he was handed a paint scraper and joined four other seamen in the boathouse scraping the hull of the number two crash boat. He had an early lunch, then was driven back to the tower for his first long, boring, uneventful watch. * That evening, after dinner, Mitchell boarded two buses, then the two subway trains, and took his first New York City liberty. With the collar of his pea coat turned up against the raw wind, he wandered the cold street looking at the sights along Broadway. Soon, being alone in this strange city depressing him, as he walked his mind went to Susan, and he became even more depressed. Seeing the sign on 42nd Street, Mitchell climbed the long flight of stairs to the U.S.O. Inside there were a dozen or more servicemen scattered throughout the huge room. The men sat by themselves, or talked to one another or the few girls that were in attendance. On the floor, a soldier danced listlessly with a hostess to a Glenn Miller recording. Refusing an offer to dance with a pimply-faced hostess, he had a cup of coffee and within twenty minutes left. Back on the street, feeling increasingly homesick, Mitchell had a coke and a hamburger at the Wimpy's on 42nd Street, then took the subways back to Flatbush Avenue, and the busses to Rockaway. Joe Mendez was right.

BECOMING "Christ killers!"

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Oh, yeah! The name Lipensky did show up twice as often as any others for KP, and also for the hated 2400 to 0400 (12:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m.) or the 0400 to 0800 watches. From somewhere, though, Mitchell found a source of stubborn pride and refused to give Ewing the satisfaction of knowing that he was getting to him--though he certainly was. And his seeming indifference to the unfair duty assignments and all reference to his being a "pretty boy" or a Jew, of course, only added fuel to Floyd Richard Ewing's hatred. "Christ killers!" "Excuse me." Having KP for the second time in the first week of June, lugging an overloaded 40-gallon garbage can, Mitchell crossed paths with Ewing and Boatswains Mate First Class Ed Cagle, who were sitting on a low retaining wall smoking. "Were you talking to me, Sir?" Looking at him, looking through him, ignoring him, "Yeah, Ed, that's what we used to call 'em," Ewing said. "Christ killers!" * As weeks became months, a strange phenomenon took place. As though the emotion of hatred is stronger than the emotion of love, the preponderance of Mitchell Lipensky's hatred of Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing began to outweigh his love of Susan, and his thoughts of her began to dwindle... And in time, amazingly, even forgetting her phone number--except for the lonely hours in the tower--almost all thoughts of Susan stopped. The tower "Lippy... Hey, Lippy! It's 0330!" His shoulder shaken, "Come on, Pal!" Shaken again, the voice faded. "Minnie! Hey, Minnie! Come on, 0330!" Opening his eyes, he closed them against the glare of the overhead light. "Fuck, Duane," mumbling, "it can't be three-thirty." Sitting up, he looked through squinted eyes at the other bed. "Bullshit!" Minnossa grumbled from under the blanket. "No bullshit! Time to relieve the watch!" Boatswains Mate Third Class Duane Merton jiggled the light switch, flashing the overhead light. "I wouldn't bullshit ya, Minnie. Come on!" He looked at Minnossa, who, although still beneath the blanket, now had his rump in the air. "See ya two below." Merton left the room. Slipping his feet into slippers, holding his erection down, taking his towel and toilet kit from the closet, covering the front of his shorts with the towel, going into the head, Mitchell put the towel and kit on a sink, went into a stall, closed the door and, standing in front of the toilet, parting the fly of his shorts let his penis poke through. Tightening his rectum, squeezing the shaft of his penis, closing his eyes, he pumped rapidly, until a delicious pain flooded his testicles, and just short of ejaculation, when he felt he could no longer hold his urine, loosening his rectum, Mitchell let the strong stream flow through his urethra. Standing with his eyes closed and his head pressed into his hunched shoulders... as the flow diminished so did his penis. Relaxing his shoulders, he flushed the toilet, and was at the sink brushing his teeth when Minnossa, holding a towel in front of himself, went into a stall and closed the door.

BECOMING Waiting in the mess hall, Merton was sitting at the table with a half-cup of coffee before him. "Ready, Lippy?"

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"Yeah, Duane. Just give me a minute to fill my Thermos." Unscrewing the cap, he held the wide opening beneath the spigot and, pressing the handle, filled his Thermos from the 40-cup, stainless steel percolator that sat on a side table in the mess hall twenty-four hours a day. Preparing and making the large pot of coffee was the last job of that day's mess attendant, which yesterday--so, what else was new--was Mitchell. Men having KP would normally have a twenty-four hour grace period from all watches...unless your name was Lipensky and your captain was Floyd Richard Ewing. The men at Rockaway Lifeboat Station were all aware of his hopeless and helpless situation, and most of them, glad it was he and not they, went out of their way to show Mitchell some degree of empathy. "Okay, Duane, all set. Let's go." On their way out, "Phil," Merton poked his head into the communication room. "Minnie ought'a be down any second." "Yeah, Duane, thanks." From inside the glass enclosure, Machinist Mate Third Class Philip Mallard waved at the two men as they went by. Even though it was mid August, the early morning was chilly and both men wore khaki watch jackets with the words U.S.C.G. Rockaway LB Station stenciled in black across the back. The revving of the motor in the Ford pickup always seemed to be excessively loud in the very early or very late hours and Mitchell was always glad that his room was at the far end of the building, and not nearer the garage. Putting the truck into gear, Merton stamped on the accelerator and the Ford squealed out of the compound and onto Rockaway Beach Boulevard, which at Rockaway Point was nothing more than a bumpy, twisting, two-lane road. Both windows open, the night air chilling him, rolling his window up, the fur-like collar about his ears, Mitchell hunched into the warmth of the jacket. Jolting along the road, rather than slowing, Merton downshifted as the Ford cornered, then upshifted as it came out of the bend. Shooting a sharp hump, leaving the blacktop, the shock absorbers clanked at the concussion as the wheels made contact with the road again. They roared past The Rockaway Bar & Grill, past rows of blackened cottages, past Pete's Tavern, past The Rockaway Eatery and Bait Store, past more cottages... and then all signs of human habitation disappeared and the last mile of the bone-jarring, four-mile ride was nothing but barren rock and weed-choked, sandy soil. There it is! One hundred and seventy-five yards off the road. At the very tip of the thin finger of land that jutted between the Atlantic Ocean and Sheepshead Bay.

BECOMING Outlined by the light of a pale moon from behind wispy clouds, the three-story tower eerily resembled the upright skeleton of a giant, prehistoric monster.

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Rounding the last bend, Merton pressed his foot to the accelerator and, gaining even more speed, the truck heeled dangerously to the left, then righted itself. Slamming the brakes on, shifting from third to neutral, the front end of the Ford shimmied from right to left as the wheels attempted to gain purchase on the sand-swept road... then it stopped, thankfully, right side up. "Hey, Duane," opening the door, stepping down, "great ride," smiling, "you dick!" Mitchell slammed the door. "Yeah, Lippy, glad you liked it. See you in four hours." "Yeah." Putting the Thermos under his arm, jamming both hands into his pockets, he began the walk through the sandy soil. Coming closer, he saw the dull light of the four-sided wood and glass enclosure atop the steel structure. "Hi, Lippy!" There was a brief splash of light when the bottom hatch was lifted as Seaman Apprentice Marty Masco prematurely left the 8x8 lookout shack and started down the fifty-seven steel steps bringing him that much closer in time and distance to his warm bed. Passing as fleeting, moonlit shadows, anxious to be away, one ran as the other, in no hurry, walked at a normal pace. "Minnie called," Masco said in passing. "The dipshit's asleep and I left the radio." "Thanks, Marty," Mitchell said over his shoulder. "How's it tonight?" "Quiet." The Ford's headlights momentarily brightened the path before him as the truck made a sharp U-turn and started back to the station. Jamming the Thermos into his right armpit, grasping both steel handrails, he started up the steep, steel steps. The bottom section of reinforced steel ended in a deep-set, concrete slab. There was a solid steel platform between each of the upper two sections of steps. At the juncture between the steel deck and the third flight of steps, at a point just under the second landing, barely within reach, there was a joining of steel that formed a small, unseen compartment where an illicit radio or a book might be hidden. This compartment was one of the best kept secrets in the entire U.S. military, barring the invasion of Normandy, of course, and had been passed on from generation to generation of seamen standing watch in the lonely, isolated Rockaway lookout tower. Climbing higher, approaching the trapdoor, pushing the hatch open, he climbed into the shack. Appropriately, the song on the radio was "Ebb Tide." Putting his Thermos on the desk, taking the, abominated, black-leather-covered time clock--that read

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4:03--going onto the catwalk, Mitchell walked to the outside, southwest corner of the shack where a key hung chained to a steel box that was bolted onto the wall. Fitting the key into the slot in the time clock, being sure he turned it three times, he went back into the shack. Coney Island was across the bay to the northwest, and on any spring, summer, or fall night, unless there is a fog, the lookout was able to see Coney's millions of boardwalk lights and the highly illuminated roller coasters and parachute rides. Sometimes, on windless nights when all else was quiet, the lookout was able to hear an occasional, high-pitched scream. On Wednesday nights during the summer, and on the Fourth of July, the man on the 20 to 2400 (8:00 to 12:00) watch had a choice seat and was entertained by a massive fireworks display fired from a barge anchored a half-mile off Coney Island Beach. At this time of morning, though, with the exception of the red and white flashing lights atop the parachute ride, all was still and quiet at Coney Island. Outside again, Yup, ain't nothing out there but sea'n'ski. Mitchell swept the horizon with the lookout tower's powerful binoculars. Inside again, writing in the log book, he logged the type and density of the covering cloud formation, and the direction and size of the sea swells, which, because Mitchell could not see the sea swells, he logged in exactly as Masco had four hours earlier, which Masco had logged in exactly as the man on the 8:00 to 12:00 watch, who had been able to see the size and direction of the sea swells. Mitchell checked the radio transmitter procedure: to be sure it was in proper working order; set onto the proper channel, with the volume set at just below crackling. With the log in done, having nothing more to do for the next hour, until he must once again punch the "God-damned clock"--except, of course, to listen for radio transmissions of any type of airborne or nautical distress, and to stare into the darkness for any type of airborne or nautical distress--he positioned the chair so that he would be looking out the ocean-side windows, rotated the radio dial until he found his favorite radio station, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. The binoculars held around his neck, tilting the chair back, he put the heels of his feet onto the narrow ledge beneath the window, and began the four-hour struggle to remain awake... Occasionally he didn't, but if he did fall asleep, his feet would usually slip off the ledge and he would awaken. On the rare occasions when Mitchell did fall asleep, and his feet did not slip off the ledge, somehow the mental alarm in his head would jar him awake within a few minutes on either side of the time he was to punch the "God-damned clock." Tales From The Tower (1) The Sunbather The tower is here! The tower was in absolute broad view! Yet, much as not being able to see the forest for the trees, the tower was taken so much for granted that occasionally people did forget that it was here, and that it was always manned, day and night, fair weather and foul, seven days a week, 365 days a year, by a sailor--and not just any sailor, but a lonely, bored sailor--and not just any lonely, bored sailor, but a lonely, bored sailor with a pair of high powered binoculars. The day was beautiful. The mid-day sun shown through loosely woven, gossamer-like clouds.

BECOMING The on-shore breeze was warm, and so soft it felt as a kiss from God. The lady walked until she came to the end of the road, then cut diagonally across the narrow peninsula.

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On the 08001200 watch, Mitchell had been watching a particular boat in the bay. Determining that the boat was not in trouble, bringing his attention back to the ocean-side, he first noticed the tall, slender lady as she was climbing onto one of the large, ocean-tossed slabs of flat granite that act as a natural breakwater around the thin, vulnerable strip of land. The lady wore a green and yellow, one-piece bathing suit and carried a large beach towel, which she spread onto the hard surface. Standing inside the shack with the binoculars trained on the lady, he was able to see that she had short, light blond hair and pleasing features. He judged her to be an older woman; oh, about thirty. Making a quick sweep of the surrounding area, the glasses came back to the lady--who, looking outward, was still standing--and moved downward. Although she didn't show much cleavage, he knew that it was hard to judge the size of a woman's breasts from this distance, especially if she was wearing a restrictive bathing suit, but he could see that she had narrow hips, small buttocks and, though not deterring him, her thighs were a bit on the heavy side. Looking at the slightly rolling ocean for a few more seconds, squatting, she then sat on the towel... Sitting a minute or two, she lay back with her hands beneath her head, cushioning it from the hard surface. Moving the binoculars from the reclining figure, he viewed the closer boats on both the bay and ocean sides. The closest, a fishing boat in the ocean, was about seven hundred yards off-shore. Doing a 180-degree scan of the horizon, seeing nothing of an even remotely troublesome nature, he brought the glasses back to the lady. Sitting up now, leaning back now, supported by both arms that were extended to the sides and behind her back, she... "Holy shit!" Mitchell swallowed and blinked his eyes because, "Holy shit!" the top of the lady's bathing suit was lowered to her waist and, sitting as she was, with both arms stretched backward and her chest completely open to the sun and air, the distinct white flesh of her moderate-sized but, "Oh, yeah!" nicely noticeable breasts pulled back and to the sides, and the aureoles of her dark-brown, tightly air-puckered nipples were distinctly conspicuous in profile, and... "Holy shit!" he said again, Those are... the first, real live tits! he'd seen since that night so long ago with Sally and Mitchell felt a stretching in his groin and his lips formed a perfect O, as though he were--rather than two hundred yards away--a scant inch and a second away from drawing one of the, "Oh, my God!" lady's puckered nipples into his puckered lips. He turned the adjustment wheel of the binoculars, trying to make the finely-tuned picture even finer. The lady glanced at the tower... looked away, then, looking back, frowning, shading her eyes with the side of her hand, she tried to see if there could possibly be anyone up there. Watching her through the binoculars as she was looking at him from beneath the visor of her hand, holding his breath, Mitchell did not move a muscle... But she must have concluded that the well-maintained sixty-eightfoottall, steel, wood and glass structure was nothing more than a derelict washed ashore in a, coincidentally, upright position because, looking away from the tower, the lady brought her face full forward into the sun, and...

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Letting his breath out, swinging his gaze to the ocean, noting that the closest boat was far enough away not to see the lady, bringing the glasses back... "Holy shit!" He held his breath again because, as he watched... Lifting her body, the lady pulled her bathing suit off her hips, down her buttocks, thighs, calves and ankles, and... "Holy shit!" Rolling the bathing suit, using it as a pillow, the lady's breasts flattening and laying to her sides, she lay back altogether naked: wonderfully, beautifully, altogether exposed, and... "Oh, lady!" Thinking, For an old lady you are B-U-tee-full! The binoculars moving from her breasts to the... Said softly, under his breath, "Oh, God," the binoculars moved to the hairy, black tri-section of her thighs and crotch... then, back up to her head, and--the lady's hair was light blond--smiling, licking his lips, "Only you and your fighting Coast Guard know for sure!" he said aloud, then... "Uh-oh!" He looked at his watch, 3:07. The fucking clock should'a been hit seven minutes ago! But if he went onto the catwalk the lady was sure to see him! The chained key was on the southwest corner of the shack, precisely in the direction she would look if she noticed any movement within her peripheral vision. The door was on east side of the shack. Normally, the watch went out the door, turned to the right and right again, punched the clock and returned the same way, but... It wouldn't work that way now, so... The time clock held about his neck by the strap, going through the open doorway on his hands and knees, turning to the left, he crawled to the northeast corner, turned left, went to the northwest corner, dropped to his stomach and, slithering, he was then, from the naked lady's perspective, on the back side of the southwest corner. Bringing the clock to the dangling key, he shoved it into the slot, clicked it twice, then backtracked, backwards along the steel catwalk, through the door and into the shack. Standing, not bothering to brush the dirt off his denims, grabbing the binoculars, "Great!" he studied the lady's flattened breasts, her wonderful, sun- and air-puckered nipples and, "Mmm, God!" her fuzzy, mismatched black crotch... for approximately five seconds, when... There was a motion just on the fringe of his vision and, grudgingly, he swung the binoculars from the naked lady's crotch to... There was a speeding boat with a man standing on the bow, who had binoculars, too, and he, too, was looking towards the rocks--and though Mitchell couldn't hear him--the man was shouting, "Faster! Faster!" A thick trough of white wake followed as the boat sped towards shore for a better look. "Oh, no!" Mitchell whispered. "Schmuck! Stop! She'll see you!" Now shouting, "Asshole! Fucker! Son of a bitch! As... Oh, yeah! She did! The lady did hear the roaring of the motor and, sitting up, did see the rapidly closing boat, as... "Faster! Faster!" the man on the boat shouted. As...

BECOMING Even faster, the lady pushed her feet, legs, fuzzy mismatched black crotch, and... Oh, God! ...her moderate-sized but, Oh, yeah, categorically noticeable breasts... "Faster! Faster!"

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...along with her wonderful, sun- and air-puckered brown nipples back into the green and yellow, one-piece bathing suit and, grabbing her towel... The speeding boat hit an ocean swell, became airborne a moment then, slamming down, the man on the bow lost his balance, did a summersault in the air and fell into the water. As... ...scampering off the rock the no-longer-naked lady ran diagonally across the point of land to the road, and within seconds was out of sight. Fortunately, the man in the water was wearing a lifejacket and, waving to it, the boat was circling to come back to him. "X-ray... Baker... Two..." Speaking slowly, enunciating each word clearly, "to X-ray... Baker... Three." He pushed the receive button on the transmitter. The patrol boat cruising the bay answered, "X-ray, Baker, Three, to X-ray, Baker Two. Over Baker Two." "X-ray, Baker, Three..." speaking at a normal speed, "we've a man overboard one hundred yards off shore, south of the point. Over." "Roger, Baker, Two. We're on our way. Out." "X-ray, Baker, Two to X-ray, Baker, Three. Belay the last call; the man's been pulled aboard his vessel, but I advise to detain and issue a citation for reckless water endangerment. X-ray, Baker, Two, over." "X-ray, Baker, Three, to X-ray, Baker, Two. I roger that. Will you guide us to him, Baker, Two? Over." "X-ray, Baker, Two to X-ray, Baker, Three... Bet your ass!" Tales From The Tower (2) The Inspection Answering the telephone, "Tower!" "Lippy!" "Yeah, Minnie?" "I think the old man's on his way to you!" "When'd he leave?" "Beats the shit out'a me. He had a call, and when I paged him he didn't answer. Only thing I can figure is he's

BECOMING pulling a surprise inspection on you."

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"Thanks, Minnie." Slamming the phone down, "Shit!" A surprise visit! Pulling the radio plug, The bastard! Glancing towards the road, throwing the trapdoor back, wrapping the cord around the radio, he bound down the steep flight of steel steps. Could be just around the bend and I'd never see the fucker 'til he's here. Kneeling on the landing, reaching beneath, taking precious seconds he set the radio between the two sets of upper and lower bolts that formed the unseen compartment, then rushed up the steps and through the hatch just as... Amid a cloud of sand and dust, the Chevy skidded to a stop. Hoping to catch him sleeping or with contraband, pushing the door open, Ewing stepped out just as.... "Hi, Captain!" Scowling, "Fuck!" Ewing plodded through the sandy earth. In the tower, grabbing a foul-weather flag, Mitchell dusted the radio-transmitter, telephone and desk. Folding the flag, he replaced it beneath the desk with the other signal flags. Glancing towards the ocean, timing it an hour earlier, he made the same sea swell entry he'd made the hour before. Thunk. "Lipensky!" Ewing hit the underside of the hatch again. "You're standing on the god-damned hatch!" Taking a deep breath, "Sorry, Captain." Moving off the hatch, grasping the inset brass ring, Mitchell pulled the trapdoor open to a huffing, Floyd Richard Ewing. As Ewing stepped into the shack, Mitchell let the trapdoor slam shut. "Thought I saw something out there and got so absorbed I forgot you were heading up." "Yeah, sure you did, Lipensky." Standing a moment, visually inspecting the shack, he then ran his finger over the transmitter, desk and telephone. Finding no dust, he said nothing. Looking at the day's log entries, Ewing back-paged two or three days and, seeing nothing amiss, let the pages settle back to the present day. Surprise inspections were made by Ewing only during daylight hours. First off, at night it was almost impossible to leave the building without the man on the switchboard seeing him and calling ahead. Secondly, no one in his right mind would drive the twisting, bumpy, four miles of Rockaway Beach Boulevard with the headlights turned off. And, if the headlights were turned on, and the watch spotted them, which, unless he was asleep, he most assuredly would, and would have enough time to run downstairs and hide whatever he had, that he shouldn't have, beneath a rock and be back in the shack before he had the tower in sight. Besides, the thought of walking two hundred yards from the road to the tower in total or near-total darkness, then climbing the fifty-seven steep, steel stairs in the black of night was repugnant to Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing. Standing behind him, watching as Mitchell scanned the horizon with the binoculars, "Think you're shittin' me, Lipensky?" Lowering the binoculars, looking at Ewing, "Excuse me, Sir?" "Pretending to be some kind of a perfect Coast Guard Seaman, are you Lipensky?"

BECOMING Not understanding what he was getting at, "Me, Sir? No, Sir," he said. "Not at all, Sir." "You ain't got anything hid up here, do you, Lipensky?" "Of course not, Sir." "No one called and told you I was coming, did they, Lipensky?" "No, Sir. Of course not, Sir." "Someday, Lipensky!" "Why?" Surprised at the unexpected question, "Why, what?"

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The binoculars hanging by its strap, attempting to keep the anger from his voice, knowing full well why, "Why are you always on my back?" Mitchell asked, wanting to hear Ewing say it to his face. "I've never done anything wrong. Anything really wrong since I've been here. So why are you always on my back," adding, "Sir?" "Why, Lipensky? I'll tell you why!" He wanted to say: Because you're a fucking Jew! Because you're a fucking sheeny! Because you're a fucking kike! And... And because... Jesus Christ! Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing thought, I want to suck your cock! That's why I hate your fucking guts. But instead, "Because you're a fuck-up, Lipensky!" Afraid to say more, turning from him, reaching for the ring, pulling the hatch open, taking four steps downward, turning back, he looked at Mitchell. Their eyes locking, the older man below and younger man above stared at each other until... The knowledge of Ewing's prejudice aside, unable to, remotely, comprehend the real reason for Ewing's hatred of him--or love for him--having no idea why the older man's dark look chilled him, frightened him, Mitchell's eyes dropped first. Still, staring at him... Looking away after another five long seconds, taking two steps down... Hating this man more than he thought he was capable of hating anyone, as Ewing's head cleared the hatch... As Ewing's head barely cleared the hatch, purposely allowing the heavy wooden hatch to slam shut... Actually, putting his weight behind it, Mitchell slammed the hatch shut. The loudly slamming hatch missing his head--barely--startled him, causing Ewing to almost lose his grip on the handrails. His stomach quaking at what he'd almost done, what, actually, he had wanted to do, "Sorry, Captain," Mitchell said through his teeth, "it slipped." Jesus, knowing, if I'd been one step higher... But also knowing there was no way he could prove that Mitchell had purposely slammed the hatch. "Yeah, Lipensky," Ewing said sarcastically, "I'll bet it did!"

BECOMING Doing his best not to sound sarcastic, "Yes, Sir, Captain Ewing, Sir!"

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Going on a hunch, Mitchell did not retrieve the radio, and sure enough, within a half-hour--still shaken by the near miss of his head by the slamming hatch, having stopped at Pete's Tavern for two fast ones--the car came roaring around the bend and, its rear wheels locking, shimmied to a stop. "Captain Ewing, Sir!" Calling through his cupped hands. "Hi!" Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing stood by the open door of the car looking at the figure on the catwalk of the tower, Fuckin' kike! who in turn was looking at him through the binoculars. With a gesture of contempt, "Shit!" he said. Dropping back onto the seat, starting the engine, putting the car into gear he drove back to the station. Tales From The Tower (3) The Storm A cherry-red, 1952 Chevrolet convertible stopped at road's end. Mid-morning: Appearing to lie on the white-capped, storm-tossed ocean, the roiling black clouds to the east crackled with shrouded bolts of iridescent lightning. Overhead the sky was a solid dark-gray. The tower swayed in battering blasts of torrid wind. Slack line slapping onto the flagpole, the red flag snapped and wreathed. The binoculars pressed to his eyes, he watched the shadow of an outbound ship on the far fringe of his vision. Close in, on the ocean side there were no vessels within sight. But, though the storm warning flag had been flying for the last twenty-four hours and storm warnings had been broadcast on television and radio for the past two days, still, there were three foolhardy fishermen to be found within the bay. Carrying on the wind, broken strands of music drew his attention. Moving from the plate glass window to the open doorway, he turned the binoculars towards the convertible. There was a man and women in the car. The top was down and Mitchell could see that they were older, perhaps in their late thirties or early- to mid-forties. At least the man appeared to be that age because he was partially bald and had a short-cropped, gray-streaked beard. The two sat closely together, seemingly watching the quickly approaching storm... Suddenly the two turned their heads and kissed. By the movement of their heads the lookout could see that the kiss was ardent, and though he could not see beyond the back of the seat, by the angle of the man's body and the position of his left arm, his fervent imagination told him that the man was probably holding the woman's breast. Accompanied by a blast of sultry air that caused the tower to careen, now also came three distant, sky-splitting bolts of jagged lightening along with the muffled sound of far-off, rolling thunder. Dangling from the strap about his neck, dropping the binoculars, he held onto either side of the doorframe

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until the frightful motion stopped, then, going onto the catwalk, scanning the bay, he saw that all but one of the die-hard fishing boats had hoisted anchor and were heading to shore. "Schmuck!" he yelled futilely into the wind. "Asshole! There's a fuckin' hurricane coming! Go buy some god-damned fish if you need some that fuckin' bad!" As if the skipper of the boat had heard him, crawling to the bow, a second man hoisted the anchor and the last boat headed to shore. "X-ray, Baker, Two, to X-ray, Baker, One. Over." "Baker, One to Baker, Two. Go on, Lippy." "X-ray, Baker, Two reporting that all vessels in the area of Sheepshead bay are ashore or heading to shore. Baker, Two, over." "Got'ch'ya, Baker, Two. Keep your eyes on the stragglers. Baker, One, over." Again the tower swayed, "Baker, One..." and again Mitchell was terrified. "Uh, Minnie? Over." "Yeah, Lippy? Over." "Baker, One... I ain't never been in a hurricane before. Over." "Don't worry, Lippy," attempting to reassure him, "it's only qualified as a category one storm, and the winds shouldn't get much more'n seventy, eighty miles an hour. Over." Pushing the transmit button, forcing a laugh, "Minnie, you dick! You sitting there, in that solid brick building can tell me all you want that this is only a fuckin' category one, but it ain't gonna stop this fuckin' tower from walkin' all over the fuckin' place!" "X-ray, Baker, One, X-ray, Baker, Two!" A stern, third voice patching into the transmission, "This is Charlie, George, Dog, How!" Uh-oh! Coast Guard District Headquarters. "Baker, One, Baker, Two. This is to inform you that you are not following proper transmittal procedure..." Madone! thought Minnossa. Oy, Vey! thought Lipensky. "...and you fuckers out in Far Rockaway better batten down the fuckin' hatches 'cause she's gonna blow like all shit! Charlie, George, Dog, How, out." With all vessels safely in-shore and having nothing more to do than hang on, the lookout's attention went back to the couple in the cherry-red convertible... Except that the top was up and he couldn't see what the couple was doing... Movement causing him to shift the binoculars,

BECOMING Only they weren't in the car. "Holy shit!" Their sandals throwing little puffs of sand, the man and woman were running across the wind-swept peninsula: She zigging; he zagging. Their arms waving wildly in the air, streaming behind, the woman's long, black hair blew in wind-blown strands and... "Holy shit!"

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Taking a moment to register, Mitchell pressed the glasses closer to his eyes. The woman was naked! And as she ran, bouncing up and down and from side to side, the woman's pendulous breasts slapped against her shoulders and... Bringing the binoculars to behind her, to the man, "Holy shit! The man was naked, too, and there was nothing on him that bounced because the man had a jutting erection that stood as rigidly forward as though an oaken battering ram, and... As the storm moved closer... ...so did the man. Lightning cleaved the sky a mile offshore, as... ...catching the woman, grabbing her by the shoulders... Thunder roaring overhead shook the ground, as... ... he spun her around, and... Yet another, closer bolt of lightning. ...they embraced, as suddenly... Rain fell in a thick, almost solid sheet, and... Kissing. Fiercely pressing their bodies onto each other, the fingers of the man and woman pressed hard into the soft flesh of the others buttocks, as... Crrackkk! Lightning split the gray-black sky directly overhead, as... She took hold of the man's penis, and... The storm now directly overhead. He reached his upturned hand between woman's thighs and the woman strained onto the pressure of the man's hand as... One arm behind her back, arching the lady backwards, the fingers of the man's other hand were rubbing, inserting and withdrawing as... Holding his penis, widening her thighs... The sky boiling, black...

BECOMING Lifting her hanging breast, lowering his head, drawing the tightened protrusion of the woman's large, dark areola full into his mouth as... Lightning! Thunder! Wind! Rain!

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Her hips pumping in concordance with the fingers within her vagina, now, her nipple pulling from the man's mouth, straightening her body, wrapping an arm about his neck, arching her pelvis, reaching to his penis with her other hand, taking hold of him, the lady inserted the man's penis as... Rain sounding as a storm of pebbles on a tin roof. Swaying in the battering wind. Lightning rattling the windows, tremors transmitting from the ground upward, the tower vibrated with each renewed salvo of thunder, as... Both cool, wet buttocks in his hands, the man supported the weight of the woman's body, as... Both arms about his neck, lifting her body off the ground, the woman pressed her widened thighs forward, and... The man's penis went deeper into the heat of the woman's vagina as... The hot wind gusting even harder, off balance, the man was blown off his feet, but... The woman's arms did not release their hold about the man's neck, or the hold of her thighs from about his waist, nor the length of the man's penis from within her vagina, and... Joined in their animalistic, carnal embrace, impervious to soil and sand and weed and rock, the man and woman rolled into a shallow depression in the hard, sandy soil. The wind blew! The lightning flashed! The thunder roared! The pummeling rain fell! Beneath the man now, the woman opened her thighs from side to side. Above the woman now, the man pressed his body forward. Outside now, pelted by the cool rain, buffeted by the hot wind, the man, the woman, the storm, the passion... and Mitchell Lipensky were as one. Looking over the man's shoulder, although too far away to actually see his features, the woman did see the man on the lookout tower watching her lover and herself through binoculars and, lifting her arm, purposely exaggerating the movement of her lips, she... My God! Mitchell saw the woman looking directly at him, and the movement of her arm, "Oh, my God!" He could not believe it, but, training the glasses on her face, on her lips, the woman's words, blown away by wind and rain and lightening and thunder, seeing, unbelievably seeing the purposeful, exaggerated movement of her lips, reading the woman's two words... Motioning to the lookout with her hand, "Fuck me!" the woman yelled into the wind and rain and lightening and thunder. "Fuck me!" The man's buttocks rose and lowered as his penis, glossy with the woman's fluid, pushed into and drew outward, and the woman, now returning all of her attention to the man above her, within her, met his downward thrusts with her upward thrusts, and her thighs spread even wider and her legs stretched even

BECOMING higher, as....

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Pressing the binoculars to his eyes with both hands, no longer aware that he was standing in the open doorway, or the shuddering tower or the battering wind and rain and thunder and lightening, holding himself steady by putting pressure against either side of the doorway with his elbows, his breath coming hard and fast, he thrust his hips... As though it were he and not the man, Mitchell moved in rhythm with the woman as though she were beneath him and not the man, and as the wind whipped the woman's hair and blew over their wreathing bodies and through the fissures of their buttocks, he stood with his legs spread and--unaware of when, or even that he did it--with the fly of his jeans open with his penis jutting through, and with both hands on the binoculars, not having to hold himself, he did! Mitchell actually did! He actually sensed himself within the body of the woman and as the man and woman moved their hips and pelvises in concert with each other, so then did he... And the man, the woman and Mitchell were joined, two physically, one mentally, and all three had become a part of each other, and the raging storm. Lightening! Thunder! Wind! Rain! Moving as one! Thrusting! Withdrawing! Thrusting! "Yeeesss!" Screaming into the wind. "Yeeesss!" Bringing her outstretched thighs to the man's shoulders, spreading them to either side of his head, "Yeeesss!" allowing the male organ within her body to thrust even deeper, even harder... "Yeeeeessss!" Straightening his arms and back, turning his face to the wind and rain, "Yeeesss!" the man howled into the howling wind, "Yeeeessss!" Breathing even harder, even faster, he felt the wind and rain upon his penis, but, his imagination running full bore, vicariously enveloped within the woman's vagina, the cool rain actually felt as warm secretion. The cheeks of his buttocks spasmodically opening and closing with his strong penile contractions, he ejaculated... As the man below ejaculated, so too did the man in the tower, and the power of his spontaneous emission propelled the initial spurts of semen inches outward before it was caught by and carried away on the wind, and... With the last ejaculation, shaking his head he came back to there, to then, along with the realization that he was standing in the open, with his penis exposed, and quickly, backing into the shack, shoving his shrinking penis into his pants, he pulled the zipper up. Below, lifting himself off the woman, the man helped her to her feet. Spent now, cold now, attempting to brush sand and dirt from each other's wet backs, their bodies bowed into the wind and rain, the lovers began the walk back to the cherry-red, Chevrolet convertible. Still having the vicarious sensation that he was a part of the man and woman, having the need to thank them for allowing him to be witness to their incredible, never to be forgotten tryst, stepping outside, Mitchell whistled through his fingers... The shrill sound carried away on the wind, receiving no response from the man

BECOMING and woman, he tried again, even louder, and this time, hearing the whistle the lovers looked back. Clasping his hand over his head, the lookout gave the man and woman the universal "victory" sign.

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A bit perverted in their lovemaking, knowing a man would be in the tower, watching, had added flavor to their passion. But now that her passion had been spent, the woman attempted to cover her hanging breasts with her right forearm and her crotch with her other hand. But the man, proud of, and acknowledging this sign by another man, returned the gesture. Waving one last time, backing into the shack, watching as the two made their way to the cherry-red convertible, closing the door to the wind and rain, "Jesus," Mitchell said aloud, "so that's how old people fuck." Tales From The Tower (4) The Big Kovolick Kovolick (ko'vol'ick): Eastern European. Yiddish slang for a bowel movement. A four-hour watch in the Far Rockaway lookout tower could seem an eternity under the best of conditions. But in the dead of winter, with almost nothing to watch for, it could seem like two eternities. Rockaway is a summer community. So during the winter months the point is all but vacant and the only boats to venture from Sheepshead Bay are commercial fisherman. The lookout shack was warmed by an over-zealous electric heater, and the four-hour watch was spent, mostly, in a sometimes-futile effort to stay awake. Other than an occasional surprise visit from the "old man," during winter the only company the lookout ever had were the hundreds of seagulls that foraged beneath the tower for scraps and crumbs or, "shit" of any kind that might have dropped or been thrown from the shack above, and it was not unusual to see a gull flying with a streamer of toilet paper held in its beak. The Thermos of strong coffee was consumed as the man on watch drank cup after cup in an effort to keep his eyes open. Quantities of coffee will often cause a reaction. With Mitchell Lipensky it made him have to "go," and if you gotta go, you gotta go. It wasn't so bad if you only had to urinate, but even so, in winter there were three important things you had to remember. Remember where you are! On Rockaway Point the erratic wind blows almost constantly, and what may seem a breeze below, can feel like a squall fifty feet up, so it helped, a lot, to know where the wind was coming from and go with it, because having a mist of pee blow back in your face, even if it was your own, usually made for a terrible day. But even when you found the wind, you also had to be careful because you did not want the wind carrying your urine back to the steps because pee does freeze and those steel steps could get pretty slippery, and the next man on watch wouldn't be too happy if he slipped on your pee.

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You had to remember, also--and this was most important of all--to be sure that when you shook that last drop of pee off, that you did not allow the damp end of your dick to touch any part of the steel safety rail you were aiming through because it would stick and, oh, yeah, hurt like hell to lose a half-inch of skin off the tip of your dick pulling it loose. Or, trust me, it was definitely one of life's more embarrassing moments if you had to call the station to ask if they could send someone out to the tower with a cup of warm water so they could melt the frozen contact. What the hell would you say? "Hey, Minnie, I got a little problem here." "Yeah, Lippy?" "Well, it's like this: I went to take a pee and my dick, uh, kind'a got froze to the rail." "Jesus, Lippy! Don't you hate it when that happens?" "Bet your ass! Uh, Minnie, when can you get someone here to help get me loose?" "Sorry, but the only guy I can send is Masco, and he's with Joe buyin' groceries... But soon's they get back, oh, say, in a half hour or so, I'll send him right out." "Hey, thanks a lot, pal!" "Yeah, sorry 'bout that." "Yeah, Minnie, sure you are! But what hell, I ain't got nothin' better to do then just 'hang out' here anyway... Minnie?" "Yeah, Lippy?" "Besides it hurting like hell, and turning blue, and I think it's gonna break off, you know what really bothers me?" "No. What really bothers you, Lippy?" "How the fuck am I gonna punch the fuckin' clock?" This conversation, you understand, was strictly hypothetical because the only way you could make that call would be if you could stretch from the rail outside to the phone inside, and besides, stretching your dick even seven inches, under any circumstances, would, in most cases, be just about as far as any guy could stretch it. So, if you are ever on lookout in the Rockaway lookout tower in the dead of winter and have to urinate, remember, be careful! But if you must defecate, that is a completely different problem, because, unless you have diarrhea, or hate having a freezing wind blowing down your back and up your ass, you do not, usually, have to worry too much about the direction of the wind. But you do need newspaper, because if you set your butt directly on the frozen rail you'll either have an inch-wide strip of frostbite across your ass, or possibly, it could freeze to the rail, too, and calling the station for someone to come out to unstick your ass is no less embarrassing than calling for someone to help unfreeze your dick.

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The Coast Guard motto is Semper Paratus, Always Prepared, so what you do is this: Do not ever trust the guy on the watch before you to leave newspaper and toilet paper. Always bring your own. And always lay at least a few pages of newspaper, crease down, across the middle rail, then drop your pants and underpants and plant your feet firmly on the catwalk because, trust me, you do not want a sudden gust of wind to blow you off. You can do it two ways: First, you can hike just your ass between the top two rails, or, secondly, if you're the type of person that likes to live dangerously, you can sit down, bringing your entire mid-body through the top two rails along, of course, with your ass, and hold on by hanging by your bent knees and elbows... Then you "go." On a frigid day in November, looking much as an egg-yoke floating in a cup of murky tea, the sun rose at 0548. On the 0400 to 0800 watch, finishing the last of his coffee at 0613, looking out the window at the thermometer, five degrees! Knowing, from past experience, and thinking quite literally, Oh, my frozen ass, with an acidic belch, Mitchell Lipensky decided, Gotta go. So, zipping the high-collared, fleece-lined watch jacket up to his chin, pulling the knit, blue watch cap over his ears and forehead, taking three tightly folded pages of the New York Times from his jacket pocket, checking the thick, flat sheath of toilet paper that he'd stuffed into his other pocket, he went outside and, because there was relatively little wind, decided to sit with his back to whatever meager sun there was. Draping the newspaper over the middle rail, lowering his jeans and underpants to just above his knees and, at that moment, being rather adventuresome, hiking his middle section through the first and second rails, "Jesus...!" frigid air turning his buttocks a bright, cherry red, Mitchell sat hanging on by his elbows. "Jesus..." Arctic air freezing his crotch, rectum and the underside of his scrotum, shrinking it to the size of a wrinkled acorn, My frozen ass! "Ummm!" He pushed. "Uhhh!" He squeezed. Now, it may well have been his sphincter reacting to the cold air, or possibly it was frozen shut, but, "Ummm!" he became red in the face and, "Uhhh!" cold tears formed in the corners of his eyes... "Ummmmm!" Pushing. "Uhhhhhhh!" Squeezing, till... "Ahhhhhhh!" Finally, and... "Oyyyyyyy!" there it went! And Mitchell Lipensky, being, a, more-or-less normal human being did what any normal, sane human being would do were they in this same position, and... "Bombs away!" he called, and, whistling shrilly as though it were a falling bomb, Mitchell Lipensky watched through the V of his goose-pimpled thighs as the "big kovolick" plummeted, falling as straight and true as though dropped by the bombardier of a B-29. As usual, there were a number of seagulls happily pecking away at whatever was beneath the sand under the somewhat protective structure of the tower, and.... Splatt! It hit, and... Squawk! It cried, and...

BECOMING "Damn!" he yelled from fifty feet up.

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And a new inconsequential chapter was written in the unrecorded history of mankind, as Mitchell Lipensky, to the best of his knowledge, became the only person in the world to ever... ...shit on a bird. Julie Spring, 1953 Strange, when he was going to high school, until, of course, he met Susan, his dream girl had always been a "shiksa," but now, in a world full of non-Jewish girls, he went out of his way to meet a Jewish girl. At a temple dance in Queens. The girl was sitting on a folding chair against the far wall. Attracted by her moderately long, honey-colored hair, he noticed the girl from across the large room and, even from that distance, Wonder why she's sitting alone? could see that she was extremely pretty, beautiful, in fact and... Look at those tits! that the girl had large breasts. Watching the girl, waiting to see if she was, indeed, alone, not quite having the courage to... Sensing his eyes on her, the girl looked across the room, to the sailor sitting alone by the far wall. Their eyes touching, holding... Oh, well. What can she do? Tell me to go away? Summoning the mettle, his eyes still, brazenly, on the girl's eyes, standing, crossing the room. Seeing the sailor rise and head in her direction, the girl lowered her eyes. "Hi!" Offering his hand, "I'm Mitchell Lipensky." Looking up at him, hesitating, because in 1953 Queens, New York, men did not usually reach out to shake a girl's hand... then, lifting hers, "Hi, Mitchell. My name's Julie. Julie Marx." Close now, seeing that this girl was, indeed, beautiful, once again vaguely wondering, Why's she alone? "Mind if I sit?" he asked, gesturing to the empty folding chair next to hers. "No, of course not." Sitting, Julie Marx was beautiful; with a small nose, big, greenish-brownish eyes, and honey-colored hair that so far as Mitchell could tell looked to be natural and, Oh, God! he thought again, fighting the urge to lick his lips, Look at those tits! Still holding her hand, "Julie," he said, "please don't call me that." Biting, "That?" "My name." "Why? That's what you said your name was, didn't you?"

BECOMING "Yeah, sure, but 'Mitchell' sounds so formal. Please call me Mitch, or when you get to know me better, Mitchie." Oh, yes, Julie Marx thought. I sure wouldn't mind knowing you better! Looking at their hands, she made a feeble attempt to remove hers.

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But, holding on tightly, tugging lightly, "I'm not such a great dancer--to say the least--but..." knowing full well the consequences, still though, he could not wait to feel those great tits pressed against his chest, so "...how's about it?" he asked, "You want to dance?" No longer attempting to extract her hand from his, actually liking the feel of her hand being held by this handsome, young sailor, "Sure, Mitch." Standing, Julie Marx still had honey-colored hair, still had huge breasts, and was still beautiful... from the waist up. From the waist down, however, Julie Marx had conspicuously wide hips, thighs and buttocks, which, of course Mitchell noticed immediately, but her face, and especially those great tits atoned for the size of Julie's hips, thighs and buttocks. Besides, at the moment not thinking beyond the feel of those great tits, Mitchell Lipensky didn't care, so, putting his hand into the soft, deep gorge of her waist and hip, he moved closely against her. Well knowing from past experience what all boys want, arching her upper body backwards, Julie attempted to keep from being pulled fully into his arms, but, truly, would have had to stand a foot away in order for him not to feel the soft prod of her breasts against the blue wool of his dress tunic, and... Oh, yeah! No doubt about it! He did feel the prod of Julie's breasts against the blue wool of his dress tunic... And, Oh, yeah! he certainly did... Julie Marx knew that she was pretty--beautiful, in fact. Julie also knew that every boy she had known since the age of nine had attempted to feel, and see, her breasts, and now, approaching eighteen, she knew, her pretty face aside, at least as far as boys were concerned, it was the size of her breasts that compensated for the size of her... Julie's mother, a lovely woman, and her father, a handsome man, the body structure and weight of both well within the norm, Julie had no idea what genetic unbalance may have caused her to have--"thunder thighs." For this reason Julie Marx truly thought of her breasts as gold, and knowing that she had more gold than any other girl she knew, Julie had, through the years, become what the boys in her senior class in high school referred to as a PT--a "prick tease"--and now... Feeling this handsome sailor's immediate response to her--poking, in fact, into her well-endowed thigh--she did... Julie Marx did feel flattered, and more than just a little excited herself. After the first dance, and her first moments of pretend modesty, she moved closer when they danced a second time. In a short while all of Julie's prick-teasing talents came into play. This being the first time since leaving home that Mitchell had been with a Jewish girl, Julie's mannerisms--most of Julie's mannerisms--were warmly familiar to him; this, and her beautiful face, and, Oh, yeah her great tits compelled him to spend the entire evening with her. And with each ensuing dance--of which there were more than he, in the past, would ever have considered dancing with any one girl--Julie allowed herself to be held tighter and closer, and before the evening and the dance was through, Mitchell, feeling the push of her breasts, and Julie, the prod of his penis, each were

BECOMING breathing warmly in the other's ear as both felt the new-found excitement.

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The dance finished, they walked to a coffee shop where he had a hot fudge sundae and she a cup of tea with one lump of sugar. Living nearby, holding hands, walking Julie home, Mitchell made a date for next Saturday. * Mitchell Lipensky and Julie Marx saw each other five times over the next four weeks. When not deluged by spring rains, they went to a park bench, that Julie well knew, where, able to be alone, they would spend an hour kissing passionately, as Mitchell, in a continuous state of arousal, continuously attempted to fondle Julie's breasts, as Julie continually moved one, or the other, or both of his hands. Julie was well aware of how badly he wanted to fondle her, and actually wouldn't have minded because when they were "schnoogling" she, too, was in a constant state of arousal. But, thinking herself falling in love with Mitchell, by the end of their second date, having a plan in mind... Julie thought that if she did not let him touch her, if he wanted to badly enough... Well, who knows, because Julie Marx was beginning to think... engagement. About this time, though, he was beginning to think that Julie's great tits, that he'd dreamt of seeing, touching, burying his face in, and quite possibly his whole head between, and/or under, that he had--outside of his fantasies... a whole lot of fantasies--not been allowed to touch, let alone see, might not be worth his time so long as he must spend the time with her buttocks, too, which, by the way, he had not been allowed to touch either--not that he'd really wanted to. But, he'd thought, if I don't at least try to touch her ass, she'll think I think her ass is ugly--which, truly, he did--and that all I'm interested in--which, truly, they were--are her tits. And not wanting to hurt Julie's feelings, and also, not wanting to appear that shallow, occasionally he would attempt to fondle a buttock, but, truly embarrassed to have him touch her there, she always moved his hand from there, too. A month after their first meeting, Julie Marx and Mitchell Lipensky had their last date. Elsa Summer, 1953 Bayside Police Sergeant Raymond Schmidt's vacation was from Saturday, the seventeenth of August, through Labor Day. He, his wife, Tina, and their closer-to-sixteen-than-seventeen-year-old daughter were spending their vacation in a rented cottage at Far Rockaway. This weekend belonged to the Port liberty section, but it was hot and humid and he didn't feel like taking the long ride into the city and, seeing as Ewing was away for the weekend, he'd decided to spend Saturday and Sunday just laying around the beach and to go to Flatbush on Saturday evening for a Chinese dinner, then to see From Here to Eternity for the second time. Standing knee-deep in the warm, calm water, he watched as a girl in a two-piece bathing suit trudged across the sand. Approaching, he saw that the girl was "put together" just like he liked girls to be put together: big busted, slightly on the meaty side, and not too tall. Carrying a blanket and a towel over one arm and a picnic basket in the other hand, coming closer the girl reminded him of someone he knew... someone he used to know.

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Walking in the hot sand, looking for a likely place to spread her blanket, she noticed a darkly tanned young man standing knee deep in the water, whom she knew was watching her. Even though the beach was not crowded and she could have put her blanket just about anyplace, the girl absently veered in the young man's direction. Coming close to the water's edge, to almost directly in front of him, putting the basket onto the sand, flipping the blanket open, bending her body towards the water--showing more than just a bit of cleavage--she attempted to spread the light blanket, but the breeze lifted the end off the sand. Watching as the girl came closer, then as she tried to spread her blanket, thinking, She came here on propose. Starting out of the water, "Hey!" Mitchell said, "I'll give you a hand." Pretending she hadn't noticed him, looking up, straightening her body, pulling her shoulders back--showing off her jutting breasts--"Thanks," the girl said, as, shading her eyes with her hand, watching as he approached, "Wow!" she muttered, because ten months in the Coast Guard had removed even more weight, and had added even more muscle. Holding two ends of the blanket down, "Hi," now remembering whom this girl reminded him of. Dropping to her knees, "Hi," she answered back. Using the picnic basket and her sandals, the girl weighed three points of the blanket down, as he, using a soda bottle he found in the sand, did the fourth. Looking for some sort of an opening line, thinking, The truth here might work best. "You know," he said, "you're much prettier, but you remind me of someone I used to know from back home." "Yeah?" Smiling. "That's a new approach! So, I remind you of someone you used to know from back home, only prettier, huh?" Laughing, "No, it's true, you do! You remind me of a girl I used to know in Chicago by the name of Ina Dorfmann." Sitting, "Ina Dorfmann?" she laughed. "I remind you of an Ina Dorfmann?" Standing above her, "Yeah, but like I said, you're..." "I know! I'm much prettier." "Yeah, you are!" He knew that New York men did not usually shake hands when meeting a woman for the first time but, It worked with Julie! Besides, he felt that it made meeting a young woman easier because once they'd touched, they'd shared something personal so, holding his hand downward, "I'm Mitchell." Smiling, "Hi, Mitch." Taking hold of his hand, "That's a pretty sneaky way to hold a girl's hand before you've even met her." "Yeah," returning the smile, and--so long as she hadn't tried to free her hand--still holding her hand, "guess it is." "I'm Elsa." Patting the blanket with her free hand, "Sit down, why don't you." "Hi, Elsa!" Feeling the pressure of her fingers about his hand, What the hell, he thought, If she wants to hold

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hands it sure as hell's okay with me. Sitting, "You know," he said, "you're not only the first Elsa I've ever met, you're the prettiest Elsa I've ever met." Thinking, My God! He's the fastest guy I've ever met! "Yeah," she said, "I'll bet you tell that to all the girls." "Only girls named Elsa..." Thinking, This is going too good, too fast! "You, uh, expecting anyone here today?" Surprised at herself because, After all, I only first met him three minutes ago. Elsa enjoyed the feel of her hand in his, thinking, This guy is too good! "No, I'm all by myself today." Lifting their hands, looking at them, "Uh?" "Oh, sorry." Reluctantly releasing her hand, "How'd you like the company of a lonely Coast Guardsman who's far, far away from home?" "You're in the Coast Guard?" "Yeah. I'm stationed right here, at Rockaway." "Sounds like tough duty. Yeah, sure, I'll do my bit for my country by keeping a lonely Coast Guardsman who's far, far away from home company today." "Great! Thanks! I'll get my stuff." Licking her lips, Elsa Schmidt watched Mitchell Lipensky's backside as he retrieved his blanket, T-shirt, book, and Thermos of lemonade. Spending the afternoon on Elsa's blanket, talking, they became acquainted. Lying in the sun, they became warm, and... On his side, looking at Elsa, letting a stream of sand trickle through his hand onto her bare midriff, both were becoming warmer, mentally and physically. "Whew, it's getting hot. You want to go for a swim?" The warm sand tickling her stomach, shading her eyes, looking up, the look of him further warming her, "I'm not such a good swimmer, Mitchie. But if you promise to hold onto me," rubbing her tongue seductively over her lips, "I'll go in." Watching her tongue, impulsively lowering his head, placing his mouth over hers, kissing deeply--feeling a further tightening in the crotch of his bathing suit--drawing Elsa's tongue into his mouth... Just as impulsively--sensing a further flow of her fluid--Elsa complied. ...The long, ardent kiss breaking, Whew! "You kidding?" Whoa, catching her breath, "Me kidding, what?" "I promise! You bet I'll hold onto you!" Adding suggestively, "Wherever you'd like me to hold onto you... Come on!" But, his erection very obvious beneath his bathing suit, standing, turning quickly, he ran into the water and didn't stop until he was waist deep and the water covered the bulge in his suit. Diving, he swam

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underwater a few strokes, surfaced, looked to the beach and, "Come on!" Waving to Elsa, "The water's great!" Savoring their kiss, her lips warm, her tongue still tingling, standing, Elsa pulled the elastic bands of her two-piece bathing suit over the lower swells of her buttocks and the upper swells of her breasts. Knowing he was watching, walking slowly to the water's edge, Elsa hesitated as she felt the cool water on the soles of her hot feet, then continued on till the water reached her mid thighs. "Mitchie," holding her arms out, "you said you'd hold onto me." Diving, he swam underwater until he touched her ankles. Breaking water, "Hi!" he said, but, because he still had a partial erection, remaining on his knees, looking at her, slowly moving his hands upward until they were on the backside of her upper, so smooth, still warm thighs. "Mitchie, your hands are so cold!" Placing her hands on either side of his face, urging him upward and onto his feet, "Here," taking his right hand, she moved his arm about her bare waist, then, putting her arm about his waist, "I feel safer if you hold me this way." The feel of his flesh was wet and cool; hers warm and dry, and if anything had deflated by Mitchell's plunge in the water, it was now, once again, fully inflated, and... As they walked, trying not to be obvious, looking down and to the left, Elsa easily saw the cylindrical form of Mitchell's penis straining against the material of his bathing suit... And the tips of her fingers involuntarily pushed a bit harder onto the flesh of his side. Elsa and Mitchell walked until her breasts appeared to float and the water was inches above his navel. The two stood looking at the gently breaking, endless ocean... Until, stepping in front of her, tasting the salt taste of Elsa's flesh, he kissed her forehead, and she, putting both arms about his waist pulled him to her chest. Her head beneath his chin, Mitchell smelled the salt tang of the young woman's hair that mixed with the floral odor of her cologne, and now, feeling Elsa's all-but-bare flesh against his bare flesh, Mitchell suddenly realized just how lonely he'd been and how long it had been since he had held a girl this closely, practically naked, chest to chest, heart to heart... And for the first time in... how many days? For the first time in... how many weeks? Months? He did not know how long it had been since... Susan came to mind and Mitchell felt a swelling in his throat and a burning behind his eyes and he shuddered as an involuntary, quiet sob broke from deep within. The side of her face pressed against his chest, Elsa felt the hair of his chest upon her cheek, and unknown to him, obeying a compulsion, stretching her tongue, she licked Mitchell's copper-colored nipple... And the taste of the saltwater that beaded his chest was as an aphrodisiac and she moved her arms to below his waist, to about his buttocks and squeezed tightly and, feeling the hardness of his penis pressing onto her, Elsa, too, shuddered, and had an urge that she was afraid to have. Elsa Schmidt had been proud of her overdeveloped breasts since they'd first become noticeable, when she was eleven, and since then had known that boys found her attractive. It was only in the last year, though, at the start of her second year in high school, that she had let one boy unbutton her blouse, unhook her brassiere, look at, touch, kiss, and suckle her breasts... And Elsa Schmidt discovered that she enjoyed being looked at, touched, kissed and suckled.

BECOMING But even so, it took another two months of that same boy's coaxing... "Touch me 'there' naked, Elsa! Please let me take it out!" And promising... "We won't go no further! I promise, Elsa! We won't!" "No, Wayne!" "Please, Elsa, let me take it out! It starts to hurt when you rub it through my pants that way." "Well, then"--although, really, she liked feeling it--"I won't rub it any way, then!" "No, don't stop! It hurts more if you don't rub it. Elsa also liked knowing that she had the power to make Wayne come in his pants anytime she wanted to. "Ain't you never heard'a blue balls, baby? Look, baby, I won't go no further! I promise you! No further!" "Wayne, I said no!"

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Then, on their very next date, "Okay, then, Let's go steady, Elsa! You wanna go steady, don't'ch'ya, baby?" "Well..." Most of her girlfriends were going steady, so, "Yeah, okay." Then, because going steady moved a boy and girl to the next plane of their sexual relationship, she allowed Wayne to unzip his pants. Soon all of their dates became petting sessions with her masturbating him and him masturbating her... by using a finger or the palm of his hand--under her slacks or dress--but always over her panties and, though she truly loved being masturbated, and holding him naked excited her and it never took very long for her to orgasm, too. But because she flatly refused to allow him to touch her "there" directly, within another date or two Elsa did allow and discovered that she enjoyed "dry humping" with--because she was afraid of pregnancy, and also did not like getting the crotch of her panties all wet with that sticky stuff, Elsa would allow Wayne to dry hump her--with his prophylactic-encased penis held firmly between the juncture of her thighs and pubis, over her panties, but... "Come on, Elsa! Do it! Le'me put it in! Come on, Elsa!" Unless ill, Elsa Schmidt went to church with her parents every Sunday, and though she had never heard a sermon denouncing dry humping, she had listened--more often than she had cared to--to sermon after sermon denouncing, among other things, "The evils of fornication!" Because of her fear of God and out of respect for her parents, Elsa Schmidt refused to go all the way. Because of the pressure Wayne put upon Elsa, and her refusal--though weakening resolve--to go all the way, at Elsa's instance, the two had broken up at the end of the past school year. Now, Elsa was completely taken with Mitchell's looks, personality, and seeming total lack of egotism. In comparison to all the other boys she had ever known, in her estimation, Mitchell, at the age of nineteen, was the first "man" she had ever, in a male/female sense, personally known.

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When he'd unexpectedly kissed her, she had been shocked, but what had shocked her more--more than returning the passionate kiss of this young man that she had met no more than two hours ago--was her volatile internal response, because the touch of his tongue had triggered a flow of heat that thrilled and frightened her at the same time, and caused Elsa to realize--not that she remotely missed Wayne--just how much she did miss being touched, and touching. So then wondered, with the premonition of losing the battle to retain her virginity, How will I feel when--because she knew he would--he touches me there? And, How will it feel when--because she was rather sure she would--uh, if, I touch him there? He is not a kid! He's a man and he's also a sailor, and if that's not enough, he's gotta look like some kind of'a movie star, too! Elsa also wondered, Maybe I shouldn't'a told him I was eighteen. Maybe I should'a told him I'm really seventeen... Well, seventeen on my next birthday. In order for their lips to make contact, at 5'5", normally Elsa would have had to stretch upward and Mitchell would either have had to stoop or bend his neck. But in salt water Elsa was near weightless so, putting his hands under her armpits, sensing the heat of her body in this tight, close contact, even through the water, lifting Elsa to his level, they kissed... Intensified by the luxurious warmth of the gently eddying ocean, a spontaneous flame of passion transmitted from mouth to mouth, from brain to brain, from genitalia to... "Whew!" She looked at him. "Where in the world did you ever learn to kiss like that!?" Catching his own breath, feigning hurt feelings, "Sorry. Did I do something wrong?" "Yeah," Tightening her arm-hold about his neck, "you sure did! Rubbing her lips over his, "Do something wrong again, will you!" Entwining her fingers in his hair, she moved his face to hers. There was a man and woman to the left and two young boys to the right, but, with no one before them... As they kissed, leaving his left arm around her waist, stretching his right arm about the back of her knees, scooping Elsa off her feet, cradling her in his arms, Mitchell walked beyond the man and woman and boys and continued to walk outward until the water reached the lower level of his chest. Facing outward, supporting the weight of Elsa's buoyant body with his left arm, he moved his right hand to her stomach, then, their lips still together, up to and onto the top of her bathing suit. Taking a moment to realize that Mitchell was holding her breast, "Mitchell," Really, she did not want to stop him, but, "really, I just met you!" Removing his hand, twisting out of his arms, the water coming to just below her chin, she stood on tiptoes on the sandy bottom. "Elsa," surprise showing on his face, "I thought you said you were afraid of the water?" "Yeah, well, don't believe everything a girl tells you." Surface diving, she swam about twenty feet and, treading water, waited for Mitchell to join her. "You swim, too!" he said good-naturedly. "You lied to me!" "Yeah, sometimes I've been known to do that... Race you back!" Though a fairly strong swimmer, he could not catch her. *

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Elsa's picnic basket contained ham and cheese, and bologna and cheese sandwiches, Oreo cookies, a banana, an apple, and a Thermos of cherry Kool-Aid, all of which she shared with Mitchell. Speaking between bites of the ham and cheese sandwich, "You busy tonight?" "Yeah," she'd been waiting for him to ask. "If you call sitting around playing Monopoly with my folks busy." Taking another bite, "Have you seen From Here to Eternity?" washing it down with Kool-Aid. She had, but, "I wanted to, but missed it when it came around." "Well, I was planning on Chinese for dinner, then going to see it, so if you want to... Or if you don't like Chinese we can..." "No! I love Chinese food." "Great! So we got a date?" "Yeah," she said, trying not to sound too excited. "What time?" "Oh, 'bout five, five-thirty. Okay?" "Yeah, fine. You going to be in uniform?" "Nah. When I go out it's usually in civvies." In one way Elsa was relieved, because it was going to be hard enough to explain Mitchell to her parents without him showing up in a sailor uniform. But, on the other hand, she would like to see him in uniform, and would love to be seen with him in uniform. But, she thought, I'm gonna be here for two weeks, and if I play my cards right, him'n'me'll be together all the time when he's off. The balance of the afternoon was spent on the blanket... and in the water. Their kisses became longer, and in the water, with their bodies hidden from the eyes of those on the now-crowded beach, Elsa did allow his hand to linger on her breast and, completely impassioned by the romantic day, the tepid water, and especially Mitchell; again cradled in his arms, beyond the bathers, kissing him... being kissed by him, feeling the cool release as... Touching the wet, cool, naked softness of Elsa's breasts for the first time, moaning in her mouth, moving his lips, and eyes to her breasts and... in comparison to the tan of her chest, Elsa's breasts were the whitest, largest breasts he'd ever seen--not, of course, that Mitchell Lipensky had seen a whole lot of real live breasts, and especially not counting Julie Marx, who's breasts he hadn't seen--and they had the darkest, the smallest... Lowering his head, he licked some brine off one breast, then hungrily drew its small, turgid, dark-brown nipple deeply into his mouth, tasting the saltiest nipple--actually the only salty nipple--he had ever tasted, and, Oh, God! it tasted so good and, "Elsa," he said, forcing his mouth from her nipple and his eyes from her breasts, "you are so beautiful!" I'm so beautiful! This praise coming from a man, from this man, flattered Elsa beyond comprehension. Fully aroused now, twisting out of his arms, her bathing suit top floating up to her chin, dropping into the water, wrapping her arms about his neck, crushing her nude breasts to his nude chest and her lips to his lips, unable, or unwilling to control herself, reaching downward, shoving her hand through the top of Mitchell's bathing-suit...

BECOMING Oh, God! .... holding him, "Mmmm!" she moaned, and...

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Not calculating the time, of course, this day was about one month short of two years since that wonderful night on his father's boat with Sally. And also about one month short of two years since he'd last felt the wonderful crush of a girl's bare breasts against his chest, or felt--Susan had, on that one occasion in her bedroom, reached beneath his pants and, momentarily, touched him, making that momentary touch the last time that Mitchell had felt--the feel of a girl's hand on his bare penis and, "Mmmm!" he moaned back, as... Simultaneously, each had the same thought: I am about to get laid, and he doesn't have a rubber! I'm about to get fucked and don't have a rubber! But it didn't matter, because having some idea of what Elsa and Mitchell were up to, three pre-teen age boys decided to watch and, being boys, were not overly quiet, and... Giving them a very dirty look, Little fuckers! Mitchell thought. As, alas, Little creeps! Covering her breasts, Elsa yanked her bathing suit top down from beneath her chin Splashing ashore, some people, thinking they knew what they had been doing, clacked their tongues and shook their heads. But many of the men sitting on their blankets with their wives and children sighed and looked lustfully at the pretty, big-busted young woman... As many of the women sitting on their blankets with their husbands and children looked at the darkly tanned, handsome young man and they, too, sighed lustfully. * The Schmidt's rented cottage was on Rockaway Beach Boulevard, about one-half mile south of the Coast Guard compound. Walking Elsa home, passing the station, "That's where I live," Mitchell said, pointing to his room. At the cottage, Elsa was tempted to invite Mitchell in, but she knew what would happen as soon as they were behind a closed door, besides, she had no idea when her parents would be returning home, so wisely kissed him goodbye at the front gate. * Taking a shower in a highly elated state of excitement, because he did not want to give Elsa a "beard burn," anyplace, he shaved for the second time that day. Knowing where they would, inevitably, be going after the movie and what they would--if truly there was a God in heaven--be doing, omitting underpants, he wore only well-worn Levi's, a--what else but--yellow, polo shirt, and his old--getting very old--dirty white-buck shoes. In all their hours of conversation on this day, Elsa had neglected to mention that her father was a police sergeant. So, much to her relief, her parents were still fishing when Mitchell called for her at 5:10. They took the bus to Flatbush.

BECOMING They had the C dinner for two at the China Inn. They saw From Here to Eternity, then took the bus back to Flatbush.

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Though both knew where they were going--no doubt seeing themselves as Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster rolling passionately in the surf--although he'd surely suggest it, and she'd surely agree, even if they'd just seen Bambi. Mitchell said to Elsa, "I've got a great idea!" Holding hands, walking from the bus turnaround, down the incline that led to Rockaway Beach Boulevard, "Yeah?" as if she didn't know, "What's that, Mitchie?" "It's so beautiful tonight!" As if to prove this statement, he spread both arms above his head, encompassing the entire moonlit, star-studded universe. "How's 'bout going down to the beach?" Stopping, turning Elsa in his direction, embracing her tightly, they kissed. "So, how's about it? You want to go the beach?" Earlier, hardly able to contain her excitement, Elsa had taken a shower, put on rayon panties, an easy-to-unhook, two-clasp brassiere, beige slacks, a matching sleeveless blouse, and black leather sandals. Then, her parents still not home, she'd left a note informing them that she'd met Mitchell--omitting the fact that he was a sailor--and that, if it's okay with them, they're going to dinner and to see a double feature. It was a single feature that they were going to see, and her parents were not home to say either yea or nay--so now, "Sure, Mitchie, I'd love to go to the beach!" "Sure, Mitchie, I'd love to go to the beach!" Wanting, hoping, praying she would say this, but not sure that she would, his heart thumping, "Great!" he said. "I'll get a blanket." At the station, "Come on," he coaxed. "It's okay." Proud of Elsa, wanting to show her off to whomever might be on duty, "You can wait for me inside." But, just a little shy about going to the beach at 9:35 at night with a sailor she'd only met that day, "No," she said, sitting on the stoop. "You go. I'll wait for you here." "Okay, be right back." Going inside, running up the stairs, through the hall into his room, grabbing the extra blanket off the shelf in his closet and back downstairs, catching his breath before opening the door, "Hi!" They walked a quarter mile along the shore, well away from--unless they, too, were looking for a secluded spot to spread a blanket--any people that may be on the beach at this hour. "This looks pretty good, huh?" Angling away from the water, stopping, they spread the blanked under a steep, grassy embankment where, if anyone were walking along the moonlit beach they, hopefully, would not see two, hopefully, naked bodies--if there is a God in heaven--writhing in a sexual embrace. In the theatre, they had sat as close as the armrest would allow. Every now and then they would kiss, and the kiss, as if a prelude to what both were sure was going to happen, would send a surge of moisture to Elsa's lower region and a surge of blood to Mitchell's. Now, though, that the time was here... Now, delaying the moment... Now, feeling fear for what she... Please, Jesus, let it happen! Yet, praying to Jesus, Don't let it happen! Elsa sat on the far end of the blanket looking at the moon's wide tail reflected upon the slightly rippling water. Not wanting to rush her, wisely giving Elsa time to acclimate herself to the situation... But now, the words spoken both, as a soft command, and also, a plea, "Elsa, baby, come here."

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Turning her head, Elsa looked at the shadowed, moonlit-diffused figure of Mitchell, whom, having removed his shirt, shoes and socks, was lying on his side with his head propped in the palm of his hand, looking at her, waiting for her. Seeing him with only his jeans on, again feeling the urge in her lower abdomen, Now, Elsa thought, it would be best to talk to him, to tell him before he... Yet she did not want to tell him... Yet, now she did want to tell him that she does have her limits... Yet, Jesus! she wanted no limits! Elsa was afraid to let Mitchell touch her. Yet, Jesus! I want him to touch me! She was afraid to touch him, but, Oh, Jesus! she could not wait to touch him, again... there. Earlier, when she had impulsively reached through the top of his bathing suit and held him--so unlike Wayne's longer, much thinner penis--holding this strange, new penis had further--much further--excited her but now, Oh, Jesus! she rationalized. What if he doesn't have a rubber and he puts it in and he comes? Jesus, I'm afraid! But then again, But I want him to! she thought, and, But what do I do if I get pregnant? Waiting... What'll I tell mom and dad? Waiting... "Elsa," patting the blanket, "Come on, baby." Oh, Jesus... Moving closer, turning, Elsa laid on her side, facing Mitchell, beside Mitchell. Mouths an inch apart, each felt the warm breath of the other. Moving even nearer, lips brushed lips... Parting, tongue touches tongue. Laying the crook of his arm on Elsa's hip, and the palm of his hand onto her back, applying gentle pressure, now, moving his mouth hard against hers, tongues explored deeper... Now, easing Elsa onto her back, laying his bare chest onto her, each feeling the heat of the other's body... Now, tongues darting from mouth to mouth, moving her hands to his back, Oh, Jesus! Her resolve gone, Elsa pressed the tips of her fingers into his flesh as, lifting his chest, blindly pushing buttons through button holes... Holding the sides of both breasts within the palms of his hands, Mitchell kissed the hard points of one, then the other nipple over the slick material of her brassiere, as--knowing he was doing it, arching her back upward, helping him, as--reaching behind her back, fumbling for just a moment, one after the other, he opened the two clasps that held the elastic and rayon apparatus... "Wait, Mitchie," using both hands, lifting his face to the level of her eyes, "Let me take it off. I don't want to go home too wrinkled." "Yeah..." Good idea. Breathing heavily, moving back, "Take it off." Sitting up, shrugging the blouse off her shoulders, holding it by the inner tab, taking her time, giving herself time to catch her breath, and as a tease, Elsa laid her blouse neatly on the far side of the blanket. Now, pulling her arms through the hanging straps, taking her brassiere off, she laid it on top of the blouse. If she had been stalling, Mitchell didn't notice, because he hadn't taken his eyes off her moonlit, iridescent white breasts. Sitting up, free of all restraint, Elsa's breasts hung slopingly over her stomach and when, with his gentle urging, she laid back, her breasts fell to the sides of her chest where the small areolae showed in black relief against the snowy whiteness.

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To Mitchell Lipensky, though, regardless of how they truly looked, all breasts were beautiful. To him, the saying "More than a handful is a waste," must have been thought of by a small-busted woman, because, to Mitchell, the larger they were the more beautiful the were, and, "Oh, God, Elsa," he said once again, "you are so beautiful!" As lifting one from beneath, feeling the silky, soft texture and cool weight, kissing it, rubbing the hardened circle of flesh over his lips, closing his mouth over it... Feeling her moving against his thigh, putting his hand into the juncture of her crotch, rubbing the rise of her mound with a sensual, circular motion... "Oh, Jesus!" Opening her thighs, Elsa arched her hips upward. Her thighs spread, he felt the fissure of, and the heat generated by her vulva... Now, moving two fingers onto the moist depression, rubbing a moment, before she had a chance to object--if she would object--Mitchell moved his hand from outside Elsa's slacks to inside Elsa's slacks, to beneath her panties, and... Mmmm! his finger immediately sliding through the minute, slithery lips... Never before feeling a boy's finger actually enter her vagina, Elsa tensed a moment then, "Mmmm!" enjoying, truly enjoying the sensation, relaxing, spreading her thighs even wider, Yeah, I want to hold him, she thought. But also, still having a diminishing modicum of fear, remembering how easily it had always been to cause Wayne to ejaculate, quite often almost immediately, rationalizing, If I make him come, he'll stop! Also rationalizing, Elsa also thought, Then I won't have to make the--impossible--decision to stop. Taking hold of him, feeling the heat, she massaged the hardness over his jeans... But knowing just how fast he could ejaculate, determined that this time he was going to only one way, only in one place, "Elsa," he whispered, "take your slacks off!" Wanting to... Oh, Jesus, Lord! Wanting to! Waiting... Waiting for her to move, when she didn't--remembering that night on his father's boat with Sally--"Should I take mine off first?" Without thinking, without hesitation, "Yes!" But Elsa wasn't sure if this was meant as a stall, or if she wanted to see Mitchell nude but, really, rather she thought, Oh, yeah, she did want to see Mitchell nude. Recalling the thrill, once he'd overcome his shyness and stood fully nude in front of Sally, and the look on her face, the word "Yes" now caused Mitchell to stand, and standing between her outstretched thighs.... Watching Elsa, seeing her face as best he could in the moonlight, unhurriedly pushing the steel buttons through the buttonholes from the top down... As each button was pushed through its hole, the level of Elsa's expectancy--and his excitement--jumped another notch, and... When the bottom button was pushed through, he hesitated, then, still watching her face, allowed the jeans to slip off his hips, and... As his jeans dropped, his black pubic hair, scrotum, and the, also, seemingly iridescent flesh of his penis clearly visible, Jesus Christ! Unaware that he was not wearing underpants, his extended penis springing into view startled Elsa, then, seeing a completely nude boy--man!--for the first time in her life, Elsa's excitement level jumped to the end of her circuitry as... Yes, of course she had seen Wayne's penis, but only through his open fly. She'd touched it, and even held his scrotum in the palm of her hand, but always in the semi-darkness of his father's Mercury. But not like this! No! Never like this.

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...Looking at, actually studying Mitchell's--in her very limited, erroneous estimation--huge, jutting penis, Elsa haltingly reached forward, touched, and closed her cool hand around the warm shaft, as, with her other hand, lifting it from beneath the scrota, holding it, feeling its weight within the palm of her hand, her fingers finding and gently kneading the ovals of his testicles... Staring, unaware that she was nervously blinking her eyes, nor that her tongue was darting between and around her lips and, He's--meaning the entire picture--so beautiful, she thought, Christ, holding Mitchell, I want him in me! Lost in her desire, squeezing the shaft, hard, so hard that... "Ummm!" Squeezing so deliciously hard that a drop of glistening semen forced its way through the urethra. "Ummm!" When Elsa's nervously cool hand had taken hold of Mitchell's penis, her touch had sent a jolt of heat through him and... Arching his pelvis forward, he had watched her face as she had studied him, and held his breath as she'd kneaded his testicles, and when she had squeezed his penis he'd tightened his groin and sphincter against ejaculation. Now, not at all sure how much longer he'll be able to hold off, "Elsa, Baby," his voice thick with passion, "please take your slacks off." Yeah! But lifting her buttocks, she somehow had enough presence of mind to know that this was her last line of resistance... So did not take hold of the elastic band of her panties, and pulled only her slacks off. Looking forward, Oh, yes, to seeing Elsa fully nude, too, but not, in the least, discouraged because she had left her panties on, dropping to his knees, "Lay back," he said softly, and... As if in a trance--or maybe resigned to do what she no longer had the power to stop--lying back, she closed her eyes. Widening her knees, positioning himself between, and leaning forward, putting his weight on his outstretched arms, sensuously, slowly, Mitchell kissed Elsa's closed eyes, her mouth, her chin, her neck... He trailed his tongue slowly over, and between her breasts... He licked one, then the other nipple... He kissed the depression of her "inny" navel... And lowered her panties to beneath her hips, below her knees and off one foot... Salvatore Diamond! Louise Ann! He hadn't thought about them in years, and the scene in the air well, when he was seven, vividly coming to mind reminded Mitchell that he was in the exact same position that Salvatore and Louis Ann were those, oh, so many years ago, and powerless to stop, not that he wanted to stop... Lying flat on her back with her eyes closed, Elsa felt the balmy air upon her nude body, and the soft touch of his kisses, and the sensual feel of his tongue as it traced down... down, and... Lowering his head further, pausing a moment at the not unpleasant salt-tang odor, and the surprisingly soft, damp mat of Elsa's pubic hair, parting the small, puffy folds of her labia... "Oh, Jesus!" she said aloud as she felt, and realized what he was doing, for this was mystical stuff, spoken only in whispers, only between the absolute very best of friends, girlfriend to girlfriend, and, "Ummmm!" Elsa kicked her panties off to somewhere in the sand, and grabbing Mitchell by the hair, pushing his mouth harder onto her, gyrating her pelvis in urgent rhythm with her hands, and Mitchell's head... Ecstatically lost within the literal sea of Elsa's vagina, knowing where his mouth was, and his tongue was, feeling Elsa's passion, becoming a part of, not only his, but Elsa's passion, also allowing the motion of his head to go with the urging of her hands--and the pulling of his hair--his chin sliding into and out of her capaciously open, thoroughly saturated portal, the bridge of his nose rubbing up and down, over and around

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Elsa's now hypertrophied clitoris, her fluid flooding his mouth and nostrils, finding it becoming near impossible to breathe, but--not wanting to move from the sight and smell and taste of this place that he'd dreamt of being, all of his life, so it seemed, and--not wanting to pull from Elsa's hands and possibly keep her from orgasm, but, at that moment not sure if he was going to drown or ejaculate, turning his head minutely to the left, drawing air through the corner of his mouth, he turned back to the task--task? Ah, yes, it's a hard job but someone has to do it--he turned back to the task at hand, as... Drawing air harshly through her nostrils, Elsa's movement, and her clasp upon his head turned even more frenzied and, as her pelvis began to pulsate, "Ohhhh!" groaning as though in pain--actually frightening Mitchell for a long moment--stretching her legs straight outward and her toes straight upward, "Ummmm! Oh, Jesus! Ummmm! Ummmm!" Her, "Ummm!" breathing, "Umm!" began to slow and--having her very first "man-made" orgasm--"Um!" toes wilting, her legs, and her clasp on his head, and hold of his hair relaxed. Still positioned between Elsa's thighs, lifting his head, swiping the palm of his hand over his mouth and chin, Mitchell looked up. Still flat upon her back, and spread-eagled, Elsa's eyes were closed... And there was a very satisfied look on her face... Looking at her, happy, ecstatic over the fact that that he--to his knowledge, for the first time in his life--had actually caused a girl to orgasm... And yet tasting her taste and smelling her smell and, Oh, God, ready, more than ready, to do what he had waited for and wanted to do all of his life--so it seemed--now! Moving from the harbor of Elsa's thighs, and the sight of her flooded vagina, moving onto his knees, now... Now it was his turn. But... "Mitchie," sitting up, "are you going to..." pointing first at his willing, able, and very ready penis, "uh," then to her crotch. Breathing heavily, "Yeah!" looking at his target. "Sure!" If he had stopped doing what he'd been doing--though possibly he would have lost a double handful of hair--within the heat of that moment Elsa would have welcomed... Hell, she'd have urged his penis into her vagina... But now, now that the bulk of her passion had been spent, thinking of her mother and her father, and Jesus Christ... Elsa began to cry. "Elsa?" His penis wilting, "What's wrong?" "Mitchie, believe me," she said through her sobs, "I do"--actually, to be exact, she did, a minute or so ago--"want to do it with you so bad, but I'm afraid. What if I get pregnant? And"--okay, now's the time to tell him--"I think you ought to know..." "Elsa, I wouldn't do that to you! I've got a rubber!" Reaching for his pants, groping through a pocket, removing a Trojan, "See?" Looking at the small, foil wrapped pac in his hand, then at his face, "I can't," she said softly. "Huh?" Not sure he'd heard right. "What do you mean?"

BECOMING "I said I can't do it!" Said softly, "that way." "Elsa," he said in near panic, "how can you tell me now that you can't do it?" "Mitchie, my dad's a police sergeant!" Not sure if she had issued this as a warning or a statement of fact. "And, uh, I'm only sixteen. But..." she added quickly, "only for another few months."

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He remembered a lecture accompanied by a film that he had seen in boot camp. The film was on venereal disease and the lecture concluded with the stern warning: "The age of consent in most northern states is eighteen, and you..." In his mind's eye, the Chief Petty Officer giving the lecture had looked directly at him. "...will go to jail for statutory rape!" "Sixteen! Elsa, you're only sixteen?" as if that wasn't bad enough, "And your father's a cop!?" "Yeah." On her knees, Elsa searched the sand at the foot of the blanket for her panties. Finding them, shaking the sand out, sitting on the blanket again, pulling them on, "Mitchie, I'm sorry I lied to you. Come here!" Spreading her legs, she patted the blanket in front of her. Still on his knees, he moved closer. But, the thought that, It's God, came to mind. The ridiculous thought that, God does not want me to ever get fucked! came to mind. Putting her arms around his neck, pulling his face to hers, Elsa kissed Mitchell, ardently. And as she kissed Mitchell she reached to his by-then fully flaccid penis, and--thinking that Wayne's, in a state flaccidity, was much longer than Mitchell's--massaged it till, breaking the kiss, "Baby..." she said, after having resurrected his penis... And also, feeling it grow, feeling it harden and become erect in her hand, Elsa had sensed the flow, again, of her own heat. "...there's other ways to do things, you know." Lying back, Elsa inserted the tip of the head of his penis in the shallow depression made by her, once-again secretion-slicked panties. "Mmmm! That's not so bad, is it?" she asked as, holding the shaft of his penis, Elsa began to move her hand up and down. And, as Elsa masturbated Mitchell she also rubbed his glans into, and put hard penile pressure onto, her clitoris... "Ohhh!" And soon, Elsa orgasmed again. While... Held in the hand of a real live girl. Looking at big, real live breasts. Pressed against, but, alas, not actually in, a real live vagina soon, very soon, Mitchell orgasmed, too. * Whenever he had liberty, Elsa and Mitchell spent the evening on the beach, at "their spot." But no matter how careful he was, and no matter how romantic it had looked when Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr did it, sand is sand, and by the time Labor Day rolled around and the Schmidt's two-week vacation was through, the skin on the head of his penis, and tongue, had been painfully rubbed raw. Besides, although he hadn't actually penetrated her, Mitchell had the nagging thought that, technically, what he and Elsa were doing could be construed as statutory rape. So, with a promise to call her--Yeah, I'll call you--in two years when you're eighteen--Mitchell was just as glad to say goodbye and see Elsa, and her police sergeant father, leave Rockaway and go home to Bayside. 39 Furlough

BECOMING March 20, 1954 To April 2, 1954

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The plane taxied slowly. It turned to the left and to the left again. After a minute or two of quiet hesitation... A plume of smoke belched from each of the four engines as the propellers, one after the other, spun to life, blurred as their speed increased, then became invisible. The roaring of the engines barely heard within the cabin, still stationary, shuddering, straining to be on its way...Straining. Straining, and now, as the airliner lurched forward, his head jerked backward. Slowly... Faster... Faster... Faster... faster, faster. Faster until the patched cracks in the runway and the weedy grass alongside the concrete strip became a blur... Inches. The wheels were inches off the ground... A foot... A yard... Two, three, five, ten yards off the ground... The airplane rose up in steeply angled flight over the terminal and hangers and planes and commercial structures that dotted LaGuardia Airport, then over houses and yards... Higher... Higher... Higher... Banking westerly, the mid-morning sun, moving from port to starboard, reflected off the millions of windows of the skyscrapers of New York City. This being the first time he'd flown, excited, terrified, sweat prickling his scalp, he wiped his sweating palms on the knees of his dress-blues. Staring out the window, watching the diminishing city, forcing himself to relax, leaning his head against the headrest, wanting a cigarette more than anything in life--at the moment even more than sex--he stared anxiously at the NO SMOKING sign... * ...Ding. Ding. Ding. The side of his head laying against the window, hearing the soft bell, feeling a shift in the plane, opening his eyes he saw a steeply downward angled wing with nothing beneath but gray sky. His heart pounding, in near panic, looking up, NO SMOKING--FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT. Mitchell looked at his watch: 3:30. His forehead pressed against the double Plexiglas window, looking down again, Oh, God! he saw--it... Lake Michigan. Lake Michigan! Ding. Ding. Ding. Reminding him, he touched the belt around his waist, which he'd never unbuckled, and realized that within minutes the plane would be landing and that after a year and a half he'll be home... Home! Turning northwest for an approach to Chicago's Midway Airport, the airplane's flaps lowered, and the wheels dropped with a bumping clatter that helped slow the plane's forward motion, causing Mitchell to have the frightening sensation that the plane was stopping in midair, inducing a few moments of silent panic... until the far-off dollhouses became larger, and he realized that they were still moving--that the plane was still flying. The threads of the far-off runway loomed closer...Closer... Larger... Larger... Larger, until the runway is was there under the plane, and with a puff of smoke from each of its wheels, the plane lightly bumped once, twice,

BECOMING and touched down... Now Mitchell realized just how fast they were going... Fast... Fast... Slower... Slower, until the plane rolled to a stop. Home. Home! "Mitchie! Mitchie!" There! "Mom!" Waving. "Mom!" Running to his mother, held in her arms, Mitchell felt the warmth of her embrace. Separating, the son and mother looked into the moistened eyes of the other. "Hey, I'm here, too!"

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"Dad!" Noticing splotches of gray in his hair and in the stubble of his beard that were not there when they had parted at Union Station. Hugging, "Hi, Dad!" Embarrassed, "Hey," pulling back, holding his son at arms' length, "outside of the pictures you've sent us, now's the first time we've seen you in uniform. You look great, Mitch." "But so skinny," Myra chimed in. No one had ever called him skinny before. "Sounds like a Jewish mother to me." Walter jokingly chastised. "An' don't forget me!" said the tall, well-known stranger standing alongside Walter. "Who the hell's this guy?" "Come on, Mitchie!" Lawrence blushed. "You know it's me!" "Larry?" Standing back, "It's you, Larry? I can't believe it! Holy smokes, look at you; you're almost as tall me!" Approaching the age of ten, Lawrence was scant inches shorter than his brother. The two reached their hands forward, but, "Hell!" Mitchell said. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he pulled his brother into his arms. Standing shyly behind his mother, "And this?" Taking his cap off, reaching behind Myra, putting it on five-year-old Morton's head, "This can't be Mortie! Hi! Boy oh boy, did I ever miss you!" Stepping aside, Myra moved her youngest son forward. Kneeling, holding his arms forward, "Hey, Mortie..." Tears formed as he realized that he was a stranger to his own brother. "You remember me, don't'j'ya? I missed you more'n anything!" Hesitating another second, "Yeah!" Running into his brother's arms, almost bowling him over, "Hi, Mitchie!"

BECOMING Throwing both arms about Mitchell's neck, "Sure I merember you!"

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"Oh, God," looking from face to face, realizing just how much he had missed his family, "I missed you, all of you, so much!" Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he scrubbed it across his eyes. "Okay," Walter said, "enough with the schmaltz already! Let's get your bags and go home." During weekdays, with traffic, the drive from Midway Airport, on the far south side of Chicago, to Skokie, beyond the far northern fringe of Chicago, could easily take two hours, but on this Saturday traffic was minimal. "Mom, go on, tell him!" Sitting in front, Mitchell turned to look at his mother, who was sandwiched between the boys on the spacious back seat of the maroon, 1954 Buick Roadmaster. "Tell me what?" All three smiling, Myra looked from Lawrence to Morton, who, holding back laughter, had both hands over his mouth. Smiling, too, "Tell me what?" Mitchell asked again. Unable to carry a joke for longer than thirty seconds, glancing at his wife in the rearview mirror, "For Christ sake, Myra," Walter said, "tell him!" "Okay." Myra said seriously. "We adopted a little girl." "Yeah," Morton giggled. "we 'dopted a little girl." Stunned at this, They adopted a little girl? "You, what?" Mitchell thought he knew how much his mother wanted a daughter, but... "Yeah, we 'dopted a..." Reaching behind his mother, Lawrence slapped Morton on the back of his head. "Ow! I'm tel-ling!" Looking at each other, Mitchell and Lawrence began to laugh. "Come on! Mom, Dad? I don't believe it! You guys really adopted a baby?" By their attitude he knew, It's got to be some kind of a joke. "You'll see," Myra said mysteriously. "Myra, for Christ sake..." Slapping her husband playfully on the back of his head, "Shush!" "I'm tel-ling!" Walter mimicked. "A baby girl, huh?" Mitchell asked, "Really? What's her name, then?"

BECOMING "Wait, you'll see. Don't be such a nudnick." This year March came in as a lamb, and was going out the same way.

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As the Buick turned off Crawford Avenue onto Lee Street, Mitchell saw that the winter-burnt lawns of Skokie were blotched with green, and the limbs of trees and bushes hung heavily with burgeoning life. In flower patches and soil borders along sidewalks leading to houses, the sharp pointed spears of tulips had begun their push from the soil to the sun. Rolling the window open, putting his head through, breathing deeply, Mitchell smelled the odors of spring... and of home. "Mom," reaching over the seat, taking her hand, "it's great to be home!" The Buick stopped in front of the pie-shaped lot. Opening the door, stepping out, Mitchell looked at the house. He had never thought of it as beautiful before, but it was home, and he was home, and nothing--nothing--had ever looked better. Fitting his key in the lock, "Come on, Mitchie! Don't you want to meet your sister?" Opening the door, Lawrence stepped aside as... There was a rush of black and white as, bounding out the door, a young, but full-grown Dalmatian flung its front paws onto Walter's chest, almost knocking him of the stoop. "Walt, I thought you were going to break her of that!" "Yeah, I will... Hi, pup," Walter said affectionately, rubbing the dog behind her ears. "Don't be such a kvetch, Myra." Pushing the dog down, "Mitchie, meet our new kid." "She's beautiful!" Turning the dog in his direction, rubbing both sides of her muzzle, "What's her name?" "Crickie!" "Cricket!" Myra corrected her youngest son. "Her name is Cricket." Hearing her name, pulling from Mitchell's hands, Cricket turned to Myra, and as she did, her tail whipped both sides of his dark-blue uniform, leaving his legs speckled with short, white hair. "If we could only train her to shed her black on dark," Walter said, smiling, "and her white on light colors, she'd be perfect." Still outside, "Go on in, Mitchie," Myra urged. "You're home now." Standing in the doorway looking in--the same sofa and chairs, coffee table, lamps, and large, split-leaf philodendron still stood in the exact same places they'd been on the day he had left home. Although in a year and a half nothing had changed, his home looked wonderfully new. Taking a running start, crashing into his buttocks, "Come on!" Morton propelled his big brother three steps into the living room. Grabbing him, "You little squirt!" Pulling Morton onto the carpeted floor, as he rolled over his baby brother in

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make-believe fight, Cricket joined in by shoving her muzzle between Mitchell and Morton and with lapping tongue, washed both faces. Laughing, letting the little boy get the best of him, sitting on his chest, giving his big brother an Indian head-rub, "Ow! Wonder who taught you that... Pattoie!" Pretending to spit as Cricket stuck her tongue into his mouth, he looked at Larry, who was sitting on the chair by the door, watching his brothers and Cricket play. "Yeah!" Patting his head tenderly, "Wonder who taught me that?" "Mitchie, guess what we're having for dinner." "Let's see, Mom." Holding Cricket by her collar, turning his face from the dog's over-zealous tongue. "Today is Saturday. Um? Would lox'n'bagels be a good guess?" "Yes... Unless you'd like something else." "No!" he said emphatically. "Mom, would you believe I dream about lox'n'bagels?" Weirdly, the only dream Mitchell could remember, other than an occasional dream of Susan, was of a family dinner of lox and bagels. Climbing off his brother's stomach, heading to the bathroom, "Got'a go." "Come on," Taking Mitchell's suitcase, "I'll help you put your stuff away." Going upstairs, Lawrence turned right, to the front bedroom. "Hey, you don't have to change rooms just because I'm home. Really, I don't mind sleeping with Mortie." "Nah, I want you to have your old room while you're home." * "Hello." "Normie! Hi! It's me!" "Mitchie! Hi! When'd you get in?" "They got me from Midway about two hours ago." "How long you in for?" "Two weeks... What'ch'ya doin'?" "Nothing much. Just sitting around watching television... Hey, am I ever glad to hear your voice again!" If either boy had a sense of dj vu, it was because they'd had this same conversation, practically word for word, three months short of ten years before when Mitchell came home from Baylor Military School. The line silent a number of seconds, neither spoke, till... "So, Mitch," breaking the silence, "it's over? You're not... You don't think about...?" "Ol' what's'er name? No. That's why I waited this long before I came home; to be sure it was over, and it is."

BECOMING "Good. Glad to hear it."

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"Hey, Normie, know what I'd really like to do tonight? Uh, that's if you're not busy. You're not going steady or engaged or anything?" "Well, now that you mention it, I am going steady... with Ava Gardner, and we do have a date tonight! But what the hell, for you, Pal, I'll break it... What would you really like to do tonight'? "The J!" Looking out the window, he saw Walter and the boys sanding the hull of the boat. "The kids still hang out at the J?" "Yeah. And on a night like tonight looks like it's going to be, there ought'a be a million broads around... That is kind'a what you had in mind, isn't it?" "Yeah! Of course!" "Yeah! I kind'a thought." "Yeah, and you'll never believe it, Normie, but what I want to do is to meet a good, old-fashioned Jewish broad." "Even if they do think their tits are made of gold?" "Well," Mitchell said hopefully, "maybe now that they're older..." "Don't bet on it, Pal!" "Yeah. Well, we'll see." "Yeah. But don't be too disappointed." "Yeah. So, what time should I pick you up?" "Hey, any time. My folks'll love seeing you!" "Okay. See you about, uh, seven, seven-thirty?" "Yeah. See you then, Mitch." In the kitchen, "Hey, Mom," coming up behind Myra, putting his arms around her waist, "I got time for a shower?" "Yes," turning form the sink, "and straw is cheaper than hay." she said with a smile. "Yeah, Mom, I know! And ain't ain't in the dictionary." * Having taken a shower, he dressed in Levi's, a fresh T-shirt and his old, white-buck shoes. "Hi! Chow almost ready?" At the sink again, looking at her eldest son in "civvies," Nothing's changed, Myra thought. It's as if the last

BECOMING year and a half had never happened, and as if he had never left home.

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After a slow, leisurely--three lox and bagel, with cream cheese, tomatoes and sweet onion sandwiches, type of--catch-up-on-news dinner, Mitchell went upstairs to find a shirt. But instead, opening the bottom drawer of his old dresser, removing the cranberry-colored cashmere sweater from its plastic bag, holding it against his face, feeling its buttery softness he thought, Susan, and he remembered Susan and, "Fuck it!" No longer the shrine of his lost love, now being just a beautiful sweater, he put it on. * On Saturday evenings, for as far back as Mitchell could remember, kids from the north and west sides had congregated at the Max Strauss Center, better known as the J, the J standing for the J.P.I., The Jewish Peoples Institute. The J was the place to go if you didn't have a date--if you didn't mind people seeing that you didn't have a date--and wanted to meet a girl or a guy that might be next week's date; to renew old friendships, make new acquaintances, or just hang around. As predicted by Norman, being a beautifully balmy spring night, there were, so it seemed, hundreds of teenage kids milling outside the building's lobby, overflowing onto the wide steps leading to the the J's large, concrete courtyard. Having circled the congested block twice looking for a place to park, Norman and Mitchell arrived shortly after eight-fifteen, and were there for no more than a few minutes, when... "You schmucks! Why didn't you call and tell me you were in, Mitch? And you, you putz! Why didn't you let me know he was coming home?" "Lurey, you schmaggi, asshole," Norman said, "I did, to see if you'd be here tonight, and left a message with Dolly." "Putz! Don't ever do that again!" "Jesus!" Glancing at Mitchell. "Look who's calling who a putz! I shouldn't ever do what?" "Leave a message with my sister." Looking at Mitchell, "She never gives me my calls!" and back at Norman, "I'm going to kill that little mieskite!" "Yeah, Lurey! She's ugly 'cause she looks like you. So, 'cause you've got a dummy for a sister, that's my fault?" "Fuck you, Parminter!" "Mitchie, god damnit," shaking his hand briskly, "you look great! Uncle Sam sure seems to agree with you!" Glad to see him, too, "Thanks, Ron. How've you been? What's new?" "The same. What could be new?" Jerking his thumb towards Norman. "Him'n'me'll be through with Wright this year, and I'm trying to talk him into going to the U of I with me, but the schmuck's talking about joining the Navy. Maybe you can talks some sense into him." Turning to Norman, "How come you didn't say anything about this?"

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"Well, I'm not really sure yet. It's just that I haven't any idea of what I want to do, so thought that maybe a few years away'll give me time to figure it out." "Yeah, Normie, I know the feeling. But after all that R.O.T.C., how come the Navy?" "I've looked into all of 'em, and the Navy seems to have more to offer, for me. But like I said, I haven't really made up my mind." Looking around, "Hey, there's someone I want to talk to. Be back in a minute... Hey, Irv!" Ron called, rushing to a hoody-looking guy with slicked back hair, wearing a black leather jacket. "So, see anyone you know, Norm?" "Nah, no one I know, but a few I sure wouldn't mind knowing." "Mitchie..." Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he turned around. She was thin, weighing about a hundred-twenty pounds, and tall, at least 5'7". She wore Levi's, a blue Ship'n'Shore blouse, and a red club jacket. The girl had curly black hair that was pulled back, emphasizing a sharp widow's peak and bound closely to the scalp giving her a ponytail that hung to just below her shoulders. She had dark-brown, almond-shaped eyes and well defined eyebrows. Her complexion clear and dark, the girl had an oval-shaped face with a small mouth and a straight, slightly hooked nose, giving her, if not a totally beautiful face, then most certainly a lovely, classically Semitic aspect. Looking slightly familiar, Mitchell's eyebrows knotted as he tried to place her... but couldn't. Seeing the look on his face, turning to Norman, nodding, confusing the boys all the more, "Hi, Normie." Having no idea who she was, or how she knew them, "Uh," nodding his head, "hi," Norman said. Smiling mysteriously, bringing her full attention back to Mitchell, "You truly don't remember me, do you?" Sensing that he, really, was not going to be an essential component of this conversation, "Mitch, I'll be over with Lurey." Looking at the girl, "And whoever you are," Norman said, backing away, "it's been nice seeing you, again." Alone--at least as alone as it was possible to be within a crowd of hundreds--standing quietly, each studied the other's face. "Well," breaking the silence, "the last time we saw each other..." Stopping, the girl thought a second. "No, that wasn't the last time we saw each other. But the last time we did see each other you didn't pay any attention to me. As a matter of fact, you were pretty darn rude." "Rude? Come on! I'd never be rude to a girl as pretty as you." "Obviously you didn't think I was very pretty then... Tell you what, I'll give you a hint: I've never seen you without Norman." Staring at her... trying to remember.

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"The first time we met you walked me home... almost, until you found out that I wasn't quite thirteen. And the second time you and Norman were on the beach in Union Pier, and each time I saw you..." Union Pier? The words Union Pier sending the pages of his memory ruffling backwards, "Oh, God, that was..." "...I called you a big jerk, and told you to drop dead." Having a recollection of a warm night and soft music, and of a girl with fireflies reflected in her dark eyes... and also, a soul-touching kiss. "Yeah! You're, uh...?" "Marsha, Marcie Goldman." Seeing a look of remembrance in his eyes, "You remember me now, don't you?" "Yeah! Sure I do!" Stepping back, looking at her, "Marcie, my God, you grew up great!" Oddly, although this girl was the absolute opposite of the stocky, big-busted, Coca-Cola, All-American, girl next door type of girl that he'd always been attracted to, for some incomprehensible reason, She's beautiful! he thought, and for the first time since...? For the first time since Susan, looking at a girl--looking at this girl--made Mitchell's eyes feel good. And meaning it, not meant as just flattery, the words coming without thought, "You're beautiful!" The words, You're beautiful! echoing in her mind, her heart jumped, thinking, Yeah, you, too, Mitchell. At a loss for words--which for her was highly unusual--having to say something, "Thank you." "So, what are you now: seventeen, eighteen?" "Mitchie," smiling, "don't you know by now that you're never supposed to ask a lady her age?" Calculating his age at between nineteen and twenty, thinking, perfect, "You go to college?" she asked. "No. I'm in the service. The Coast Guard." "Really? Are you stationed here, in Chicago?" "No. At a lifeboat station outside of New York City, at a place called Far Rockaway... How's about you? You in college? Or..." hesitating, "still in high school." "Boy, are you ever nosey! Okay. I'm seventeen. I'll be eighteen in October. I am still in high school, at Roosevelt, and will be graduating in June... That okay?" She smiled, "or are you going to send me home alone, again?" Seventeen. Okay! Yeah, he thought, seventeen's just fine! "And if I remember right, I didn't send you home alone. You told me to drop dead, and ran home on your own." "Mitch! Hey, Mitch!" Reluctantly turning from Marsha, "Yeah, Ron?" "Come on over here!" Motioning urgently. "There's something we got to talk to you about." "Marcy," turning back, "excuse me a minute. Don't go away now. I'll be right back." "Yeah," said impatiently, clearly annoyed at being pulled away from Marsha. "What's so damned important?"

BECOMING "Mitch Lipensky, meet Irv Steinberg... Irv, Mitch." "Yeah," offering his hand, "hi, Irv."

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"Mitch, Irv knows a guy that's got a whore at his place and she's only charging two bucks a fuck. And Irv says there ain't supposed to be too many guys there." "A whore?" He glanced at Marsha, who was talking to a couple of girls. Though wanting to have intercourse for as far back as he could remember, Mitchell had never wanted--had never even considered--having intercourse with a prostitute. "So?" "What do you mean, so? Come on, let's go! Irv's going there now and says we should follow, and you're the only one with a car!" "Nah, I don't know, Ron." He looked at Norman, "You want to go?" who shrugged his shoulders. "You don't want to go, do you?" About to speak, cutting Norman off, "Sure he wants to go! Don't you, Norm? Come on! She's supposed to be real pretty! Ain't she, Irv?" "D'know." Starting to walk away, "Wadd'a'ya want for two bucks?" Irv said over his shoulder. "Hold on, Irv!" Grabbing Mitchell by the elbow, attempting to steer him out of the courtyard, "Come on, Mitch. I ain't been laid in weeks!" "Yeah, sure, Lurey. I'll just bet you ain't been laid in weeks." He looked for Marsha, but by then she was nowhere to be seen... And being a guy, and being with guys, Mitchell Lipensky, very stupidly, allowed himself to be led away, and astray. In the DeSoto--following Irving Steinberg's black, '52 Chevrolet--with Ron in the middle, "I don't know why I let you talk me into doing this, Lurey." "That girl I was talking to back there, you know her?" "I see her once in a while, but don't know her. She's just a skinny broad that hangs around. What the hell difference does it make?" "We used to know each other when we were kids. I think she's kind'a pretty, and was enjoying talking to her." "Forget her," jabbing Mitchell in the side with his elbow, "we're gonna get laid." Far from enthusiastic, knowing he made a mistake by leaving the J, and Marsha, "Yeah, Lurey, we're gonna get laid." They followed the black Chevy south on Kimball, east on Montrose, south on Western to Waveland, where they turned right, went two blocks and turned left, where, double parking, getting out of his car, walking to the DeSoto, "This here's where the guy lives." Irv said, motioning to a long, two story building across the street. "Don't know why it's so fuckin' crowded here; ain't hardly no place to park. The guy, my pal, he tol' me to go 'round the back so's the neighbors won't notice if there's a few guys comin'n'goin'. He's on the second floor an' said we'll spot his place 'cause he'll have a red light burnin' on his porch."

BECOMING Leaning across Mitchell, "A red light, Irv?" Ron said. "And the guy, your pal, don't want the neighbors knowing he's got a whore there! Kind'a'dumb, don't you think?" "Hey, I don't know. That's what he tol' me! Anyways, I'm gonna find a place to park an' I'll see you 'round back." Going to the Chevy, peeling rubber, Irv pulled away. "Ron, how the hell do you know this guy? Who the hell is he?" "I've got a class with him. He's a law student." "He's a law student? Jesus Christ! And I dropped out of college!"

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Cruising slowly, finally finding a place to park, goaded by Ron, running the two blocks back to the building, rounding the corner into the alley... "Holy moly!" Norman said. "Holy shit!" Mitchell said. "God damn!" Ron said, because... There was a line of men snaking from the entrance of the alley, into the back yard of the second building, up two flights of stairs to a porch that was well lit, sure enough, with a bare-bulbed red light. About ten men up the line. "Hey, Irv!" Norman waved to him and, as they stood, three more guys fell in behind them. "And that idiot," jerking his thumb towards the red light, "doesn't want his neighbors knowing that he's got a few guys coming up? I don't know about you guys," Norman said, "but I'm sure as hell not that horny. And to be honest, I don't want my dick anywhere near any whore who'd just taken this mob on! Come on! What say we get the hell out of here?" "I didn't want to come in the first place!" Mitchell said, glaring at Ron. "Yeah, let's get..." Stopping, he listened to the wailing of nearby police cars. "...the hell out of here!" Ronald needed no coaxing, however, and within a few minutes, laughing over the absurdity of the "unnoticed," red light whore line, hoping to find Marsha still there, speeding back to the J... "I didn't have a chance to ask before, but how long are you in for?" Glancing at Ron, "Four years, but only have two and a half left." "No. I mean how long are you going to be home?" "Oh. I had three weeks leave coming, but the skipper, that motherfuckin' cocksuckin' son-of-a-bitch, would only allow me two. But Mac... McDonald's the yeoman on base... Mac rigged it so I'd be able to take off on my liberty weekend, so even though I'm here for fourteen days, it'll only count as twelve." "Sounds like you don't care much for your skipper." "Care for him, Norm?" he said angrily, "If the fucker fell into the props of one of our crash-boats and got ground into little pieces and they put him into a can I wouldn't feed the asshole to a fuckin' rat... Then again, I

BECOMING probably would, so he'd end up as rat shit."

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Knowing him, Norman knew that Mitchell rarely held a grudge. Taken back by the vehemence in his voice, "Mitch, I've never heard you talk about anyone like that before." "Yeah? Well I've never been the resident kike, sheeny, Christ-killer before, either." "It's like that, huh?" "Yeah, Ron, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it!" "That's bullshit! You can't ask for a transfer?" "Yeah, I suppose I could, but he has to approve it, and I think the fucker likes torturing me too much to let me go. And beside, my alternative is probably a weather ship, and I don't know if I'm quite ready to spend four to six weeks at a time freezing my ass off bouncing around in the Atlantic Ocean." Anxious to get back to the J and, hopefully, resume his conversation with Marsha, speeding through an amber light, God, he thought and prayed, let her still be there! ...But she wasn't. He knew that Marsha was, physically, not the type of girl that he had ever been attracted to. Yet, in bed that night he lay awake thinking about her because there was something about Marsha--her sense of humor, her personality her face, that evening in the far past--and it haunted him. The next day he asked Norman and Ronald if they could think of anyone who might know Marsha. They could not. Opening the Chicago telephone directory, What did she say her last name was? Goldstein? Goldman? Golden? Goldblatt? Goldfarb? Goldbloom? "No!" Slamming the book shut. "Jesus!" There's a million names like that here! * The first week of his leave passed quickly... so quickly. On Saturday he went back to the J to see if Marsha was there. She was not. Describing her, he asked a number of kids if they knew her. They did not. * ...Talking to the friends that she had come to the J with, waiting a minute or so for Mitchell to end his conversation with Norman and the other guy that she'd seen once in a while, but didn't know, and that guy that looked like a hoodlum, Marsha went to the washroom to check her face, and when she returned he was gone.

BECOMING

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Marsha's first thought was that Mitchell--he'd never said and she'd never asked, so she had no idea what his second name was--had ditched her. The wedding of her cousin had kept her from the J on the following Saturday, and two weeks after meeting Mitchell again... His leave over, Mitchell had flown back to New York City the day before, and... As Marsha looked for Mitchell in the courtyard of the J at 8:00 p.m.... More than eight-hundred miles away, in the tower again, on the twenty- to twenty-four-hundred watch, because he knew that he would not be home again until... God knew when... Because he had no way of contacting her, he had, once again, given Marsha up as a lost cause and, with a one-hour time difference, at 9:00 p.m. on Saturday, April 3, 1954, Marsha Goldman was the last thing on the mind of Mitchell Lipensky. 40 There and gone April 3 to June 8, 1954 When he had enlisted in the Coast Guard, due to his love of Susan, Mitchell had been under a great strain and felt that he had to get away from Chicago, so without too much effort he had become rather used to being away from home... Before. On his first leave, though, there was no longer the sense of having to be away, and his time at home was as if it had never happened. Desperately homesick, Mitchell spent the first three weeks back at Rockaway in a state of lonely depression. What he had, more or less, become accustomed to, he now found all but impossible to accept: the unfair watch assignments, KP, the work details, and especially Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing and his never-to-be-accounted-for anti-Semitism. "Floyd Ewing, operator. In Rockaway." Having no idea why, other than looking for some venue for revenge, on a hunch he called information to see if Ewing's private phone number at the station was listed. "Yes." Writing. "Thank you." Well, I'll be damned! When he developed an abscessed tooth in April, Mitchell held off for a day, then, asking permission to see military dentist... "Got a problem with your teeth, eh?" "With a tooth, yes, Sir." Sitting behind his desk in the commanding officer's private quarters--any other enlisted man would be standing at ease but--Ewing had kept Mitchell standing at attention. "And you're asking permission to see a dentist, are you?" Hating him as he did, afraid that if he looked directly into his eyes Ewing would notice and make things even worse, staring at a point slightly to the left of, and above his head, "Yes, Sir."

BECOMING Glancing over his shoulder to see what the younger man was staring at, seeing nothing, "Well, Lipensky," bringing his attention forward again, the corners of his mouth twitching with his make believe smile, "you know how I look at it?"

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Knowing he was well within his rights to request permission to see a doctor at any time, no longer caring if Ewing did see his hatred, his eyes shifting, looking directly into the eyes of the man behind the desk... Completely unaware, of course, that his hatred was exactly what Ewing wanted, because--his eyes flitted from Mitchell's face to the slight bulge at the lower left of his fly and quickly upward again--as he stared at the helpless young man standing stiffly before him, as his left hand toyed with the fountain pen upon his desk, Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing's right hand toyed with the well-pronounced bulge in his own pants and, being who he was, being what he was, as he could not have this man's love he must have this man's hatred. "No, Sir! How do you look at it?" Adding contemptuously, "Sir!" "Well, 'Sir'!" Mimicking, curling his lip, the twitch becoming even more conspicuous--his erection throbbing--"The way I look at it, Lipensky, is like this, 'Sir'! You fucking Jews have enough money and if you want to see a dentist, then I damn well think you ought to pay for it... 'Sir'!" Flashing through his mind, Mitchell remembered a time years ago in the principle's office at Harrison High when he and Norman had been threatened with expulsion for collecting milk and soda bottles for the deposits... and it had worked then. "Yes, Sir, Captain Ewing, Sir!" His own lip curling with contempt, "I will call my father and ask him to wire money to me so that I can see a dentist because my commanding officer refuses to give me permission to see a dentist because he says 'we Jews' have enough money to pay for doctors ourselves. I know he'll just love to send me money for that... Sir!" Of all the branches of the military--because in times of peace the Coast Guard does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defense but rather the Department of the Treasury--the Coast Guard is the most political, so... Both hands upon his desk now, his erection wilting, Ewing knew it! And, as the principle of Harrison High had thought, Who knows who this kike's father knows? Two sets of hateful eyes boring into each other... for once, Floyd Richard Ewing's stare breaking first, the words barely more than a whisper, "Permission granted." "Excuse me?" "Permission granted!" His face red, his hands knotted into fists, "Go see a god-damned dentist!" Not thinking beyond the fact that Floyd Richard Ewing hated--among a host of hatreds--Jews. The man's rumored homosexuality never thought of as anything other than a malicious joke. The idea of himself as the target of Ewing's lust, beyond conception--if Mitchell had thought of it at all--was positively ridiculous! * No longer thinking of sea duty as a bad alternative to duty at Rockaway Lifeboat Station, knowing that he

BECOMING must request a transfer, to anyplace, with the help of Yeoman Second Class Richard McDonald, Mitchell Lipensky submitted a formal request. Because, truly sadistic in his love/hatred, Ewing did enjoy torturing him, "Transfer denied!" On the third of May, submitted again...

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Afraid now--not knowing what Mitchell may have told his father, or whom his father may have spoken to--not wanting his motive for denying the repeated request of a lowly seamen for a transfer to sea duty... Mitchell Lipensky did receive orders to transfer. May 20, 1954 Carrying his sea bag on his shoulder and a suitcase in his hand, he left U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station at 0800 hours. He took the two buses to the Flatbush Avenue subway, then the subway to Times Square. Going into the men's room at the Times Square station, changing into civvies, locking the sea bag and suitcase in a locker, going up the stairs onto the street, asking a policeman for directions, Mitchell walked until he came to a tall building... June 8, 1954 Tuesday: The port section's duty night, the phone rang at 2017 at... "Coast Guard, Rockaway." "Hi," muffling his voice, "is Minnossa around?" "Yeah, I'll call him for you." Taking about four minutes, "Yeah, Minnossa here." "Minnie." Recognizing the voice immediately, "Lippy! How the fuck you doin'?" "Fine. I'm doing just fine. HQ may think Rockaway's great duty, but let me tell you, anyplace away from that asshole is like heaven." "Figured you'd feel that way... So how do you like sea duty?" "Ain't had a chance to find out yet, but we're heading out on Monday... Minnie, where are you now? Where you talking to me from?" "The office." "Anyone around?" "No." "Check it out, will you."

BECOMING

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Wondering about the secrecy, Minnossa poked his head through the door. "No..." Leaning against the half-wall partition, balancing the chair on two legs, the man on watch in the communication room was reading a paperback. "No one's around." "Look, Minnie, I wasn't going to call to find out because I don't want that motherfuckin'"--little did he know--"cocksuckin' son-of-a-bitch coming after me, but I've got to know if..." "It was you! God-damn, Lippy!" He began to laugh. "I thought it was you, but Joe and everyone else said you wouldn't have the guts to do it. Shit! It had'a cost a ton'a dough!" "Yeah, it did, but fuck the money! How'd it work?" "Jesus, Mitch, it had the fucker hoppin' for the last three weeks, and he couldn't stop 'em 'cause they'd been paid for in advance. How much longer it's got to run?" "This Sunday's the last time." "Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted." "Yeah, Minnie... Look, say hello to the guys for me. And, if you want, it's okay to tell Joe, but please don't go spreading it around because that cocksucker could really make trouble for me." Mitch, you think any guy here would squeal on you?" "I'd guess not, but you never know." "Well, yeah, okay, if you don't want me to say anything, I won't. But I tell you, no one would ever tell that asshole nothin'." "Yeah, Minnie, I'd rather you didn't." The line silent a moment. "Anyway, maybe we can get together for liberty sometime." "Sure, Lippy. Just give me a call and let me know when." "Yeah, I will... Well, so long Minnie." "Yeah, so long, Lippy." ...Mitchell didn't, and they never do. Minnossa did, however, and true to his word, no one at U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station ever told the "motherfuckin' cocksuckin' son-of-a-bitch," and next Sunday an advertisement that had run for the three prior Sundays appeared for the last time in the real estate section of the New York Times: STEAL THIS Choice Sheepshead Bay Marina Property suitable for commercial development on 1/3 acre. Triple boat docking facility w/boathouse, huge hotel-like living quarters, triple-size garage w/machine shop. Must Sell! Absolute Sacrifice Call "Dick" Ewing after 10:00 p.m. NU 3-559 The telephone number was Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing's private number.

BECOMING 41 USCGC Halfmoon (WAVP 378) June 14, 1954 to July 27, 1954

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The shrill piping of the three-note, two-tone boatswain's whistle sounded through the ship's loudspeakers. "Now hear this! Now hear this! General Quarters! All hands man your duty stations! General Quarters!" Stepping through the oval-shaped, waterproof hatch partition, he ran to his G.Q. duty station on the starboard side of the number-one deck at the forward davit of the third lifeboat. Permanently berthed in the huge Coast Guard facility on Staten Island, New York, the Coast Guard Cutter (CGC) Halfmoon was 311 feet in length and had a complement of 135 enlisted men and officers. The official duty designation of the CGC Halfmoon was that of a weather ship, meaning, at various times throughout the year, the ship steamed to designated nautical coordinates in the shipping lanes of the Atlantic Ocean to patrol within a set geographic boundary. The duty of the Halfmoon was to offer aid and assistance to any vessel in trouble, and to record and forward changing weather conditions. CGC Halfmoon was armed with a six-inch cannon turret on the bow, triple racks of rolling depth charges on each side of the fantail, and single racks of shooting depth charges on either side of the stern. The patrol station was usually thirty to forty-five days at sea with an in-port period of usually sixty to ninety days. The patrols, either planned or coincidental, always seemed to begin in frigid Newfoundland in the winter and tropical Bermuda in the summer. Men with girlfriends, wives and families complained as the patrols came closer. But, without a girlfriend or wife, and especially after serving fifteen months under the command of Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing, the thought of sea duty, with nothing to do but his--fairly proportioned--watch and work details seemed to be so relaxing and stress free that Mitchell Lipensky was actually looking forward to his first patrol. Darkly overcast, a warm, steady wind blew from the northeast. "Release stern lines!" The called command was passed from the Captain on the bridge to the "X.O.," the Executive Officer on the flying bridge and, via megaphone, seemingly echoing, to the Officer of the Deck then to the men on the stern lines. "Aye, Captain!" The stern angling from the wharf, "Stern lines released!" At his G.Q. station, standing alongside the safety rail, Mitchell watched the sailing procedure. "Release bow lines!" The echoing command. "Aye, Captain! Bow lines released!" Dissipating in the wind, a thin stream of black diesel smoke emitted from the high, white funnel as the ship slowly backed out of its slip. In the channel, the ship backed to starboard and, with a slight shudder, the twin diesel-driven turbines reversed and CGC Halfmoon began the forward motion that would take her within easy sight of the Statue of Liberty, through the narrows of Ambrose Channel, into the Atlantic Ocean and approximately nine hundred nautical miles to Ocean Station Charlie. The piping of the boatswain's whistle. "Now hear this! Now hear this! Secure from general quarters!" The patrol began... And Mitchell learned, very quickly, that the open cockpit of a sailboat, or a motor patrol boat, is a far cry from the pitching deck of a diesel-burning ship.

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Within minutes of leaving the comparative calm of the channel and entering the choppy seas of the ocean, most of the crew became seasick, and within another ten minutes many of them were leaning over the leeward rail dropping their breakfasts into the churning wake... But he had been able, so far, to hold his stomach down--so far. "Hey, Lipensky!" Kneeling on the deck, halfheartedly coiling a length of hawser, watching the receding skyline, looking over his shoulder, "Yeah?" he stood. "How ya feelin', Lipensky?" Short and powerfully built with a ruggedly handsome face, Boatswain's Mate Second Class Hugh Lynch was with his "shadow," Myron Linton, whom, after almost two years as a striker, had--less than two months earlier--finally made the grade from Seaman First to Boatswains Mate Third Class. Linton wore his cap at a jaunty angle on the back of his head, while, perfectly squared, Lynch's cap appeared to be resting on his rather thick eyebrows. His lips pursed as if holding back laughter, Lynch held his right hand behind his back. "Yeah, Lippy," Linton asked, "how ya doin'?" Drawing a draft of air deeply into his lungs, pulling his gut in, tightening it against the queasiness in his stomach, "Okay." Thinking, They're being solicitous, "Thanks, it's nice of you to..." Moving his hand from behind his back, Lynch held what he was holding inches from Mitchell's face. Dangling from a foot of dirty white thread that had been threaded through the rind was a small glob of greasy pork fat that swayed from side to side... from side to side with the motion of the ship. Swallowing, trying to keep his stomach where it, more or less, belonged, Mitchell's eyes hypnotically followed the swaying motion of the glob of fat, as... With a maniacal smile, tilting his head back--letting the fat sway another moment--opening his mouth, lowering his hand, his Adam's apple bobbing... Lynch swallowed it. Leaving where it, more or less, belonged, "Ulp!" Mitchell's stomach moved upward. Lynton giggled. Lynch's eyes shifted from Mitchell's suddenly-white face to his coconspirator's red face, then back to Mitchell and, slowly, oh, so slowly, pulled upward on the thread. His eyes, "Ulp!" followed as... Lynch drew the saliva-covered glob of gray/white fat from his throat and out of his mouth, and... Mitchell ran to the rail. * One day: bright, sunlit heavens. One day: ominous black skies.

BECOMING One day: pounding waves. One day: balmy breezes. Days into days. An endless stream of white, frothy wake followed Halfmoon in the southern Atlantic waters. Nights into nights. Velvety black skies with millions--trillions--of radiantly shining stars. Days into days: Arching their magnificent silver-gray bodies out of the water, pods of porpoise swam alongside Halfmoon. Nights into nights: Beaming behind moist, thin clouds, the incandescent moon appeared as a golden halo. Days into days: In the bridge, at the helm, "Lipensky, left rudder! Come to one-three-oh degrees!" "Aye, Sir. Left rudder! One-three-oh degrees!" On the fantail, "Christ, Linton, look at the wake! Looks like a fuckin' snake!" "Yeah. Wonder who's the idiot on the helm." Nights into nights: As though God were shining a spotlight from heaven, the brilliant moon lit a rippling road of silver for the helmsman to follow. Days into days: Cleaning stations... Chip paint... Kitchen duty... Scrape paint... Lookout... Wire-brush paint... Helmsman... Paint. After work: Bullshit with your pals... Lay in the sun... Sit on a depth charge rack on the stern watching the white clouds, the churning wake, and the white-capped, green sea. At night: Read a book... Write a letter... Play cards... Watch 16mm movies sitting on your pillow on the crowded deck of the rec room with your mates.

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An old Esther Williams movie: Hey, I saw this movie! Where? Oh, yeah! In the drive-in that night with Sally... Sally! Remembering. Thinking of her soft, warm breasts, sensing a twitching in his groin. God, if I had her address, I'd write. "Hi. Mind if I come in?" "Typing, stopping, rotating his chair from the desk, looking at the seaman standing on the other side of the hatch, "Yeah, sure."

BECOMING Stepping over the hatch, coming into the office, holding his hand forward, "Mitch Lipensky."

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Shaking the offered hand, "Don Wilson." The man with the two chevrons and the crossed quills of a Yeoman's Mate Second Class asked, "Can I help you?" "Yeah, Don. I'm thinking of striking for yeoman, and thought I'd ask how to get started." "First thing, you send for the correspondence course. You know how to type, Mitch?" "Not great. I took Typing One in high school. Learned the keyboard, but haven't touched a typewriter since." "Typing's kind'a like riding a bike: once you learn it, with a bit of practice you don't forget it." Pointing to a second desk and typewriter, "Mind if I sit down and practice a while?" "No, not at all." Opening the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, removing a form, "Here you go, Mitch. Fill this out and we'll get it off in the next mail." Days into nights... Nights into days. Work. Sleep. Relax. Resuscitate your mind. Revive your spirit. Feel close to your God and... feel the substance of youth. * "...ETA." "Yeah, so what is our estimated time of arrival?" "Thursday. At about 0630." "In five days, huh! No shit!" * "...Hey, I see it! See it? There it is! New York!" The skyline of New York City becoming larger, becoming clearer, CGC Half- moon steamed out of the Atlantic Ocean, through the narrows of Ambrose Channel, to within easy sight of the Statue of Liberty. "Secure bow lines!" "Aye, Captain! Bow lines secured!" "Secure stern lines!" "Aye, Captain! Stern lines secured!" The three-note, two-tone boatswain's whistle sounded. "Now hear this! Secure from general quarters!" Again, the shrill piping of the boatswain's whistle. 42

BECOMING Chris September 11, 1954

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Leaning against the wall, holding a cup of punch, once again his eyes were drawn to the young woman behind the coffee and doughnut table. Although much thinner than he liked, the woman was pretty, in a stark, dramatic way. And as though she'd shunned the sun, her white complexion appeared even whiter in contrast to her long, black hair that was pulled back and bound close to her scalp, giving her a ponytail--causing Mitchell to have a sense of dj vu--that hung midway down her back. Wearing a dark gray skirt that left no doubt as to her skinniness, the young woman's breasts were but small, sharp bumps beneath her black cashmere sweater. Yet, for a reason he could not fathom, he was attracted to her. Screwing his courage up, walking to the table, he stood a minute until, turning from the soldier she'd been speaking to, "Hi," he said, smiling. "My name's Mitchell." "Hi," she answered, and because that is why she was there, and--taken by his appearance--because she wanted to, holding her hand forward, "I'm Chris." Surprised that she'd offered her hand, "Hi, Chris." holding it from across the table. "You stuck here, or can you dance?" Lifting their hands over the coffee and doughnuts, "No," stepping out from behind the table, "I can dance." After eight on a warm Saturday, the floor was jammed with servicemen and USO hostesses. Holding her hand, he led her to the middle of the dance floor. Fortunately, the LP record that was playing was a medley of slow dance numbers. His left arm about her thin waist, close up he could see that beneath the makeup Chris was actually prettier than he'd first thought. Perpetually thin, being one of those people that could not gain weight no matter what, or how much she ate, taking advantage of her spectral appearance, feeling that she could get away with it due to her profession, Christine Sanbourne did use makeup as a means to attract attention. Now, sexually attracted to this handsome sailor, allowing herself to be pulled closer than she normally would, and easily becoming accustomed to his erratic speed, "You come here often?" she asked. "Don't think I've seen you here before." "No, not too often." Stubbing her toe, "Oops." Moving his head back so he might see her face. "Sorry, I'm not such a good dancer." "Don't worry about it, Mitchie, you're doing just fine." Mitchie! He laughed. "What's so funny?" "Nothing. I just kind'a like the way you call me Mitchie."

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Looking at his eyes, "Oh," forcing hers away, tightening her arms, holding him closer, putting a light smudge of makeup on his blue tunic, "Mitchie's your name, isn't it?" Chris laid her head onto his shoulder. Well aware of the tightening of her body against his, "Sure, it's my name, but I like the way you say it." Holding each other as they were, if Chris had breasts, thinking, I sure as hell can't feel them. But the odor of her perfume, the warmth, and the touch of this strange, but somehow extremely feminine body pressed against his, did, oh, yeah, excite him... And, sensing by the tightness of her arms, that he was, maybe, more than just another serviceman that she was dancing with, "This is why I never learned to dance too good," he whispered warmly in her ear. "Whenever I get too close to a beautiful woman, very strange things start to happen." "Strange things?" Well aware of those strange things, strange things happening within her body as well, still, holding him tightly as he held her tightly, Christine Sanbourne and Mitchell Lipensky danced until the long-playing record ended, then continued to stand in the shifting crowd, mutually holding each other--although, for appearances, not quite as tightly--waiting for the next record to begin... It did... Fortunately, another slow selection. "When do you get off?" "I don't punch a clock here. I can leave whenever I want." "Would you like to get out of here? Go for something to eat, or for a drink or something?" "We're not supposed to go out with the guys we meet here." Looking at her, faltering, "Ooops," stepping on her foot again. "But sometimes you do, don't you?" Though not making a habit of it, "No," she lied, "I never have." As a hint, adding softly, "yet." Yet! "But some of the girls do!" "Yeah, I guess so." Beginning to wise up pertaining to girls/women, not wanting to push it, thinking it best to, at least temporarily, change the subject, "What do you do, Chris?" "I'm an actress." Impressed, "No kidding? Pulling back, looking at her face again, "I've never met a real actress before. What do you, uh, act in?" "A little TV. Some commercials. Mostly stage plays." "Wow, that's great! You in anything now?" "Nah. The last thing I was in turned out to be a flop and it closed after a few weeks, so my agent's looking for something else now." "You've an agent and everything, huh?" "Yeah, I guess." Dancing quietly a minute, "So, Chris, you want too?"

BECOMING Hesitating a moment, "Yes, Mitchie, but we shouldn't be seen leaving here together."

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Knowing where this was leading, his heart thumping, "Great!" Standing away, giving himself a chance to relax before leaving the crowded dance floor. "Tell you what. What if I take you back to the doughnut table, then go downstairs and wait for you outside?" "Okay, but don't wait at the door. When you get downstairs, turn right and wait at the newsstand on the corner, and I'll meet you there in a few minutes." * "I'm not really too hungry," she said. "How's about you?" "Hungry? No, I'm not either. You want a drink, then?" "That, I wouldn't mind! But anyplace we go now'll be jammed..." On Broadway, jostled by the Saturday night crowd, "so why don't we just go to my place." Oh, yeah! "Where do you live?" he asked, thinking, Shit! I'd go home with you if you lived in Alaska. "Not too far from here... So, you want to come home with me?" Looking at her, taking her hand, feeling her fingers tighten about his, "Do whales shit in the ocean?" * The sexual possibilities limitless here, Mitchell had never been with a girl that had her own apartment, especially in a building with a doorman and, totally impressed, "This is a very nice place!" Walking to the picture window, looking at the light-studded Manhattan view, "You must do well as an actress. Should I know you?" "Now? No. Maybe someday, I certainly hope so. But now, my dad's got lots of money, and he'd worry about me if I had to live on what I make, so he helps out with the rent and stuff... Scotch okay?" He'd never had Scotch, but, "Yeah, sure." The kitchen in Christine Sanbourne's high-rise, three-room apartment was separated from the living room by a ceramic tile counter and a row of blonde-wood hanging cabinets that opened to the kitchen. Following Chris around the counter, he watched as, opening the freezer, scooping two hand-fulls of ice out of a plastic bowl, she dropped first one then the other into two lo-ball glasses. Opening a cabinet, removing a bottle of Chevas Regal, filling both glasses to the rim, "Here." handing him one. "Come on." Taking two paper coasters off a stack on the counter on her way out of the kitchen, she dropped them onto the marble-topped coffee table. Sitting on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her, "Make yourself comfortable, Mitchie." Taking a long drink, kicking her shoes off, "I won't bite you." Biting him the least of his problems, a bit nervous, though, because he knew what was coming, trying to look calm, and remain calm, "It's okay, Chris," sitting next to her, "you can bite me whenever..." taking a drink, grimacing, "and wherever you want." He took another drink. Sitting awkwardly, each waiting for the other to say, or do something, Christine Sanbourne and Mitchell Lipensky drank their drinks, and because Mitchell hadn't had anything stronger than beer--and then only one

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or two--since the unhappy night of his eighteenth birthday, the Scotch going to his head immediately, wanting to kiss Chris, momentarily wooden, and at a loss for words, "Mmmm," he said, "this is nice." "Yes, it is. But let me show you what I really love!" Standing, going into the kitchen, turning the lights off on her way out, returning with the bottle of Chevas, Chris refilled both glasses. Leaving the bottle on the coffee table, turning the combination television, phonograph and radio to a classical radio station, "Excuse me a minute." Knowing what she wanted to do, and well knowing from past experience what pancake makeup could do to a navy-blue tunic, going through her bedroom into the washroom, appraising the image of her face negatively, using cold-cream, she removed her makeup. Turning the lights off as she went, coming back to the living room, their thighs touching, sitting alongside Mitchell, taking a long pull of scotch, laying her head back on the sofa, Chris closed her eyes. Soft, beautifully melodic music filled the room as the diffused, flickering light from the lights of the city coming through the large window danced upon the walls and ceiling. "Isn't this beautiful!" Putting his glass onto the coaster, "Yes." No longer wooden, no longer needing words, moving his face to hers, their lips brushed, touched, and made contact. Tasting the Scotch on her lips, and in her mouth... His hand, moving to beneath the bottom of her sweater, rested upon her warm, rock-hard stomach. Feeling his touch, her tongue probed into his mouth. Encouraged, his hand moving upward, "Wait," Knowing, thinking she'd know how to placate him when the time came, "let's go into the bedroom." Oh, yeah! The bedroom! Pulling his shoes off, "Yeah!" he said, pulling his socks off. "Let's go in the bedroom!" Standing, Chris took a step, turned back, lifted her glass and handed him his. Watching each other over the rims, each drained their glass, then, wobbling a bit, she led the way as Mitchell, wobbling a whole lot, pulling his tunic and T-shirt over his head, leaving a trail of his clothing, was fully nude by the time they'd made the short journey from the living room to the bedroom. The curtains before the picture window in the bedroom were fully open and the city lights, additionally reflecting off an oversized dresser mirror, cast a flickering kaleidoscope of light throughout the room. Not realizing that he'd undressed, turning, looking at him, Chris could not tell if he truly looked as good as she thought he looked, or if it was the effect of about four, or more, ounces of quickly consumed Scotch, because--seeing Mitchell as Sally Brockman and Elsa Schmidt had seen him in approximately the same amount of light--darkly tanned except for the area between his navel and crotch, Mitchell's chest and pubic hair appeared to be pitch black and his turgid penis stark white in the reflected, dancing light and... Sensing a warmth in her abdomen--Could be the Scotch?--and a twitch in her ovaries, her breath catching, "Mitchie," she asked, her words a bit slurred, "how in the hell'd you get undressed that fast?" As always, feeling a heightened--and more so due to the Scotch--sense of eroticism at being fully nude before

BECOMING a girl, or, now for the first time, an adult woman, "Magic." Putting his hands on her waist, moving firmly against her...

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"Mitchie," feeling his unrestrained penis prodding into her skirt, "uh," momentarily forgetting what she wanted to say, forcing her nails into the flesh of his buttocks, "wait!" Pushing both hands against his chest, separating their bodies, her eyes traveled from his face downward... then back to his face "I've got to tell you something!" "No!" His words very slurred, "Don't tell me you're not eighteen yet and your dad's a cop!" "No!" Flattered, looking years younger than her thirty-one, knowing that he was--setting a trend for the rest of her life--minimally ten years younger. "I'm... uh, trust me, I'm older'n eighteen. And 'a cop'? No, my father's a stockbroker. Why?" Relieved, "Oh, nothing," he said, tightening his hold. "Mitchie," Now seems like a pretty good time to tell him. "Chris, get undressed, please." "I will, Mitchie..." She will! "... but I've got to tell you something!" "Yeah, baby?" Rubbing his nude pelvis--penis--against her skirted pelvis. "I've my period." "Huh?" Light-headed, not sure he'd heard right, "Your, uh, period?" "Yeah. It's my time'a month. Guess I should'a tol' you before, huh?" "Your time'a month?" In his inebriated condition not quite sure what period or time'a month meant, "Huh?" "I'm menstruating!" "Oh!" his erection beginning to wilt, "No!" "Yeah. Sorry, but..." "I should'a guessed that somethin'" he said with a drunken giggle, "was gonna happen." "You do know what I mean?" Her words becoming even more slurred, "Don't'j'ya?" There was not a girl that he'd ever known, including Susan, or maybe especially Susan, that had been uninhibited enough to discuss with, and explain her menstrual cycle to him, but yet he did have some foggy idea--although foggier now than normally. "Uh, it means I can't touch your," pointing downward, "uh...? An' we can't, uh...?"

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"Yeah. It's only my second day, an' I bleed like a stuck pig, an' believe me, you wouldn't want to...Yucky!" Yucky? Mitchell didn't know how to respond to yucky. "Why'd," he asked, "you bring me home then, Chris? An' how's come we're in your bedroom? An'," looking down at his, by that time fully-retracted penis, "how's come I'm all naked?" "You're a nice guy an'... Now don't let this go to your head, Mitch, but you're like, uh, one'a the best lookin' guys I ever been with. An' you're such'a... like a kind'a innocent guy." "Innocent'?" As though he'd been insulted, "I ain't so innocent!" "Yeah, you are! Come on, Mitchie! Ain't too many guys I know that get a boner just by dancin' with me. Specially since," looking down, cupping what breasts she did have, "I don't have any tits for you to feel when we were dancin'. An' that's kind'a why I was so surprised when, bam, I saw you all undressed just now." Looking at him, fighting the temptation to take hold of his shriveled penis. "An', to tell the truth, I didn't think it would go this far-- yes she did-- the first time we're together." "How's 'bout the guys you work with?" "Huh? What guys? What'd'ya mean?" "Actors you work with. They're good lookin', too, ain't they?" "Yeah, some'a them. But most'a 'em's either married or queer." Even though he was drunk, Mitchell began to feel downright foolish standing fully naked with a completely deflated penis just talking to a fully dressed woman, so, sitting on the edge of the bed, crossing his thighs, holding his hand in his lap, hiding as much as he could hide--which, in his present condition, was just about everything, "So, if we ain't gonna do anything," he asked again," how's come we're in your bedroom?" Her eyes moving from his face to his crotch... Feeling thoroughly exposed and really dumb, Mitchell considered grabbing the pillow from under the comforter to cover himself with. "I'll tell you why!" Completely contradicting her earlier statement regarding not thinking it would go this far the first time they were together, "There's more ways to skin a snake, uh, cat," said as a statement of fact, "an' there's other things we can do, you know." "Yeah," remembering Elsa, he knew there were other things they could do, but, Yucky, he thought, that sure ain't one of 'em! "What?" "I'll tell you what. Hold on a second." Rushing into the living room, refilling both glasses, returning, "Here," handing one to Mitchell, taking a long drink, putting her glass onto the dresser, she hesitated a second, then, pulling it over her head, Chris placed her sweater next to the glass. Hooking her thumbs into the waistbands of her skirt and slip, she pushed them off her slight hips, small buttocks, diminutive thighs and stalky calves. Watching her. Oh, yeah, watching the woman before him, he took a sip and--the ice having melted, finding the taste of warm Scotch repulsive, putting the glass onto the nightstand--bringing his full attention back to Chris, sensing a rebirth in the juncture of his crotch, Mitchell raptly watched, as...

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Thinking herself an actress playing a part--which in fact she was--and also, as a woman in the throes of passion... a drunk woman in the throes of passion--which in fact she most certainly was... Chris took another drink, and because she was ashamed of her body, and in particular her breasts, waiting another moment, taking another drink to ratchet up her courage, reaching behind her back, unhooking the two hooks of her brassiere, crossing her arms to hide her breasts, taking a deep breath she let the brassiere drop to the floor then, dropping her arms, she quickly pushed her panties off and stood, actress or not, drunk or not, self-consciously nude. Thin? Christine Sanbourne's breasts looked to be little more than slight mounds of protruding flesh, the dark nipples appearing to be as large as the breasts themselves. Her chest narrow, the sharp ridges of her ribs easily seen. Chris's stomach was deeply concave and due to this, unhidden by the excessive mass of black pubic hair, the mound of her vulva projected sharply from the juncture of her crotch. But... To Mitchell Lipensky--especially in his inebriated condition--all breasts were beautiful and, yeah, more than a handful may be nice, but, hey, little tits, after all, are still tits, and, to Mitchell Lipensky, all naked ladies were beautiful and Chris--especially in his inebriated condition--was no exception, so, uncrossing his legs, his penis snapping to attention, "Chris," he said as sincerely as he could say in his inebriated condition, "you're Be-U-ituful!" Put at ease, warmed by his words, and about six ounces of Chevas Regal, coming to the edge of the bed, taking his head in her hands, Chris moved her chest, rubbing her breasts... really, her by-then turgid nipples across his, oh, yeah, open mouth, as... Reaching to her rear, holding a small, hard, but very smooth, very warm buttock in each hand, as, savoring the taste and texture of her nipples and the feel of her buttocks, "Chris?" he asked. Savoring the touch of his hands and the feel of his lips, "Yes?" "I don't understand." "Huh?" Leaning back so she might see his face, "What don't you understand, Mitchie?" "I don't see any, uh, Kotex or anything." Though passionate, though drunk, "And if you're bleeding so hard that you're, uh, yucky, how do you keep the, uh, stuff from coming out?" Mitchell was also inquisitive because, after all, this, too, could be a learning experience, couldn't it? "A plug, Mitchie." "A plug?" "Yeah." Taking a step back, reaching between her thighs, arching her pelvis forward so he might better see it in the flickering light, "See?' Chris lifted the end of a piece of string that had been dangling unseen. Looking, squinting, he saw it. And even if he were sober, which he sure wasn't, not understanding--though appreciating the invitation to look very closely at a vagina--Mitchell, drunkenly, thought the little piece of string was somehow a hanging stitch from some kind of female surgery so, "Jesus," he said, "that's not from a, uh, operation?" Operation? "No, Mitchie," Giggling, "A teabag?"

BECOMING Smiling, "No, Mitchie, it's a tampon."

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"Tampon?" His less than agile mind taking a second or two to process the word tampon, "Oh," he said, "It's a tampon!" "Yeah, Mitchie." Coming closer again, straddling his thighs, pushing against his shoulders, "Lay back, Mitchie..." Laying back, "Oh, God! That's nice, Chris." Taking hold of his penis, feeling its heat, holding it, parting her labia with one hand, holding him upward with the other, bending her knees, moving up and down on her toes... rubbing the underside of the glans, and the length of his penis against the silky moist inner lips of her labia... and clitoris, "Mmmm! See," she whispered, "the are other things we can do." With Elsa there was always the material of her underpants that came between them... But this? This, physically, was the closest he had ever come to actually being in a female, and feeling the warm, wet friction as she rubbed herself against him, "Yeah," he said through clenched teeth. "That does feel good!" Lifting his head, grasping her shoulders, he urged Chris downward until the hanging bits of flesh that were her breasts, and blood-engorged nipples were within reach of his lips, and he drew one, then the flesh of the other minuscule breast fully into his mouth as, holding her steady, scooting backwards, his feet leaving the floor, the woman above him now lay fully upon him. With this change of position, rather than being held vertically within the furrow, now, with Chris' body flat against his body, the length of his penis was still held between the fleshy, silken lips, but also now by her gluteus, and having relatively no fat there, being all muscle, held tightly, it was the base of his penis that made contact with, and rubbed against the nodule of her swollen clitoris, and, clasping her buttocks with all ten fingers, Mitchell began to pump his pelvis... upward, downward, as... Lying with her chest to his face, now, putting the palms of both hands to either side of his head, her breast pulling from his mouth, locking her elbows, pumping her pelvis... downward, upward, counter-matching his rhythm, as... Feeling himself nearing ejaculation, going up as she came down... Feeling the direct, hard friction upon her clitoris, going down as he came up.... Feeling the sweet, pulsing sensation within his testicles, closing his eyes, hearing a low, carnal moan as Chris stopped the pumping motion and, slowly, began to rotate her hips... slowly... until all movement stopped and each felt the spreading--hers about as much as his--wet warmth that saturated their closely entwined pubic hair, and, her arms folding under her, dropping onto Mitchell's chest, she lay atop him until their breathing slowed. "Whew," rolling off, laying alongside him. "See?" Giggling, "Tol' you we'd find something to do." "Yeah," His head somewhat cleared, laughing dryly, "you sure did." "What's so funny?" "Oh, nothing." "Come on!" Poking him in the side with her elbow, "What's so funny?"

BECOMING "It's nothing! It's just... Nothing!" "What's, nothing?" "I can't tell you." Coming back onto him, straddling his stomach, tickling him, "Come on, you!" She insisted, "What's so funny?"

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Feeling a queasiness in his stomach from drinking too much too fast, along with a cold stickiness on his stomach, thinking it only his fluid, easily shaking Chris off, lying on his side next to her with his head propped in his hand, "I think," he said hesitantly, "that God, and every girl I've ever met, or will meet," now, seriously, "has had or will have some kind of a conspiracy going against me." "What do you mean?" Thinking she knew. "Every girl you've ever been with has had her period?" Chuckling, "No! Every girl I've ever been with has not had her period!" Getting off the bed, "Never mind, Chris. I'm not going to t..." "You're still virgin, aren't you?" "Forget it, Chris! I'm not..." "That's it! Isn't it? It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mitch, to still be a virgin." "Says you! Mind if I hop in the shower?" "No, of course not. I'd join you," Knowing a shower would sober her, not really wanting to be sober, "but don't want to get my hair wet this late at night. Go on, I'll get you a towel." Waiting for him, having used the sink to clean herself, she'd put a nightgown on. The shower sobering him, his stomach where it belonged, standing just inside the shower stall drying himself, looking at Chris he saw the shadowy V of her pubic hair, and the sharp points of, and the dark, roughly rounded projections of the impressions of the areolae of her nipples through and upon the slick, sheer material, as... Looking at him, too. Seeing the beginnings of the resurrection of his penis, "Mitch, if you'd like... I have no objections to your spending the night here." Tempted! Oh, yeah! Tempted beyond belief, thinking, Damn it! He remembered the only other time he had been invited to spend the night with a woman--Connie, in Wildwood--and he'd chastised himself at least a million times for saying no then. And now, the sight of Chris in a sheer nightgown and the thought that he could be sleeping next to her tonight... Sleeping? And the fact that he could be having more of what he had just had, and even now wanted again, was causing blood to pump upward, from the soles of his feet, and drain downward, from the tip of his head, that was witnessed by the upward jerking of his penis, but, looking for his underwear, "Shit!" he said. Seeing, watching the rebirth, not expecting this answer, "Excuse me?" Walking from the bathroom to the living room, "Damn it, Chris!" Stepping into his shorts, "Believe me," then his pants, "I'd like nothing better than to spend the night here." Pulling the tunic over his head, "And normally

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I'd have tomorrow off, too." Pulling his socks on, "But we're sailing on Monday," then his shoes, "and I promised this pal of mine, that's married and has duty this weekend, that I'd standby for him on Sunday so he can go ashore and spend the day with his family. Damn! I didn't know I'd be meeting you and told him I'd be back before twelve." Glancing at his watch, "Christ, it's almost that now." Fitting the neckerchief beneath the wide flap of the tunic, tying the knot, "I've got to get going, Chris. I'm really sorry! I'd love to stay, more than you'll ever know. Invite me again, will you?" Following him from the bathroom to the living room, watching as he hurriedly dressed, "Sure. Well, like they say, if you gotta go you gotta go." Walking him to the door, kissing each other quickly, "So long, Mitch." "So long, Chris," he said, rushing to the elevator. "I'll call you when I get back." Closing the door, Sure you will, Mitchie, she thought sadly, if you cared enough to get my number. Shit! On the ferry, crossing from Manhattan to Staten Island, mentally kicking himself he realized that he didn't know her last name, and that, Again I didn't get a girl's phone number! Okay, he thought, when I get back I'll go to her building... If I can find her building, and I'll talk to the doorman... If, because he hadn't been paying attention as Chris led the way, I can find the fucking building! And next time she won't have her fucking period! Mitchell Lipensky spent a good part of the next forty-three days thinking about Chris, and his bad luck--the will of God?--at being with a woman who was ready to, and wanted to have intercourse, but couldn't because of a bit of dangling string... And also about the very possible possibility that he would not be able to find her building... And also, and mostly about his stupidity at forgetting to, God damn it! Why didn't I ask for her fucking phone number? 43 Fall Patrol September 13, 1954 to October 25, 1954 The piping of the boatswain's whistle... "Now hear this! Now hear this! Cleaning stations! All hands man your cleaning stations!" The shrill, low, high, low whistle sounded again. Stepping through the waterproof hatch partition, Mitchell Lipensky went to his permanent cleaning station: the C.P.O.'s (chief petty officer's) head. In one hand he carried a mop, in the other a steel bucket containing a toilet brush, a can of scouring powder, waste rags, window cleaner, a few pages of newspaper, a hand-made "HEAD SECURED" sign and a Max Brand paperback western. Hanging the HEAD SECURED sign on the outside, swinging the hatch shut, securing it from the inside, lighting a cigarette, he went to work... After spraying the three mirrors with window cleaner, he shined them with the newspaper. Sprinkling scouring powder onto the three sinks, he scoured the sinks and, not caring how much water slopped on the deck, rinsed and dried all three with waste rags. Using the window cleaner again, he buffed all three to a burnished shine with more newspaper. He scrubbed the inside of the one urinal and two commodes with

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scouring powder, then, spraying window cleaner on the outside of the urinal and one commode only, shined them with waste rags. Dipping the mop into the unshined commode, splashing water onto the deck, he swabbed around the urinal, beneath the sinks and commodes. Rinsing the mop, wringing it out by hand, he re-swabbed the deck until it was near dry, then shined the one unshined commode. Having taken slightly more than fifteen minutes, his duty station manned, having about a half-hour remaining at "duty stations," taking the paperback from his rear pocket, lowering a toilet seat, lighting a cigarette, sitting with his legs spread before him, flicking the ash into the toilet, Mitchell read his book. Bong! A hollow, metallic banging, Bong! A C.P.O., anxious to use the head, Bong!, was pounding on the secured hatch. Jesus, can't he read? "Deck's just been swabbed!" Mitchell yelled from his perch atop the toilet. "Try one'a the other heads!" "Fuck!" The chief petty officer rushed to one of the larger, more difficult to secure, petty officer's or enlisted men's heads. The boatswain's whistle. "Now hear this! Secure all duty stations! All hands report for work parties!" The whistle sounded again. Going to the utility closet, stowing the bucket, brush, mop, window spray, scouring powder and waste rags--that he'd rinsed and laid around the rim of the bucket to dry--Mitchell made his way to the bow of the ship where he reported to Boatswain's Mate Third Class Myron Lynch, who, because the hobby of the Coast Guard is to paint it on then scrape it off, handed Mitchell a paint scrapper and a wire brush. Located on the forward quarter of the ship, the Captain's stateroom was directly beneath the bridge. Working aft, next to the Captain's quarters was the X.O.'s (Executive Officer's) private cabin. Commissioned officers and chief petty officers had semi-private cubicles. First, second and third class petty officers shared a combined living area just forward of mid-ship. The general mess and recreational areas were at mid-ship. Beyond mid-ship were two large compartments housing the "swabbies," the non-rated enlisted personal. The swabbies slept in multiple rows of double-deck bunks. Each man had a narrow, steel locker and a sea chest. In foul weather, cutting through waves, the bow of a ship rises above the water's crest and, as it passes over the swell and drops into its trough, depending on the height of the crest and the depth of the trough, it descends, striking the water with a shuddering crash as the stern glides through in relative smoothness. So, while at sea, the comfort level of a ship usually begins aft and becomes increasingly less so going forward. In essence, the swabbies are more comfortable in foul seas than the captain. Powerful winds howling through the constantly shifting rigging playing a discordant, lunatic's cacophony, the prow rose, ascending upward and upward, until, momentarily, all the man on watch was able to see was a world of roiling black clouds as the Halfmoon was seemingly pushed backwards on the water's precipitous turbulence. Three-hundred-eleven feet aft, the twin propellers rose out of the water to spin uselessly as the ship hesitated on the crest of the wave for an eternal heartbeat, then, as the torrent's momentum pushed the Halfmoon backward, the propellers bit once again and, tottering, the ship slid off the crest of the giant wave into its dark-green, near vertical trough, where it picked up rollercoaster speed and, with a shuddering crash, the prow struck, submerged, and flung a sheet of water backwards, dousing the shivering lookout on the flying bridge, sending driblets of cold water down the back of his foul-weather gear. Now the man on watch saw only boiling green water. Rising... Rising, again... Plummeting again... Again.

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Below deck: Rotating with the motion of the ship, the crew instinctively rotated their bodies from hip to hip as their legs alternatively became longer and shorter. Miscalculating his footing, "God, damn!" a sailor painfully barked his shin on the rise of the waterproof hatch. Another sailor: "Fuckin' helm! Holding his penis with one hand and the urinal with the other as his stream went from vertical to horizontal. "Can't the fucker keep this fuckin' ship steady long enough so's a guy can take a fuckin' piss?" In the galley: Hissing, spitting, water and cooking oil sloped out of secured pots and pans onto gas flames and hot griddles. Eating: Chow trays slid from side to side on the long tables as the men held onto their trays with one hand and the bench they sat on with the other while waiting for a level moment when they were able to release either the tray or bench long enough to shove some food into their mouths before dropping their fork or spoon to grab hold of the tray or bench again. At night: Laying awake, listening as a forgotten screwdriver maddeningly rolled from one side, clanking into the bulkhead... then, rattling as it rolled, to the other side. Sleeping: Shifting from side to side, subconsciously hanging onto the bunk frame... occasionally falling off. Until... The seas abated. The winds subsided. The outside air cold, invigorating. Clouds floated from here to infinity. Forward, to the east, beautiful to behold in the intense, cerulean blue heavens, virginally white clouds formed thin, stuttering banks broken by ragged strips of deep blue sky. To the north and west the clouds were thick and puffy with stark, solid appearing, three dimensions, leaving the definition of their phantom shapes to the eye, and imagination of whomever was looking. * Back in port, on his first liberty Mitchell attempted to find Chris' building, but could not. Hoping she would be there, he went to the U.S.O. But Christine Sanbourne was not at the U.S.O... then or ever, and he never saw her again. 44 Spring Patrol May 2, 1955 to June 13, 1955 Dead, flat out calm.

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Diesel smoke coming from the funnel left a long, unbroken trail of black fume against the dull, cloudless sky. The ship's forward motion bringing the only movement of air onto the three sweating, bare-chested men working on a scaffold lowered mid-way between the main deck and the surface of the water, sweating profusely, wearing neckerchiefs about their foreheads to keep sweat from stinging their eyes--Mitchell thinking he knew how a slice of toast must feel--the sun burnt their backs and, reflected heat radiating off the steel hull, their front-sides, too. Always a sun worshiper, by this time Mitchell Lipensky well knew that lying on a beach was just a bit different then standing for hours at a time chipping paint and scraping rust under the commanding, demanding eyes of Boatswain's Mate Third Class Myron Linton. The men worked with three tools: a sharp-edged chipping hammer; a double-sided, steel scrapper; and a wire-bristled brush. By Mitchell's reckoning, the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean must be littered with these three hated tools, dropped by accident or, more likely, on purpose. The water below the scaffold moved slowly and, oh, so invitingly, but, due to sharks, swimming in these southern waters was strictly prohibited. Tapping the hammer, he chipped away a patch of corroded paint. Using the scrapper and wire brush, he removed all trace of paint and the rust inhibitor "red-lead" for two inches around. Later in the day, either he or one of the others would repaint the down-to-steel spots with red-lead. The next day, when the red-lead was dry, this entire section of hull would be repainted Coast Guard white. Work through for the day, work parties secured, the men took tepid showers in processed seawater, then, while awaiting chow--because below deck the temperature of the steel-hulled ship stood at near eighty degrees--those men not having other duties lounged on the shady side of the ship. Standing on the fantail with ten or twelve crewmen, Mitchell watched as Machinist Mate Third Class John Spagnola and Yeoman's Mate Second Class Don Wilson fished for shark. Because the Halfmoon already had a yeoman striker, Mitchell had been denied permission to strike for yeoman, but he and Don Wilson--whom he jokingly referred to as "Don Wilson of the Coast Guard," in parody of the comic strip and old time movie serial "Don Winslow of the Navy"--had become friends. It was with Wilson's permission that Mitchell had been allowed into the ship's office to practice typing, of which he was improving, slightly, and to study his yeoman's correspondence course, with which--as his studies in the past--he found hard to concentrate on and, after almost ten months, was becoming bored with and losing interest in. Using the machine shop equipment, Spagnola had fashioned an evil looking fishhook out of a two-foot long, half-inch thick steel rod. Attached through the eye of the hook, there was a three-foot leader of light chain. Tied to the end of the chain was a length of half-inch line. A large chunk of bacon rind, triply speared through the hook's barbed point, was used as bait. The standing end of the line was wound once about the capstan, while about forty feet of line trolled behind the slowly moving ship. A bobber made of an empty, sealed five-gallon milk can bounced on the wake approximately thirty feet off the stern. As evening approached, a welcome, cooling breeze blew across the Halfmoon, and the men, dressed in denims, fully appreciated it. "Fuckin' hot today, eh, Lippy?"

BECOMING

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Voluntarily activated from the Coast Guard Reserve, Seaman First Class Stuart Baker had come aboard the Halfmoon one week prior to sailing. Spotting Baker as a "Jewish guy," Mitchell had asked Boatswain's Mate Third Class Myron Linton, "Hey, how's 'bout I teach this guy the ropes?" As reservists were often given' to regulars to break in, "Yeah," Linton had readily replied. So on this patrol, Seaman First Class Stuart Baker, with the knowledgeable assistance of Seaman First Class Mitchell Lipensky, was in the process of learning the finer points of cleaning a toilet... Or, if you will, a head. Forcing his eyes from the hypnotic, bubbling wake, "Yeah, Stu, it sure is." Reaching into his shirt pocket, pinching two cigarettes out of the package, "But this breeze feel good, though." Handing one to Stuart, Mitchell lit both with his Zippo. "Hey!" Wilson yelled. "I think we got something here!" Focusing their attention on the milk can, the men on the deck watched as... Bouncing on the wake, the can sunk beneath the surface of the water until, buoyancy forcing it up, the can jostled against the seething wake for a number of yards before, pulled under again, popping up again... "Yeah," one of the men said, "they got somethin' all right!" ...Once, twice, three times. On the fourth repetition the line went slack and the five-gallon can sank from sight for four, five, six seconds before, surfacing, hurdling several feet out of the water, the bronze colored can, violently jerked beneath the waters surface again, disappeared... Till, with an audible twang, the slack line suddenly pulled out of the water and, running at a straight angle from the fantail to the water's surface, snapped taut. Word spreading throughout the ship, the men not on duty, crowding the rear quarter of the Halfmoon, stood still as all eyes were riveted to the beads of water that dripped off the straining line, and at the point where it disappeared into the water. Fortunately for his hands the line was wound around the capstan at least once, but yet, "Christ!" Spagnola shouted as he'd almost been jerked overboard. "Hey, some'a you guys gi'me a hand!" Already there, Wilson hung on behind Spagnola and Mitchell and Stuart grabbed hold immediately behind Wilson. "Lippy! Baker!" Wilson shouted over his shoulder. "Soon's we get some slack throw another hitch on the capstan! ... Now! Do it!" As the two threw another loop over the capstan Wilson kicked the switch and the iron wheel began to turn, and as layers of rope wound around the winch, the length of rope in the water shortened. No longer needed, Stuart and Mitchell were once again standing to the side with their eyes glued to the quivering line. A black, triangular fin breaking the water, "There's the fucker!" someone called. At least fifteen feet in length, "Jesus H. fuckin' Christ!" another man said. "Will ya look'a the size'a that fucker!" "Holy shit!"

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Swallowing the chunk of bacon rind whole, the hook was deeply embedded within the creature's stomach. Blood from the tear in the beast's stomach now mixed with air and came through its gills in a red froth. Thrashing savagely, the water turned to bloody foam as the shark fought against the forward pull of the line as... Aboard the ship, the capstan hesitated, allowing the line to play in reverse, but before anyone realized and could grab on behind Spagnola, biting, the cogs in the winch began pulling forward again and a trace of smoke, caused by the strong opposing friction, rose from the tightly winding line. As a precaution--in case they did catch a shark--Spagnola had propped an M2 carbine against the winch housing. Grabbing it, throwing the stock to his shoulder, sighting at the thrashing form, he fired... and missed. Another round chambering automatically, he fired again. A stream of blood trickling into the bloody froth, this time hitting the shark high on its back. The movement of the ship and the thrashing of the shark making it a difficult target, Spagnola's third, fourth and fifth shots missed also. The sixth round, though, striking just above the snout, a geyser of blood erupted. The seventh bullet missed, but the eighth shattered the beast's brain and all thrashing stopped... for a moment. "Hey, here come more!" The onlookers had been so intent with the capture and killing of the shark, they hadn't noticed the six other triangular fins that had silently closed in on the bleeding, dying beast. "Hey, we got fuckin' company!" Whipped into a blood-feast frenzy, violently jerking from side to side, the dead shark was being bitten into by the hoard of cannibalistic carnivores. Handing the carbine to Wilson, Spagnola turned the winch off. Inserting a fresh clip of .30 caliber ammunition into the rifle, firing indiscriminately into the pack, causing more blood, attracting more sharks, popping the spent clip, "Lippy," Wilson said, jamming a fresh clip into the carbine, handing it to him, "take a shot!" Not really wanting to, but accepting the rifle, holding it to his shoulder, sighting through the two sights, Mitchell squeezed the trigger... As the piece was on automatic--the rapid recoil jerking the rifle upward--not wanting to appear too inept to his shipmates, instinctively forcing the barrel of the rifle downward, the entire clip of eight bullets fired. Five shots shooting harmlessly into the water, three ripped into the gray side of a baby shark that immediately turned belly up exposing its soft underside that--spewing a fountain of blood and intestines--was instantly ripped into by two other sharks. Not intending to hit anything, this being the first time he'd killed anything, his face turning from gray to green, "Here." handing the M2 back to Wilson, walking from the fantail, leaning against a bulkhead, slumping to the deck, Mitchell sat in the shade with his head hanging between his cocked knees. The Boatswain's whistle then, "Now hear this! Chow time! Chow time!" Again, the Boatswain's whistle. Mitchell Lipensky never, never, missed a meal. As a matter of fact, he was usually one of the first dozen or so men in the line. But on this evening he still sat with his head hanging between his propped knees. 45 Home Again

BECOMING June 16, 1955 to July 2, 1955 Resting her head on his lap, "Normie," scratching behind her ears, "hi, pal!" "Hey, Mitchie! When'd you get in?" Rubbing between the Dalmatian's expressive eyes, "About five." Sitting in the den with his ankles crossed over the corner of the desk. "How the hell've you been?" "Okay! You?" "Fine! Now that I'm home, just fine... So, what are you doing?" "At the moment, studying, but later, anything you want... How long you back for?" "Sixteen days. I got to be back on the third... So, how's college? You glad you didn't enlist last year?"

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"College? It's okay, I guess. But I still have no idea where I'm going with it, and I'm still considering the Navy when this semester's over." "Hey, Normie, take it from me and give it lots'a thought before you do." "I have, Mitchie, I have." "So, how's it feel to be an old fart?" "Old fart, huh? Why, 'cause I'm twenty-one? Hey, schmucko, you got what, another couple'a months?" Quiet a moment, "Jesus!" Mitchell said, "Twenty-one! I can't believe it." "You know what the alternative is, don't you?" "Yeah, I guess... Hey, where the broads hanging out now'a'days?" Coming into the den, Myra handed her son a dish. "Same ol' Lipensky, eh? Never change, do you?" Nodding to his mother, "Yup," opening the sandwich of homemade bread, "that's me, the same ol' Lipensky," revealing a thick layer of chopped liver, biting into it, "Mmmm." "Pardon me?" "I said, mmmm, but I'm talking to my mother." Holding his right thumb upward, "That's great, Mom!" "Thursday evening?" Norman hesitated. "Saturday nights it's still the J, I guess." "Think, maybe, we're getting a little old to hang out at the J?" "You think?" "Yeah." The J. The remembrance of a tall, pretty, dark-complected, Semitic-appearing girl flitting through his

BECOMING mind, "Maybe." "Askanaz." "Askanaz? You mean the deli on, uh...?" "Morris Avenue." "Yeah. On Morris, near the beach?" "On a Thursday? Yeah," Norman said, "that's the best I can figure." "Mitchie, hi!" Turning, "God-damn!" looking over his shoulder. "God-damn what?" "No, I wasn't talking to you. Hold on a minute, Larry just came in." Laying the phone on the desk, standing, "Holy shit! I can't believe it! Look at you!" Just past his twelfth birthday, Lawrence was almost as tall, and just about as broad, as his older brother. "Jesus, Larry, you're bigger'n'me!" Beginning to hug, thinking better of it, the brothers began to shake hands, but then hugged anyway.

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"Yeah, well," pointing to the chopped liver sandwich, "you know how mom feeds us." Glancing at the phone, "Who you talking to, Norman?" "Yeah." "Go on, Mitchie, talk to him. I'll talk to you later." "Norm, shit, I can't believe how these kids have grown. How's Marshall? He's a giant, too?" "Nah, I'm still bigger'n him... How's your folks and Mortie?" "My dad's still at the studio, so I haven't seen him yet. Mom and Mortie drove to the airport to pick me up and I couldn't believe it when I saw him. God! Can you believe he's going to be seven in six months? Shit! Where's the time fly?" "You said it! So, you want to see who's at Askanaz?" "Yeah, I guess... I'll pick you up at, oh... say about six-thirty, seven, okay?" * "You want to meet me at Askanaz later, maybe see who's around?" "Yes, sure. What time?"

BECOMING "You want to eat there?" "Sure," she said tersely. "You don't think my mother came home to feed me, do you?" "No, guess not... Six-thirty, seven, okay?" "Yes, that's fine, but make it closer to seven, and if you beat me there, get a table... Bye, Shelly."

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Dropping the phone on the cradle, walking from the kitchen to her dresser in the dining room, opening the top drawer, the girl rummaged carefully until she found a push-up brassiere and nylon underpants. Going to the 6x5 passageway between her parent's bedroom, the living room and the bathroom--that also acted as her closet--the girl removed the summer wool skirt and white cotton blouse she'd worn that day. Dropping the blouse in the clothes hamper, she hung the skirt on a hanger. Sitting on the hamper, the girl removed her loafers and bobby socks. Leaning against the wall, holding her legs forward, letting the comforting air cool them, she wiggled her long toes. The girl had spent the last eight hours on her feet, working as a corsetiere in training at Lanathan's, a large lingerie shop located on Lincoln Avenue on Chicago's north side--a job she'd held since graduating from high school last spring. Standing, she unhooked her brassiere, pushed down and stepped out of her panties and, using the toes of her right foot, lifted them off the carpeted floor and dropped her underpants, along with her socks, into the hamper. Nude, going into the bathroom, closing the door, the girl stood a long moment looking at her reflection in the full length mirror that hung on the back of the door. No one knew where her height came from because, at five-seven and a half, the girl was taller than her brother and both of her parents. Having broad shoulders, a straight waist, practically no hips and small, tight buttocks, looking at her from the rear, the girl could easily pass for a slight boy. From the front, though, there was no mistaking that Marsha Goldman was definitely all woman. Her long, curly, black hair framing a pretty, dark-eyed, classically sensual face; deeply tanned, the portions of her body that had been protected from the sun stood out in solid contrast to the rest of her body. Though the size of her brassiere was 34B, because she had a wide rib cage, appearing larger than they actually were, her breasts did tend to fill out at the sides, giving her attractive, wide cleavage. Roughly the size of half-dollars, her areolae were domed, dark pink in color. Marsha had a thin--bordering on skinny--torso, and long, slender legs. Her tightly curled, pitch-black pubic hair was silky fine and had been trimmed short so that no embarrassing, stray "pubies" could slip out from between the legs of her bathing suit. No matter how good they may look to others, as most people, being unhappy with certain aspects of their appearance, Marsha wished there was some way her nose could be made shorter, and, bringing her hands tightly down her sides, pushing her fists into the soft flesh above her hips, making deep impressions, Marsha thought--for at least the millionth time in her eighteen, going on nineteen, years--If I only had hips! Marsha Goldman had a sharp, quick mind and a funny, extremely pleasing personality. Well liked, she was often the center of attraction no matter whom she was with, and did have numerous friends, both male and female.

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As though to spite, or rather in spite of her mother, Marsha was a definite "hands off" girl. This was not to say that she didn't like to "neck"; on the contrary, with the right young man she truly enjoyed "schnoogling." But no matter how hot the situation had become, for either the young man or herself, Marsha's breasts and everything between her waist and thighs were absolutely, strictly, hands-off! Fastening the three hooks of the push-up brassiere in the front, rotating it around her chest, Marsha fit her breasts into the cups and, lightly pinching the flesh, pulled both upward. Searching the bar that held her blouses, choosing a light blue, sleeveless one, she put it on, buttoned all but the top button, then decided to leave the second button unbuttoned, too. Pulling on a pair of ironed Levi's, she tied the tails of the blouse over the waistband. Sitting on the hamper, Marsha put a pair of sandals onto her bare feet, then went back to the bathroom to appraise herself in the full-length mirror. The Goldmans lived two blocks from the beach, on the ninth floor of a moderately high priced, somewhat fashionable apartment building just west of Sheridan Road on the far north side. * On any warm evening, except for the "high holidays" when the restaurant was closed, the entry to Askanaz would be packed and the sidewalk in front of the popular delicatessen crowded with the overflow of people waiting to hear their names called, and also with young people who were there just to see "who was around." Arriving minutes apart, they waited twenty minutes before being seated. In a booth on the east wall towards the back of the restaurant, sitting across from each other, Shelly faced towards the front. With a waitress standing alongside their booth, Marsha ordered hot brisket on a kaiser roll and a Coke; Shelly, pastrami on rye and a Coke. As usual, the girls shared an order of French fries. Arriving at the Parminter apartment at seven, Mitchell had spent a few minutes with Frank and Ida getting caught up on family matters. Leaving the apartment at seven-fifteen, driving to Morris Avenue, the boys circled awhile before finding a parking spot in the congested neighborhood. It was a bit past eight when, standing in line, they were waiting to give their names to the hostess... The waitress having brought the girls their drinks, "Hey," Shelly said, the straw dropping into her Coke, "dibbies on the blonde guy!" Turning in the booth, looking over her shoulder... Deeply tanned from the spring patrol and hours of shirtless work parties in the hot, Atlantic sun, he wore a white sport shirt opened three buttons down, worn Levi's, and his old, white-buck shoes. ...Mitchell! Snapping her body forward. Knowing her friend appreciated a good-looking boy as much as she, "Marcie, what's wrong?" "You don't recognize them?" "Why," looking at the two young men as they gave a name to Sadie, the hostess, Shelly's forehead furled in thought, "should I?"

BECOMING "Think!" "You know I'd never forget any guys that look that good!" "Oh, yeah? Remember the Palladium?" "The Palladium?" Shelly questioned. "In Union Pier?" "Yes. About, uh," thinking, "six years ago." "Yeah!" Dawning on her. "Sure! The dark guy's the guy that thought you were too young for him... uh?" "Mitchell." "Yeah, Mitchell. And the other guy's... Norman!" "You got it!" Glancing over her shoulder again, "You want me to see if they'd like to sit with us?"

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"Marcie, you know I've always had a thing for blonde guys! And somehow I get the impression that you sure want 'em to sit with us... Sure, go on, see if they want to." Standing within the mob of people inside the open door, craning their necks to see if there was anyone there that they recognized, traversing the large room slowly, Marsha! His pulse quickening, Mitchell's eyes stopped at the right side of the restaurant when he saw a tall, familiar-looking girl stand up, step out of the booth, and begin to weave her way between the scattered tables towards the front of the delicatessen. "So, see anyone we know?" "Yeah..." Approaching, fastening and holding, Marsha's dark-brown eyes meeting Mitchell's green eyes, "we do." Turning his head, watching the tall, slender girl as she made her way to them, "We do know her, don't we?" "Yeah, Normie, we sure do." "Mitchell." Looking at each other, neither smiling, the young man and woman stood a yard apart. "Marsha," swallowing, holding his hand forward, "hi." Looking down, realizing he wanted to shake her hand... wanted to, Yes! hold her hand, moving hers to his... Touching. "Hi." His hand closed about her hand, then, the handshake no longer a handshake, their fingers twining about each other's... The threads of what they'd lost on that dark road on their walk from Union Pier to Lakeside six years earlier were picked up and began to tighten about their hearts as... The sight of this young woman, the mere touch of her hand in his warming him, comforting him as the touch of no hand had since... in three years. At a loss for words, able only to say, again, "Marsha, hi." The sight of this young man, the touch of her hand in his warming her in a way such as the mere touch of a

BECOMING hand had never warmed her before.

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"Uh," breaking the intense eye contact, but unwilling to let go of her hand, turning to Norman, "Norm, you remember Marsha... uh?" Looking at the girl, embarrassed, he reluctantly released her hand. "Goldman," she said, smiling. "Marcie Goldman." "Yeah! Goldman! That's it... Norm, this is Marsha Goldman." Their eyes locked again, "Goldman! Goldman! I won't forget it again!" "Yeah," Norman said, "we met about a year ago; at the J." "No... Well, yes, but think back. You and Marsha met each other long before that." "We did?" "Yes, sure we did. And you even know my girlfriend." Turning to the rear, Marsha motioned to Shelly. Seeing them looking at her, lifting her arm, Shelly wiggled her hand from side to side. Squinting, even from this distance Norman could see that she was cute and hadn't the slightest qualm about meeting her. But, shaking his head, "No," he said, "I don't remember meeting either of you girls before." "Oh, you'll remember all right!" Marsha said knowingly, adding, "How'd you guys like to sit with us?" "Yeah," Norman said, "we'd love to!" Following Marsha to the booth, "Shelly," she said, "you remember Norman and Mitchell." "Do I remember Norman and Mitchell? Yes," Shelly replied, "of course I do!" This confusing him all the more, making room for him, Norman sat alongside Shelly. Marsha slid into the empty seat, Mitchell followed and, sitting closely together, each aware of the warmth, the outsides of their thighs touched. Shaking his head, "No," looking at her closely, "I'd never forget anyone as cute as you, Shelly, but I'm sorry, I just can't remember where I'd met you before." "I am crushed!" Shelly said, feigning hurt feelings. "You really don't remember walking me home in Union Pier?" "Union Pier? No," thinking. "No, sorry, I don't." "Marcie and me were in the Palladium playing pinball, and you and Mitchell came over and we started to talk... Remember?" Still seeing a blank look on his face, "And then we went to the bowling alley, and then you guys..." "Oh, yeah!" Remembering. "Lakeside! You two lived in Lakeside, and me'n'Mitch walked you home!" Smiling. "Yeah! Hi!" Leaning closer, kissing her on the cheek, "Now I remember, sure!" he said happily, "Shelly, my old pal, how the hell are you?"

BECOMING "Fine, Norm! Just fine!" Punching him playfully on the shoulder, "How the hell are you?" "Now that I've finally met you again, I'm fine, too!"

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The waitress, standing alongside the booth holding a tray with sandwiches and an order of fries, "You boys wann'a order somethin'?" she asked as she put the pastrami on rye in front of Shelly and the hot brisket sandwich on the table before Marsha. Even though he'd had dinner no more than two hours earlier, "Yeah," Mitchell said. "A corned beef on an onion roll and a chocolate egg-cream." "We don't have none'a them." "Corned beef? You don't have corned beef? Onion rolls?" "No... Yes, we got corned-beef'n'onion rolls!" Looking at Mitchell as though he were a bug. "We don't have the other... the what'ch'a'ma'call'it." "Egg-cream? Oh, yeah," remembering that egg-creams were indigenous to New York City. "Okay, then, I'll have a corned beef on an onion roll and a chocolate phosphate, and I like it extra sweet, please." Speaking to Norman, "An' what about you, sport?" "Uh, I'll have the same..." Looking at Marsha's sandwich, "No, give me what she has, and a cherry Coke." Turning from the booth, beginning to walk away... "Ma'am," Mitchell called after her. "Turning back, "Yes?" "Put it all on one bill." Pointing to the dishes in front of the girls, "theirs, too." "You don't have to do that, Mitch." "Yeah, he do!" "It's okay, Marcie," glancing at Norman, "I want to." Laughing, "Hell!" Norman said, looking at Marsha. "Ol' Scrooge here," nodding his head towards Mitchell, "must really be trying to impress you." "Yeah," he said, looking at Marsha, too, "I guess I am... Go ahead, eat. You girls don't have to wait for us." "No, we'll wait for you guys." Sipping her Coke, "How's your brother, uh...?" "I got two now. But the one you saw that night is Larry." "Larry, right!" Remembering. "What's the other's name?" Not knowing the true story, "Poor kid. My mom named him..." beginning to laugh, "Morton Humphrey Lipensky. Ain't that a mouthful? How's your brother... What's his name?"

BECOMING Fighting the urge to curl her lip, "Roger." "Yeah. How's Roger?"

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"Fine. He got married, oh, about six months ago, and Brenda, that's his wife, she's three months pregnant now. He works for my dad." Reappearing with their sandwiches and drinks, conversation stopped as the waitress placed them in front of the boys. "So tell me, where'd you guys disappear to last year?" Swallowing what was in his mouth, "When are you talking about?" Norman asked. "When I saw you two at the J." "Oh, yeah, 'then'... This pal of ours, Ron Lurey, introduced us to..." Remembering, "Irv Steinberg!" Norman began to laugh. "Irv Steinberg! Yeah, what a..." Thinking of the whore fiasco, Mitchell, too, began to laugh. Giggling, "What's so funny?" Shelly asked. Attempting to stop, "Oh, nothing." But, looking at Norman, Mitchell began to laugh harder. Catching the laughter's contagious infection, "Come on, you guys," Marsha, also, began to laugh and, barely able to get the words out, "tell us what's so funny!" Hearing the uncontrollable laughter, people at neighboring tables looked to the booth. Taking his glasses off, rubbing his palms over his teary eyes, gasping the words, "We can't tell you!" "Come on, Norman!" Poking Mitchell in the ribs with her elbow. "Sure you can!" But only succeeded in making him laugh all the harder. "Oh, no! Believe me, we can't!" "You guys..." Shelly stammered, "get all the fun." Out of breath now, the hysterical laughter stopping slowly, "Know what I think, Shell?" Marsha said. "I think they went to the whore." The boys looked at each other, then at Marsha. "How the hell'd you know about the whore?" Norman asked. "How? It was all over Roosevelt on Monday. There were about a hundred-forty guys there, and when the cops came, there was a kind'a riot and twenty-three of 'em got arrested." Looking at Mitchell, "It was the whore, wasn't it?" "Uhh..." Looking at each other, the boys smiled.

BECOMING "Yeah," Norman said sheepishly, "we were there."

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"But it sure as hell wasn't our idea!" Mitchell said defensively. "It was that putz, Lurey. He dragged us there, and we were never up there, uh, with the whore." Adding, "Jesus, it was the funniest thing I ever saw! You think, Normie?" "Yeah, it was!" Adding defensively, also, "And we never even got close." "The idiot that had the whore up there didn't want his neighbors to know that he had a whore up there, so he had all the guys come 'round the back..." "Yeah," Norman's laughter coming again. "and guys were all over the place. And just so's everyone knew they were in the right place--I couldn't believe it!--the stupid guy had a..." "Red light!" Mitchell interrupted, breaking up again. "A red light?" Shelly asked. "Really? A red light!" "Yeah! Well, like we said, we didn't think it was such a hot idea in the first place..." "Actually," Mitchell interjected, "I thought it was a real..." looking at the girls, speaking softly, "shitty idea!" "Yeah, actually I did, too, and when we saw all those guys, whether Lurey wanted to or not, we figured the hell with it!" "And when we heard the cops, we took off." "Fast," Norman added. Becoming serious, looking at Marsha, "Yeah, fast! And I rushed back to the J to see if you were still there, but you'd gone." "You could have tried calling! I did tell you my name!" "I don't have such a hot memory, and couldn't remember if you said your name was Goodman, Goldstein, Goldman, or Golden. God, do you have any idea of how many Goodmans, Goldsteins, Goldmans, or Goldens there are in the Chicago telephone book?" Attempting to hide her pleasure, "You tried calling me, huh, really?" "Yeah, Marcy, sure," he smiled. "I cannot tell a lie." "You cannot tell a lie? Who are you, George Washington?" "No. I'm not George Washington, but I cannot tell a lie." "Jeeze, a guy that doesn't lie," Shelly said. "That's different." "Yeah, I cannot tell a lie because I always get caught." Forgetting what Marsha had told him last time, his thoughts and intentions not being all that honorable, afraid that she might still be too young for him, just to be on the safe side, "Marcy," he asked timidly, "you don't, uh,

BECOMING still go to high school, do you?" "Are you starting that again, Mitchell?" she scolded jokingly, but... Not picking up on it, "No," he said seriously, "but..." Seeing the pained look on his face, "Don't worry, I graduated a year ago." Relieved, "I wasn't worried." he lied. "You going to college?" "No. I'm a meatpacker." "Huh?" Norman stared at her. "A meatpacker?" "Like in the stockyards?" Mitchell asked disbelievingly.

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"No, not like in the stockyards. I fit and sell brassieres and girdles in a lingerie shop over on Lincoln Avenue." Not understanding the pun, "Oh," Norman said. "You kids be wantin' somethin' else?" Looking from the waitress to the girls, "You guys want dessert or anything?" "No, thank you." "Thanks, Mitchie, but I'm stuffed" "Well, so long as you're paying, Lipensky, I'll have..." "Forget it, Parminter... No, ma'am, just the bill, please." * Outside, in the warm, spring air, standing within the throng of milling people, "You know," Norman said, "when we first met you two, Mitch'n'me wanted to go to the beach and you said..." "No doubt to watch the submarine races." Looking at Marsha, remembering, smiling, "And you said, 'You don't know us well enough.' Well, we've known each other for about six years now, so how's about a walk down by the beach?" Without waiting for an answer, taking the initiative, reaching to Shelly's hand, Norman led her out of the crowd. Glancing at each other, Marsha and Mitchell followed. Separating sand from grass, the sidewalk ran crookedly south and north, seemingly going on forever. Millions of minute, sparkling pinpoints of light emanating from its creamy surface, reflecting moonlight caused the concrete ribbon to glow a milky, iridescent white. Far in the lead, as they had been six years earlier, Shelly and Norman were all but out of sight. Strolling slowly, silently feeling the night's beauty and close proximity of each other, Marsha and Mitchell

BECOMING walked side by side, without touching... except that every now and then their loosely hanging hands "accidentally" brushed each other.

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Looking to his right, "You know," he said after a while, "it's really amazing how things work out. I mean like us, now." Looking to her left, "Yes, it is. In Union Pier that night, when you got mad at me and ran away... Strange, but even now I remember how badly I felt." "Well, Mitchie, you were right, I was too young for you." "Oh, I don't know... Yeah, I guess you were. How old are you now?" "I'll be nineteen in October. You?" "Twenty-one in August." "You like the Coast Guard? Why'd you join?" "Well," using Norman's rational, "I'd started at Wright, and wasn't going anyplace very fast and thought the Coast Guard would give me time to sort of figure out what I wanted to do. And, yeah, I liked the Coast Guard okay, then I got shipped to Rockaway, and..." "Rockaway? Oh, yeah! You told me last time, in New York." "Yeah... The old man, uh, the skipper, there is a..." Stopping, he looked for a word that could best describe Ewing and his feelings towards him without offending her. "Excuse me, Marcie, but the only way I can describe that son-of-a-bitch is as a first class asshole." "It's okay, Mitch, I've heard the word before." "Maybe you have, Marcie, but I don't like swearing in front of girls. But that's the only way I can describe him because he hates Jews and did everything he could possibly do to make me hate him, too. And by the time I got transferred from Rockaway I hated the Coast Guard also, so now all I'm doing is putting my time in, waiting to get out." "That's terrible, that someone like that could be in charge of a place like that... You said you're not at Rockaway anymore?" "No. I had a run in with the... skipper, and transferred to sea duty. I'm on a weather ship now." "Now you see," smiling, "you learn something new all the time. What's a weather ship?" "We go to sea for four to six weeks at a time, reporting weather conditions, and in winter to see if there's any icebergs floating around that could be dangerous to other ships." He chuckled. "In winter we're usually somewhere north of Newfoundland freezing our... tushies off, and in summer, when we wouldn't mind things being just a bit cooler, they send us to patrol off Bermuda." "Sounds like it could get kind of boring at times." "Nah, it ain't so bad. Matter of fact, in a way it's kind of relaxing, being at sea with nothing to worry about except doing your work... Unless there's a girl ashore that you miss."

BECOMING Looking at him, "Is there a girl ashore that you miss?" Quiet a number of seconds, then, when Marsha thought he was not going to answer... "No," he said softly, adding, "not until now."

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Feeling her heart lurch, Not until now. Getting the answer she'd wanted, but not sure how to respond, "How long till you're discharged?" she asked. Hoping for some sort of positive response to his not until now, but not too sure if she'd even heard him, "Almost a year and a half." he answered. "Oh! That's such a long time, Mitchie!" The tone of Marsha's voice causing him to look at her, "Yeah, I guess it is." Pointing to a bench, "Let's sit for a while." They sat a foot apart, looking at the reflection of the moon's wide tail on the calm water of Lake Michigan. Overcoming much of his shyness, Mitchell had been much more aggressive with the girls he'd met in the last two years, by this time kissing them--or at least attempting to kiss them--and he wondered about his sudden shyness with this girl, whom, if taken piece by piece, was just about as far from what he thought "his type of girl" was as a girl could possibly be. Now, though, inching closer--again feeling the heat of her thigh against his--bringing his arm over the back of the bench, his hand brushed her hair and, holding a few silken strands within his fingers, looking at Marsha in profile, the two sat without speaking: he, looking at her, and she, looking at the water. Marsha was aware that Mitchell was touching her hair and--the sense of just his touch sending a shiver through her--turning her face to his, she forced a smile, but Mitchell did not smile in return and her smile faded as, looking at him, Marsha suddenly had the sensation that they were alone in the world; just this young man and herself, as... Not yet sure if he was happy that this was happening again, but for the first time since--the thought truly, now, no longer hurting him--for the first time since Susan, Mitchell had the sensation that he and a girl... that he and this young woman were alone in the world, and... In two minds there was the remembrance of a balmy night, such as this, with soft music and fireflies, and an innocent, soul-touching kiss, and... Kiss me! Marsha's mind willing him, Kiss me! And... Each feeling the softness as they came together gently, their lips barely touched, then parted. And this innocent, passionless kiss, for the second time--with this same young man--in Marsha Goldman's eighteen years, and the third time--twice with this same young woman--in Mitchell Lipensky's twenty-one years, this innocent, passionless kiss sent their universes spinning. Moving closer now, Mitchell's hand upon the back of her head guided Marsha's head and lips back to his as, crossing her body with his left arm, putting his hand onto the small of her back, he moved her chest against his, as, without hesitation, Marsha twined her arms about his neck and, melding into each others arms--this kiss not quite as passionless nor quite as innocent as the first--the first touch and caress of tongues on lips sent a sweet, subliminal jolt, then, a moment later, the fondling of their unfamiliar tongues fired waves of

BECOMING excitement throughout Marsha and Mitchell, as... Holding tighter, Mitchell felt the yielding pressure of Marsha's breasts against his chest, as... Moving her hand against the back of his head, forcing Mitchell's mouth harder onto hers, and... As though attempting to make up for the years the two had been lost to each other, their kiss became even more heated, even more impassioned, as...

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Subconsciously, the emotion of this kiss fused with the emotion of two past kisses and there came to Mitchell the sensation of being kissed... There came to Mitchell the sensation of kissing a girl within a field of swirling snow... or might it be fireflies? And... Enraptured with the taste and touch of this kiss, Mitchell moved his arm from around her back and, as their bodies strained onto each other, his splayed fingers held Marsha within the warmth of her bare armpit where the palm of his hand rested upon the soft swell of the outer side of her compressed breast, and from the heat generated upon his hand he knew it was not padding that he felt and, Oh, God, how he wanted to hold this girl! But... Her mouth open to his, the erotic probing of their tongues was at least as much due to her passion as his and, psychologically reeling, this kiss, emotionally, was like no other kiss Marsha had ever received, or given, but now she did realize that he was touching--somewhat, kind of--touching her breast, and as much as she did not want to break the kiss, or the mood, or really for that matter, move his hand, Marsha did have her instinctive boundaries--especially with this, their first adult, kiss--and was about to remove Mitchell's hand when... Not having kissed any girl that had touched him, even remotely, as deeply as this kiss since he'd last kissed Susan--or possibly when Susan and he had first kissed--the feel of the softness of even this small a portion of Marsha's breast filled Mitchell with an unfathomable desire. But, realizing that this girl was not just another girl, and, even though he thought that she might not be aware of where his hand was, but... Out of respect for what he knew was building between this girl and himself, moving his hand, feeling its, oh, so smooth coolness, Mitchell placed both hands to either side of Marsha's face. Relived that she hadn't had to move his hand; appreciating him all the more for the respect he'd shown her by doing it himself, but well aware that they had better stop this kiss before he touched her there again, when she would have to move his hand, "Whew!" Marsha reluctantly broke their kiss. Inches apart, each felt the others warm breath on their lips. "Jesus, Marcie!" Moving his face against hers, feeling her cheek upon his. "You are some kisser!" "Yeah? Well you're no slouch, either!" Leaning back on the bench, "God!" drawing air into her lungs, "Is that how all sailors kiss?" Taking her hand, "I don't know," he said, laughing, "to tell the truth, I hardly ever kiss sailors." "And to tell you the truth, I don't usually go 'round kissing guys like that on a first date... Or any date!" She chuckled. "And this isn't even a date." "Marcie, you do know that this isn't the first time we've kissed." "Yeah, Mitchie, I've thought about that, too."

BECOMING "You remember us kissing at the..." "Lakeside Hotel... Yes! How could I forget? That was like my very first real kiss."

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Amazed that he so clearly recalled that long-ago emotion that he thought he had forgotten a day or two after it had happened, "Marcie," lifting her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm, "when I kissed you then, at the hotel, the world seemed to spin for me." Not answering, Yeah, for me, too. Marsha remembered her world spinning then too, and now. Hoping what he had said, and what he was about to say, didn't come across as a corny line. "Tonight, just now, the world spun for me again, and... Marcie, I'm going to be home for two weeks, and I have a feeling that we're going to be seeing a lot of each other... That's if you want to." Oh, yes! But don't be too anxious! she told herself. But, her emotions not fully under control, "Yes, Mitchie," she said emphatically, "that's just fine with me!" "Hey!" Arm in arm, coming abreast, "Where the hell'd you guys go?" "Yeah! Every time we go for a walk, you two ditch us!" Pushing Marsha with her hips, sitting, "Scoot over!" Leaving a few inches on the outside of the bench for Norman, "So," Shelly asked, looking at Mitchell, "you two catching up on lost time?" Still holding her hand... "No, Marcie and me could never get caught up with what we've missed." feeling a tightening of her fingers. Looking at her watch, "No rest for the wicked." Standing, almost knocking Norman off the bench, "Got work tomorrow and gotta be up at six." "Yeah, Shell," Marsha said reluctantly, "me, too, I guess." Walking back to the street, purposely falling behind again, "Marcie, I'm sailing to Michigan City with my dad and Larry tomorrow and won't be back till Saturday evening and I've been thinking that, if you don't mind being picked up by three really scroungey guys, what if we pick you up on our way home from the club and you'll have dinner at my house." Still surprised at the depth of his feelings, he added, "Because I really want you to meet my family." He wants me to meet his family! Then, Slow down! she thought. For God's sake, at least play a little hard to get! "Yes! I'd love to meet your family!" Oh, well, so much for playing hard to get. "Great! That's great, Marcie!" "Yeah, but," she asked, "what boat? And what club?" "My dad's got a thirty-foot sloop." Attempting to sound like it was no big deal, but yet bragging a bit. "And he belongs to the Columbia Yacht Club." Walter had sold the small boat the year before and purchased another boat, a much larger one he could cruise in, and also, he had hoped, a boat that Myra would feel safer on and enjoy spending an occasional day sailing on--but she didn't--and this boat, because of its size, range, and cost--even though Walter did still keep it in the yard off season--had become an even larger source of argument.

BECOMING "Okay, what's a sloop?" "A one-masted sailboat." "You belong to a yacht club and have a one-masted sailboat! Where do you live, Mitch?" Glancing at her, "In Skokie." "In a house?" "Sure!" he answered matter-of-factly.

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"Hey, Mitch, don't say 'sure' that way. You're one of the few people I know that lives in their own house." Becoming thoughtful, quiet for a few moments, "My dad's always wanted to have a house, and we could have had one a couple of years ago, but my mother wanted to live in a classy building near the lake," she said bitterly, "and daddy always does what mother wants!" Noting the bitter inflection in her voice, but not feeling he knew her well enough to question her, "And you live within walking distance to the beach?" he asked. "Sure!" she answered matter-of-factly. "Hey, Marsha," mimicking her, "don't say 'sure' that way. You're the only person I know that lives in a classy building and can walk to the beach whenever you want. No wonder you're even tanner'n'me, and I just spent six weeks on the ocean." "And you own your own home in Skokie!" "My folks and the bank own our home in Skokie." "And I suppose you own your own business, too?" "It's my dad's business. He's a commercial photographer." "Photographer? Oh, yes, you told me last time... A home in Skokie! Your own business! A yacht club and a big, one-masted sailboat, huh?" "My folks business!" he corrected. "And the boat's not all that big; it's only thirty feet from stem to stern." Smiling, "That's nautical talk." "It's big enough to cross the lake?" "Yeah, sure it's big enough to cross the lake." "So dere he goes vit da 'sure' hgain!" Speaking in an exaggerated Yiddish accent. "So hif hit's big enough to cross mit da lake, den by me hit's a big ship. Und, nu, he belongs to a ya-gh-t club, yet! You know from vat a good catch you are, uh...? Know vhat? I don't heven know from your last name." "Lipensky," laughing so hard he could barely get it out. "And don't be fooled by..." "Lipensky." Mulling his name, Marsha cut him off. "So, nu, Lipensky, you know from vhat a good catch you are?"

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"Like I was saying, don't be fooled by all this." Having a need to be honest with this girl, "It might sound like a lot, but my dad sweats his butt off making the payments each month. And Marcie, it's a boat, not a ship. Remember, you can put a boat on a ship, but you can't put a ship on a boat." "Oy, vey! Listen to mister big-shot sailor; snoops und snots und stairs, he's talking." Laughing harder, "That's sloops and stems and sterns." Walking a few more yards, stopping suddenly, turning Marsha in his direction, Mitchell pulled her into his arms and their mouths made contact and they stood, held tightly by four arms gripped about backs and waists. As their mouths and bodies moved against each other, he felt the soft, radiant heat of Marsha's breasts and she felt the hardness of Mitchell's pressing erection and their emotions traveled from heart to mind to genitalia and both came away from this kiss afraid to speak for fear of saying more than either felt they should say so soon after first, really, meeting, but each felt sentiments they wish they, or the other would put into words, but as neither could find the words, neither said anything, and thinking their confused thoughts, holding hands, the two, once again, began to walk. Thinking, It's so easy to kiss him! Meaning in both a spiritual and physical sense, and also--and this thought was foremost in her mind--in an erotic sense, too. And, What is it when he holds me? Marsha wondered, but did not realize that she was comfortable in his arms, as though she belonged there... And as far as she was concerned, she did, because Marsha Goldman had harbored a restrained love for Mitchell Lipensky ever since that night in Union Pier, six years ago. All thoughts of the boy she had met at the Palladium in 1949 would leave her mind for years at a time. But each time she had seen him--on the beach five years earlier, then at the J last year--Marsha's heart would quicken and the shrouded intensity of her feelings would surface and she would sense a longing in the pit of her stomach. And on this night, being with that boy that had become a young man, was as a dream come true, and made even more so because she felt, after all those years, that her affection was reciprocated. But as much as Marsha was delighted by this night's turn of events, she was also frightened by her instantaneous and all-but-impossible-to-control passion. Looking at Mitchell, she couldn't help but think, Wait till mother sees him! And had to stifle laughter because... Rhea never approved of any of the boys her daughter had dated because the boys that she had met were either stupid, dumb, ugly, too tall, too short, too fat, had pimples and/or blackheads, or looked like bums or hoodlums. It seemed to Rhea that Marsha brought these boys home just to annoy her--which, at times she did, because... As for Marsha, the more her mother disliked a boy the more she liked him, or pretended to, and now, looking at Mitchell, she couldn't help but think again, Wait till mother sees him! Stifling laughter, You look like you're in movies! Your parents own their own home and business and even a boat, even if it does have only one mast. Let's see what mother can find wrong with you, Mitchell. Unable to hold back, she laughed. Hearing her, "What's so funny?" "Oh, nothing really. I just thought of something." Coming off the moonlit beach path onto the artificially illuminated sidewalk of Pratt Boulevard, shifting her right hand into his right hand, he placed his arm around her waist, and was instantly gratified when Marsha responded by taking her right hand out of his, replaced it with her left, and put her right arm about his waist.

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As the tails of Marsha's blouse were tied rather than tucked into her jeans, the unexpected feel of bare, warm flesh surprised him and, God, it feels so good holding her. It's like she fits, he thought. It's like she's made just to be held by me. The kissing, at the very least, oh, yeah, had aroused him, but then again he usually felt an awakening whenever he kissed a girl. But there was something else. The thought had entered his mind earlier and he'd pushed it away, but the thought had returned and at this time he knew that there was something about this girl that was... What? The intensity of his feelings for Marsha--for the young girl that he had met at the Palladium in 1949 that had become the beautiful young woman that now walked by his side--becoming stronger by the minute, Mitchell was further surprised when he realized that those feelings, at least for the moment, transcended sex. Also, he suddenly realized what he'd missed so much these past two and a half years: love! His heart jumping, Love! He wanted, once again, to love someone, and, looking to his left, Mitchell Lipensky knew that he loved Marsha Goldman. But yet, How can this be? he wondered. Outside of those couple of minutes at the J last year, now is the first time we've been together as adults... But I knew I loved Susan the second I saw her too. God! Going back six years: hearing the music, seeing the flickering, firefly lights of the Lakeview Hotel, visualizing the twinkling reflection of those lights in the Marsha's dark eyes, envisioning their purely chaste kiss, Mitchell further wondered, Could I have loved her then? Could I have loved her all those years without knowing, without even remembering who she was? "That's where I live." Marsha's words breaking into his reverie, she pointed to a nine-story building directly across the street. "Uh," drawn back, "pretty classy," he said, then, a look of near panic crossing his face, "You don't want to go in now, do you?" Tightening her grip on his waist, playing hard to get no longer a remotely viable consideration, "God, no!" she said emphatically. "We'll get the car and drop Shelly off, then you can take me home." "Good. I'm not ready to say goodnight to you yet." "Yeah," she said softly, "me, too." Accepting his revelation of love, it became important that he analyze his feelings for Marsha then, while he was with her, rather then later, when he'd be alone--when fantasy would replace fact. Gathering his thoughts, bringing them into focus, Mitchell considered Marsha's mental attributes and physical characteristics. When he had seen her last year, and earlier in the evening, he'd considered her as somewhat above what he would usually consider as simply pretty, but now? Looking at Marsha, being with Marsha, her looks had grown on him and, thinking, her darkly tanned face reminded him of...? Thinking, Yeah! She reminded him of the movie star Jane Russell and, God, he thought, wondering how he hadn't noticed before, She's beautiful! Yes! Okay! Marsha was much thinner than he normally liked, yet, looking at her in Askanaz, he'd seen a bit of cleavage through the unbuttoned collar of her blouse, and what he had felt in the palm of his hand a short while ago sure as hell wasn't padding. In the past, if someone wanted to fix him up with a girl and told him, "She's got a great personality!" he would automatically think, She's got to be ugly! But Marsha, besides being, yeah, okay, besides being beautiful, Marsha had the most pleasing personality of any girl he'd ever known... Also, she was not going to college, so

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most probably a college education was not all that important to her. Also, she seemed to remember that long ago evening as well as... maybe even better than he, so possibly it meant as much to her as it did to him. And yet another "also"--maybe the most important also--he knew that Marsha truly liked him. As a matter of fact, if what he was feeling was really love, then he thought that, maybe, just maybe, as improbable as this whole thing was, Maybe she's in love with me, too! Arriving at the car, finding Norman and Shelly sitting on a front fender, "Jesus," Norman said, "the two'a'you are slower'n sh... uh, molasses in February." "Yeah," Shelly added, "you guys stop off for a quickie or something?" Smiling, blushing under her tan, "No!" Marsha said, "We didn't 'stop off for a quickie or something'! Did we, Mitch?" "Yeah, we did!" Fishing the keys from his pocket, unlocking the passenger door, "Go on, Marcie, tell 'em the truth, it's not nice to lie to your friends." Reaching inside, unlocking the rear door, holding the front door open for Marsha, "It was fantastic, Shelly! Your girlfriend here is a great giver of quickies." * "Mitchie," having dropped Shelly off, heading back to Pratt Boulevard, "I've been thinking about something you said." "Yeah?" Glancing at her, "What was that?" "At the beach, before, when you invited me to your house for dinner on Saturday, you said that you wanted me to meet your family." "Yeah," he said without hesitation, "I do!" "Why's that? Why do you want me to meet your family?" Considering his answer, thinking, Because I always have my family meet the girls I'm in love with. But instead said, "Just because I do." Fishing, "Do you always bring girls home to meet your family? Especially on your first real date with a girl." "No... Well, yes, sometimes." Looking at her, bringing his attention back to the street, "The girls that are important to me." Needing to hear it, "And I'm important to you?" Quiet a long moment, "Marcie, yes, it seems like suddenly you are very important to me." Digesting this, feeling a glow in her stomach, "Mitchie, I'd like you to meet mother and daddy also." Once again picking up on the strange way Marsha referred to "mother and daddy," stopping in front of her building, turning in the seat, looking at her, "Sure. I'd like to meet your folks, too. Only please, I'll be so cruddy, not when I pick you up on Saturday!" "Okay, not on Saturday." Having not the slightest doubt that they'd be together, thinking, We'll do it on Sunday. Looking over the seat, "Normie," Marsha said, "I'm really glad to see you again, and know that Shelly

BECOMING is, too, and I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again," glancing at Mitchell, "soon."

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Opening the door, sliding out of the seat, he opened the door for Marsha and when she stepped out of the car, hugging her, "Me, too, Marcie" Norman said, "I'm real glad we ran into you and Shelly tonight." Remembering, rummaging through the glove department, coming up with the stub of a pencil and a scrap of paper, handing both to her, "Thought I was going to forget again, huh?" "You kidding?" Laying the paper on the fender, writing her phone number, "After six years I wouldn't let you forget!" Walking to the unlocked plate glass outer door, taking a small ring of keys from her pocket, unlocking the inner plate glass door, "Come on. Keep me company upstairs." "Sure." Following her over the maroon, plushy carpeted floor to a stainless-steel elevator door, "I planned on it." Marsha pressed the button. The door opened immediately and they stepped inside. Marsha pushed the 9 button, and before the door closed they were in each other's arms. But the ride to the ninth floor was much too fast and when the door opened they were still in each other's arms, still kissing. The door shut, but the elevator did not move. Grudgingly breaking the kiss, breathing heavily, "Mitchie," Marsha whispered in his ear, "what if someone wants to go downstairs and finds us here, like this?" Breathing heavily, "Yeah," he said begrudgingly, "guess you're right." "You'll call me when you get in on Saturday, so I'll know when to expect you? Any idea when?" "Depends on the wind. Probably about... oh, no later than two or three. But I'll tell you something, Marcie; I won't need a phone because as soon as I see Chicago's skyline I'll stand on the bow and yell, Marcie Goldman, it's Mitchie and I'm on my way to you!" She pressed the button. The door sliding open, "I'll be sure to leave the windows open, so I can hear you." They kissed lightly and whispered goodnight, and he watched as Marsha went to the first door on the adjacent wall to the right of the elevator, unlocked it, opened it, stepped inside, looked at him, threw a kiss and closed the door. * "Where were you tonight, Marsha?" "Askanaz, for dinner." Going to the coffee table, she took the two pennies from the handful of change and bills that her father purposely left there each night before going to bed. Cotton balls between her toes to keep her freshly lacquered toenails from touching, reclining on the sofa watching NBC's pioneer late-night show Broadway Open House with Jerry Lester, "Kind of late to be getting home if you just went for dinner." Rhea's legs were stretched across the coffee table.

BECOMING "Yes, I know. But I met a boy there that I used to know from the country." "Another one of your winners, I suppose. What's with this one: blackheads, pimples or just a schlub?"

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Going to the dining room, opening the green, imitation lizard overnight case that was on the floor alongside the dresser, taking the change from her pocket, separating the pennies from a dime and two quarters, Marsha threw her four, along with the two she'd taken off the coffee table, into the case. Returning to the living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa, "Oh, I don't think there's really too much wrong with Mitchell." "Yes, I'm sure, Marsha. But knowing you, I wouldn't make book on it." "Well, Mother, one of these days you might get the opportunity to meet Mitchell." Said with mock enthusiasm, "I can hardly wait!" "Me, too, Mother. Me, too." Rhea and Eli A petite woman, Rhea Goldman was just five feet, one inch tall, and had a flawless olive complexion and a beautiful, oval shaped face framed by long, raven-black hair. She had dark-brown eyes, thick lashes and brows plucked in the contemporary fashion. She had well-rounded hips and buttocks, and was built in exact proportion to her size... except for two features: her breasts were large--and made to appear even larger due to her diminutive size--and her legs were thin--and made to appear even thinner due to her well-rounded hips and buttocks. Rhea took great pride in her beautiful face and oversized breasts, and well knew how to use both to her best advantage. She'd also found that by wearing the highest heels of any shoe that was currently in fashion, the radical arch of the shoe would add curvature to her calves, giving some semblance of shape to her lower legs, which, after all, was all that most men would see... usually. Best described, Rhea Goldman was intelligent, beautiful and exquisite... and vain, narcissistic... and materialistic. Eli Goldman was a kind, softly spoken, generous and trusting--where his wife was concerned, much too trusting--man. Eli stood slightly under five-seven, and had a thick neck, broad shoulders and powerful arms. He had a pleasing, manly face with curly, dark-brown hair, light blue eyes, a broad, freckle-scattered forehead, an amiable smile and what one might term a moderately Semitic nose. Not highly, formally, educated, Eli was, nonetheless, extremely intelligent. But the deep love he had for his wife, and his very trusting nature did not, however, allow him to see any of Rhea's imperfections, physical or moral, and he considered his wife as a delicate china doll that was always kept upon his pedestal of adoration. Between the end of the Great Depression and the start of World War II, Rhea had discovered that some men--some rich men--were willing to be generous to her if she were "nice" to them. In addition to her exotic beauty, Rhea had a nimble mind and most men that she'd meet would quickly become infatuated with her. So while Eli was at work--driving a bakery delivery truck from nine to ten hours a day, six days a week--Rhea began a series of affairs and flirtations that continued for the next thirty years.

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The "friends" Rhea made were the men--the wealthier men--of her everyday life: the jeweler, the furrier, the insurance broker. Of most importance--besides having money, of course--the man must be married. As far as the friends were concerned, Rhea Goldman was beautiful and refined, a "classy dame" that needed more out of life than her working stiff of a husband could provide, and so long as they were careful, the situation was perfect for them because Rhea provided a safe place for their rendezvous and, as she was a married woman, she was not about to advertise their friendship. Pearl Schneider, Rhea's widowed mother, had been able to keep most of her small fortune intact throughout the depression, and, though she did feel that Eli Goldman was beneath the social strata of her family, she also knew that he was a hardworking man who always treated her youngest daughter with love and respect, so Eli was fully accepted by the family. As a matter of fact, Eli was the person that many of the family's more educated members went to when looking for a good, common sense answer to a problem. Pearl was a generous woman that often gave her one son and three daughters gifts of cash, and "things." For this reason--after a rather verbal argument early on in their marriage--Eli had learned to never question where the money came from for fashionable clothing and for what he considered unaffordable household items, to say nothing of the additional cash needed for the rent on their apartments, which were always located in neighborhoods far above his financial capabilities. As for the gifts from his mother-in-law, not necessarily a proud man--except where his wife was concerned--Eli had thought, Hey, it makes life more enjoyable for Rhea, then it's okay with me. In 1932 Roger Keith Goldman was born. Rhea hated what pregnancy did to her body: abdominal stretch marks, sagging--more than their sheer weight had caused before--breasts, misshapen figure, and even a "Oh, my God!" varicose vein. She had vowed that Roger would be an only child, but Rhea learned of her second pregnancy in March of 1936. Believing it the child of her then-lover, Paul Sorenson, the light complected, blue-eyed, blonde-haired pharmacist, Okay, Rhea had thought, if it has blue eyes, well, Eli's eyes are blue. But what if it turns out to be blonde? When Rhea informed him, Sorenson very quickly backed away from his presumed obligation, and Rhea. Seven months later, "Look, Eli," Rhea had said with great relief, "she's got your nose." Rhea loved Roger, lavishing her love on him, and barely tolerated her daughter, which she had always shown by ignoring the girl whenever and wherever possible. Rhea's family knew of this, of course, but as years went by, they began to feel that if they did nothing to help Rhea with the child, or come to the aid of the child, Rhea would eventually come to her senses and become a real mother to her daughter--but she never did. So what began as a misguided conspiracy to teach a mother to care for her child became an unlearned lesson for the mother and a lifelong punishment for the girl. Marsha grew up suffering from her mother's and her family's own special brand of abuse: apathy and indifference. With the exception of Eli, whom she loved dearly, Marsha had always felt that she was unwanted and unloved, and felt physically and mentally abandoned. She discovered her mother's infidelity at age seven, but was then under the threat of death, or worse, by her

BECOMING brother, and was told, "Daddy will have to get a divorce if you tell and it'll be all your fault!"

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Not that Marsha knew what a divorce was, but she did know that a divorce was very bad. And because of these things, and especially because of her love of her father and her reluctance to see him hurt, Marsha never did tell Eli. In 1952 Rhea and Eli purchased a combination bar and liquor store with money borrowed, in part, from Pearl, but mostly, loaned to Rhea by one of her "friends." The Broadmore Bar and Liquor Store flourished. * In the bedroom, "But, honey, there's only one bedroom. Where'll the kids sleep?" "I know, Eli, but look!" Pulling him to the window, standing slightly to the side and behind him, pressing her body against his back, Rhea pointed to the east. "We've a view of the lake here." "Rhe, I know, but..." Rubbing her breasts seductively against his back, "Think how cool it'll be during the summer, when it's so damned hot and humid." "Yes, Rhe, but they're offering FHA loans in Skokie and Morton Grove, and we could get a house for almost nothing down and the payments on our own house will come to less than the rent here." Ignoring her husband's desire and common-sense logic, "You love to fish! Think about it. On Sundays you and your daughter can just walk to the pier and go fishing." "But the kids, Rhe! Where'll the kids sleep?" "The dining room's huge! We can put the sofa bed in there for your daughter. We need a new sofa anyway, so we'll buy another sofa bed and put it in the living room for Roger." Dragging him out of the bedroom, into the living room, "There," she'd said, pointing towards the double-hung windows. "Roger can sleep there, where it'll be nice and cool in the summer." "But, Rhe," he'd said sadly, "don't you want to have your own home? Wouldn't it be nice to own our own house?" "Eli," turning him in her direction, standing on tiptoes, putting her arms about his neck, "Sadie and Ida live across the street, and I don't want to live that far from them!" From her sisters, yes... and also from her "friends." "Skokie isn't all that far from here, and you know I've always wanted a yard that I can putter around in." "But, Eli," pouting, her eyes wide and glassy, she'd looked up at him, "you know how much I've missed them since they've moved here." Taking his hand, she placed it on a breast. "Please, Eli!" * The Broadmore Bar and Liquor Store did flourish, until, after an argument and a parting of the ways between

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Rhea and her friend, with the curt announcement by Rhea that, "You're never going to see another penny of that money! And just what in the hell are you going to do about it? Tell your wife?" A week later The Broadmore Bar and Liquor Store succumbed to a fire of suspicious nature. The Broadmore carried enough insurance to repay the loan from Pearl with enough money left over to purchase a ten-stool, three-booth hot dog and hamburger joint near the Chicago Stadium in the skid row area of Chicago's near north side. Eli's Vienna Hot Dogs & Hamburgers turned out to be a bit of a moneymaker, but in order to continue living in their ninth-floor, one-bedroom apartment near the beach, Eli worked six days a week, from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., when he was relieved by his divorced brother, Marcus, who in turn would leave when Eli arrived in the morning. Roger worked at Eli's from seven in the morning to five in the evening, five days a week. June 17, 1955 "Fend off!" Sitting forward, Larry reached to Friendship, breaking the dinghy's forward momentum and preventing the bow from scraping the white-hulled boat. Backwatering, Walter moved the stern closer as Mitchell, grabbing hold of the gunnel, pulled the dingy alongside. Larry scampered aboard, followed by his older brother. First handing Mitchell the heavy ice chest, as Walter stepped onto the coping, Larry pulled the dingy forward where it was secured to the buoy. As the lowest ranking "mate" on Friendship, Hey, what else is new? Mitchell thought as he carried the ice-chest below into the cabin, then brought the floatable cushions and life preserver topside. As Walter unsnapped the canvas boot that covered the furled sail, and Larry attached the jib to the forward guy wire, dipping the swab into the lake, Hey, what else is new? Mitchell swabbed the deck. Hoisting the mainsail at 7:47 a.m., Walter at the helm, Larry secured the line to the cleat on the brightly varnished mast as, lying on the bow, moving the dingy to leeward, "slipping" the buoy, he said, "Anchors away, Skipper!" Once upon the boat, until they returned and hooked up, the word "Dad" was dropped and Walter was called "Skipper"--and he loved it. Holding the helm in his left armpit, Skipper drew inward on the sheet--the line that controls the reach of the main-sail boom. The boom moved inward and, trapping the light wind, the white sail bellied gently outward, and Friendship moved past the buoy and tethered dingy. Sitting on the bow, calling out and using hand signals, Mitchell directed Skipper past boats and empty buoys that he might find hard to see from his position aft, in the cockpit. Skillfully working his way past "rag baggers" and "stink pots," Skipper steered Friendship out of the harbor, past the breakwater, "Hoist the jib!" and into Lake Michigan. Taking up on the line, "Aye, Skipper!" Hoisting the thin triangle of canvas upward along the cable, securing the line to a polished brass cleat by means of a turn and two half hitches, "Jib secured, Skipper!" Mitchell called, then went aft. Larry took up on the starboard line.

BECOMING In the slight breeze the jib furled outward along the outer edge and inward along the inner.

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The helm moved a point to port. The bow sluggishly turned a point to starboard, but, the jib filling with air, Friendship picked up speed and, three minutes later, wanting to take a different tack, to sail "closer" to whatever wind there was, "Coming about!" Skipper called, as, throwing the helm to starboard, he took up on the sheet, moving the boom from starboard to mid-ship where, hesitating, the sail "luffed" until, catching the breeze, it shifted to port. Forward, the starboard jib line was released, and the port "taken up." Tacking--taking angled legs into the wind to move forward--Friendship tacked five times in the next half hour. Five nautical miles off shore, taking yet another southerly tack, Friendship followed the Illinois-Indiana shoreline for fifteen minutes, then, "Coming about!" Skipper called, and tacked once again, setting a visual east-by-southeast heading. The sky was clear, the sun was brilliant, and even this far onto the lake temperatures were in the low eighties. Sitting on floatable cushions, Walter and his sons watched as Chicago's beautiful skyline became smaller... smaller... until even the tips of the tallest buildings disappeared from sight. Shortly, whatever breeze there was all but died and Friendship moved lazily over the still water. The three aboard were now bare-chested, with the brothers wearing only the bathing suits they'd worn beneath their jeans. Larry holding a bottle of Coke and Mitchell a Pepsi, Walter drank from a tin cup that was held in one of the compartments under the aft cushion that was kept there for scoping and drinking of the fresh Lake Michigan water, once far enough away from shore. "Hey, Skip, okay to go for a swim?" "Doesn't look like we're going anyplace fast. Sure, why not." Standing on the coping, with a spring that caused the boat to rock and the mast to sway, Larry dove off the side. "How's the water, Squirt?" "You old fart! Come in and find out for yourself." "Old fart, huh? You little shit, I'll show you who's an old fart!" As Larry, using the coping as a springboard, diving, almost landing on his brother, grabbing an ankle as he went down, Mitchell pulled him under. In a second or two both boys came up sputtering and laughing. In a well-remembered whine, "Mi-tchie," Larry said, "I'm tel-ling! Daa-d, Mitchie called me a little shiiit!" Surface diving, it was his turn to pull Mitchell beneath. "Hey!" Their horseplay interrupted, "Cat's paw!" Standing, pointing to a far off patch of rippling wind on the water's calm surface, "Wind's on the way!"

BECOMING Swimming to the boat, pulling themselves aboard, standing in the cockpit dripping, all three watched the water for signs of the rapidly approaching wind. In the calm, the sheet had been hanging loosely. Now, not knowing what tack he was going to take, or the wind's velocity, Skipper held the sheet in his right hand, and the helm in his left, waiting... The wind hit... Friendship began to move.

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Judging the wind's speed, Skipper moved the helm to port and, "sweating" the sheet, dropped a hitch over a small, clicking capstan bringing the boom inboard, causing the sail to snap full and puff outboard. "Jib to starboard!" "Aye, Skipper!" Larry sweat the starboard jib sheet, tightening the narrow forward sail that, straining against the guy wire, now began to billow. Faster... Creaking, the mast angled to starboard as, faster... Friendship began to move, faster. Looking aft, now they could see bubbling wake. Seating themselves, Larry and Mitchell sat on the port... the high side. Heeling now, surging green water "buried" the starboard coping. Allowing the sheet to play out, spilling wind, Friendship ran on a somewhat, even keel, till... Skipper hauled three "clicks" on the capstan and, churning water racing beneath the edge of the coping, the starboard gunnel slanted sharply downward once again, and... Another click... The outer, luff, edge of the sail furled inward as the force of the wind thrust the "belly" of the sail outward, propelling Friendship forward... Heeling, one inch of coping buried in the rushing water... Two inches. Abandoning his stern position, Skipper joined his sons on the high side. As the port gunnel elevated, the starboard gunnel submerged... As three inches of coping buried, the mast angled closer to the bubbling, rushing water. Their legs stretched across with their bare feet braced against the low side cockpit, their buttocks hiked over the high side coping, Skipper now manned the helm by means of a tiller extension, as... Chuting by, green water cascading into the cockpit drained out through the aft scuppers. Letting up on the sheet, Skipper moved the rudder a point to starboard, turning the bow minutely out of the wind. The billowing sail "spilled" wind, allowing the drastic heel to straighten slightly, and from where the three sat, looking to starboard, what they saw was the boom--the foot of the sail--and foaming, rushing water. Mitchell looked over his shoulder: Slanted out of the precipitous water, counterbalancing the wind's driving force, the anti-fouling, gold painted keel was at an even angle with the mast.

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Grasping the guy wire in both hands, standing, bracing both feet on the outer edge of the coping, leaning backwards, unheard, he screamed back at the screaming wind, as, holding steady, Friendship knifed through the water. "Hey!" Letting up on the sheet, allowing wind to spill, and Friendship to level, somewhat. "One'a you guys get your skipper a beer! Anyone hungry? I'll take a sandwich, too." Hanging on, going below, having done this before, hanging on, opening the cooler, Larry handed three cans of beer and sandwiches topside. * "Yeah, hello." "Hi. Is Marsha home?" "No." "This her father?" "No. Her brother." "Uh, Roger. You're name's Roger?" Disinterested, "Yeah." "You probably don't remember me, but you'n'me met about six years ago at the bowling alley in Union Pier." No response. "You were bowling with some buddies, and Marsha and her friend Shelly, and me and a pal of mine came in and Marsha introduced you'n'me." Silence. "My name's Mitch Lipensky." Not even the sound of breathing came from the other end of the line. "Anyway," becoming irritated, "I'm calling from Michigan City. Any idea when your sister'll be home?" "No. I don't live here. Only stopped by to get something." "Well, if you'd tell her Mitchell called, I'd appreciate it." "Yeah, sure." Roger dropped the receiver onto the cradle. Taking a few seconds to realized that the line was dead, looking at the phone, "Thanks, schmuck!" Across the lake, not giving Mitchell another thought, going to the refrigerator, removing the package of steaks his mother had told him to take, Roger left the apartment. Mitchell had spent a good part of the time on the trip to Michigan City thinking about Marsha, and was not too sure if, as he'd wishfully imagined, she liked him as much as he hoped, or if by now she had cooled off and the night before had only been a romantic night thing. The more he'd thought about Marsha, the more he thought that, Yes, maybe I really do love her! Yes, he had enjoyed the time spent with his father and brother, and the sailboat ride. Oddly enough, though, he'd wished that he hadn't made this trip because he would much rather have spent the time with Marsha. By the time they'd docked, if for nothing more then to confirm what he hoped her feelings towards him were, he had desperately wanted to talk to her. But knowing that she would be at work, he had not wanted to waste a

BECOMING long distance call, which, as he was calling from a public phone, Marsha would not be able to return if she was not at home and someone else answered the phone. So, thinking she would be at home at that time, Mitchell had waited until 5:40 to call.

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The elevator door gliding open, "Marsha." Glancing at his sister, nodding his head, Roger walked past her. Responding just as indifferently, "Roger." Stepping into the elevator, Marsha pushed 9. Not knowing if he was even going to call, Marsha waited until almost 6:30, then took a shower. Thinking she'd received the message that he'd called, letting the phone ring eight times, he had waited until 6:32 to call. 7:20: Let it ring! Sitting on the sofa with her legs folded beneath her, Let it ring! Willing the phone to ring, Let it ring... It did. Running across the apartment, grabbing the receiver off the cradle on the third ring, "Hello!" "Hi, Marsh." "Oh," obvious disappointment sounding in her voice, "it's you." "Hey, thanks! It's nice talking to you, too, kid." He called... The line was busy. "Sorry, Rose. I thought it might be someone else." "Someone else, huh? Could only be a guy!" "Good guess." "Someone new? Anyone I know?" Across the lake, Mitchell dropped his dime into the slot again, dialed O, gave the operator Marsha's number, then dropped the requested change into the appropriate quarter, dime and nickel slots... Probably her mother, he thought, and hung up. "No, I don't think you know him. Well, maybe; you might have met him in the country, or seen him around the J." "Yeah." Becoming interested, Rosalie asked, "who is he? What's his name?" "Mitchell, uh..." trying to remember, "Lipensky." Mitchell called again. "Mitchell Lipensky." She thought a moment. "Doesn't sound familiar. What does he look like?" "Rose, you wouldn't believe me! You'll see when you meet him." "That bad, huh? Your mother'll have a cow."

BECOMING "Oh, God! I sure hope so!" He tried again.

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"Look, Rosalie, I don't know if he's even planning on calling, but if he does, I don't want the phone tied up." "So what are you going to do, Marsha, just sit there all night waiting for a call from a guy that might not even call?" "Don't know... Guess so." Continually fighting a futile battle to control the girth of her hips and buttocks, jealous, Rosalie never missed an opportunity to ply her perpetually-thin friend with food. "That's dumb! J'ya eat?" "No, not yet." "So, hows about meeting me at Askanaz?" Mitchell tried calling yet again... with the same results. "Askanaz? No, I don't think so." "For God's sake, Marsha, at least play a little hard to get!" Remembering that last night she'd been thinking that exact thought, and really, she was hungry, and, If he does decide to call and I'm not here, then I guess... Marsha thought, he'll just have to call back. "Yeah, okay, Rose. I'll meet you there... When?" "Right now! Okay?" The decision made. Suddenly not wanting to be home if he should decide to call. Wanting him, if he really wanted to talk to her, to have to call back, "Yeah, I'm on my way." Hanging up, grabbing her shoes, Marsha was putting them on on the downward trip in the elevator, as... "Damn!" Now no one was talking, but no one was answering, either. Friendship tied to a dock at the Michigan City Yacht Club, Walter still ashore having a drink or two with a couple of men he knew, but in the state of Indiana, as Illinois, the drinking age was twenty-one, and as Mitchell was legally too young to stand at the bar with the older men, and as he'd wanted to reach Marsha, and really, he would rather spend the evening with Larry anyway. And besides, Walter had replenished their supply and they'd had better than a dozen bottles of beer in the cooler. The only time Larry was allowed to drink beer was when he was on the boat, and then his father saw to it that he never had more than one bottle... But Mitchell was not his father. "Mitchie...Urrpp! I wanna tell you sompin'. But'ch'ya gotta promise to never tell nooo-one." About to make the trek to the clubhouse to use the phone, again, putting the bottle on the coping, he looked at his bleary-eyed brother. "Yeah, sure, Larry, you're my baby brother and..." in a high-pitched, falsetto voice, mimicking his much younger brother, "I ain't tel-lin'!"

BECOMING Taking another pull on his bottle, belching again, Larry whispered, "I've gone all the way with a girl." "You what?" "Yeah, Mitchie, I done it! There's this girl, she's fifteen, an'..." "Jesus, Larry, you're big, but you're just twelve!" "Yeah, but there's this girl, Vickie, she's in high school, an' she thinks I go to..." Giggling, he took another swig of beer. "...Catholic school an' that I'm fifteen, too. An' her'n'me went to her home when no one was home an' we, uh, did it." His voice raising an octave, "An' it was grrreaat!" Not knowing if he knew, How could he know? "You didn't just put it in! Your, uh," pointing to his crotch. "You used a rubber, didn't you?" "Yeah!" Looking at his brother incredulously. "What'a'ya'think, I'm'a baby?"

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Actually, Yes, he did, which made Larry's admission all the harder. Briefly wondering, Where in the hell'd he get a rubber? Now his turn to be incredulous. "You got laid, Larry? You got it? You been fucked?" "Yeah! Shhh," holding his finger in front of his lips. "I don't want dad to know 'cause then he'll tell mom, an' you know how she is!" Thinking, Yeah, she'd probably be overjoyed knowing that at least one of her sons got laid! He stared at his brother, then chug-a-luging the rest of his fourth bottle of beer, "Larry," he said, "I'm going to bed." And jealous--hell, green with envy--that his twelve-year-old brother... Hell, his just twelve-year-old brother had had intercourse, and that he, at almost twenty-one, hadn't. Mitchell stood, and because no one was nearby to see him, urinated over the side of the boat, then pushing the hatch open, "Good night, Larry." went below, flopped down on his bunk and went to sleep wondering what kind of a God it was that lets a just- twelve-year-old kid get fucked while denying the privilege to his almost-twenty-one-year-old brother, as... * Home again, Marsha still hoped that Mitchell would call. * June 18, 1955 Knowing she should get up and get ready to go to work, but lingering, remembering Thursday night and how Mitchell's kisses had felt on her lips, and how his body felt pressed against hers, closing her eyes, Marsha ran her hands sensuously over her breasts and between her thighs. I think I love him, she thought for at least the thousandth time. I think I've always loved him. The thought that after all those years they'd finally found each other seemed too good to be true, and she could not wait to talk to him again so that she'll be able to confirm his feelings towards her, to be assured that he liked her as much as she hoped, or, if he'd cooled off and that Thursday night was only a romantic night thing. Disappointed because Mitchell hadn't called yesterday; having no positive idea of when he might call today, Marsha planned on going to work, then, at about one o'clock, telling her boss that she had cramps... Being a shop that catered to women, and was managed by a woman, even though it was Saturday, usually the busiest

BECOMING day of the week, she was rather sure that she'd have no problem punching out. * About to pour a cup of coffee, Rhea answered the phone. Waiting anxiously since about one-forty, Marsha turned her minimal attention from the five o'clock news.

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Though he'd never spoken to her on the phone, the voice seemingly too old to be that of Marsha's, "Hello, is this the Goldman residence?" "Yes," Rhea said, "it is." Hearing this, rushing to the kitchen, "It's for me, Mother!" "Is Marsha there, please?" "Yes, she is." Pushing her daughter's hand away from the receiver, "Who's calling?" Brushing her hand away again, "Hold on, I'll call her." Holding her hand over the mouthpiece, "It's a Mitchell Lipensky... And don't be so damn anxious!" "Thanks for the advice, Mother," she said sarcastically. Taking the phone from Rhea, "Hi, Mitchie!" Hearing her voice, feeling his heart skip, attempting to keep his excitement down, "Marcie, hi!" Hearing his voice, feeling her heart skip, "I was starting to get worried, Mitch, it's much later than you said. How was your trip?" Looking at her mother, thinking, Wish she'd go away. But, pouring her cup of coffee, sitting at the table, Rhea lit a cigarette and, knowing she was annoying her daughter, obviously, purposely listened to the--from her perspective--one-way conversation. "Yeah, I know," Mitchell said. "I'm sorry, but there was hardly any wind when we shoved off this morning, and we sat off-shore for about an hour before one came up. When we caught some wind we flew, but then it died again, and we finally tied up to the can, uh, buoy, about an hour ago, and by the time we got everything ship-shape and rowed ashore..." "Mitchie, it's okay, you don't have to explain." Still looking... glaring at her mother, Marsha would walk away, but the phone cord could stretch no further than the kitchen doorway. "The important thing is that you're back safely. So, did you enjoy the trip?" "Yeah, it was great being with my dad and brother, and the whole thing would have been perfect except for one thing..." Waiting for him to go on, "Yes," Marsha asked, "what's that?" "You." he said softly. "Me?" Her heart skipping a beat again. "Why me?" "It would have been perfect if you'd have been there. I missed you, a lot!" Stopping, waiting, hoping she's say that she missed him, too, but...

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"Oh." Turning her back to her mother, Marsha closed her eyes. He'd said exactly what she wanted to hear him say, but a "me, too" would open too much speculation for Rhea, so... The line silent... Worried, wondering if maybe he's moving too fast and that she did not feel towards him as he felt towards her, Mitchell swallowed... And finally, after what seemed an eternity... To hell with mother! "Me, too, Mitchie." Marsha said softly, "I missed you a lot, too." Holding his breath... letting it out, "Look, Marcie, if there's not too much traffic--and there shouldn't be now--we'll be there in about a half-hour, and I'll ring the bell. Remember, we're going to be in a hurry to get home, and like I said, after two days in a small boat I'm not too presentable. So explain to your mom and dad why I don't want to meet them yet... Damn," the words slipping out, "I can't wait to see you!" "Me, too, Mitchie." Marsha said softly. "And it's okay. Daddy's still at work and you'll meet my mother..." tomorrow, "some other time." "Hey, I got an idea! We are spending tomorrow together, aren't we?" Oh, yeah! "Sure, if you want." "Yeah, I do want! Okay! Great! What if, when I pick you up in the morning, I meet your folks then? And then, if you want, we can spend the day at the beach..." Though not an ostentatious person, Mitchell Lipensky was not above trying to impress a girl, especially this girl. "...and go to the yacht club for dinner." Oh, yeah! Marsha would like nothing better than to spend the day at the beach with Mitchell, showing him off, and she'd be happy to go anyplace with him for dinner... But a "yacht club"? Oh, yeah, it worked, alright. Marsha was impressed. Forcing her excitement down, "The beach," turning, taking a shot at sounding blas, looking at her mother, watching her reaction, "and your yacht club for dinner tomorrow. Yes, Mitch, that sounds real nice." And she did get as reaction as, drawing on the cigarette, looking quizzically at her daughter, "A yacht club, yet. Fancy-schmancy." "Okay, Marcie, then we've got a date for all day tomorrow?" And a bit of tomorrow night would be nice, too. And the next day! "Yes," she said, "we sure have." "Okay, great! See you in a little while." "Bye, Mitchie." Hanging up, "They've just sailed back from Michigan City, and we're going to his home in Skokie for dinner..." Marsha had told Rhea that she had a date, and nothing more. "...but he says they're in too much of a hurry to meet you now, Mother, and that he'll meet you tomorrow when he comes to pick me up. We're going to spend the day at the beach, and then..." hesitating, watching Rhea's face, "we're having dinner at his yacht club." "Yes, so I heard... Mitchell, uh," appreciating money, Rhea was impressed, also. "what's his last name again?" "Lipensky, Mother. Mitchell Lipensky." "And you met him in the country? They have a place in Lakeside?"

BECOMING "No, I don't think they still do." Sitting at the table, "And it wasn't Lakeside, it was Union Pier, near the Lakeview Hotel." "This boy, this Mitchell Lipensky, he's a schlub with pimples?" "I didn't say that, Mother; you did." "Well, no matter, don't let him get away!" "I don't know if he's really my type, Mother." "Jesus, Marsha, then he must be ugly as hell." "Well, you'll get the chance to see for yourself tomorrow, Mother." *

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Marsha had had plenty of time to decide what to wear on this night--a brand new, lilac-colored peddle-pusher outfit--but tomorrow? To a yacht club? Pushing the hangers in her hallway/closet apart... Yes! she thought. A light-blue linen skirt and matching, short-sleeved sailor blouse with dark-blue piping. Yes, perfect! In the bathroom, Marsha put eye-liner and light-pink lipstick on; which was about all the makeup she ever wore. * ...Running into the outer lobby, he pushed the Goldman button. Her voice coming through the intercom almost immediately. "Hello!" "Marcie," the word slipping out, "honey, it's me." Honey! He called me honey! "I'll be right down!" Hearing the click of the inner door lock, going into the lobby, waiting at the elevator... The door gliding open... When she saw him, she smiled. Oh, God! Appealing to him two days ago, now: tall, thin, youthfully radiant, the soft lilac color of her outfit setting off the deepness of her tan, her smile... Oh, God! Marsha's smile touched him in a way no smile in memory had touched him and, his heart coming into his throat, Mitchell stood, stunned by the beauty before him... "I love you." Faintly spoken, coming from within the soul of Mitchell Lipensky, "I love you." Throughout the years of her childhood, to this very moment, with the exception of her father, Marsha had felt unloved. Now, to her, Mitchell's words were as beautiful as the first snow of winter, as warm as rain in May... "I love you, too." The faintly spoken words, coming from within the soul of Marsha Goldman, "I love you, too." "Marcie..." Her soft words searing into his heart, searing into his mind, barely able to speak... Standing five feet apart, she in the elevator, he in the lobby...

BECOMING The door began to close, and... He stepped inside and their arms found each other and their lips found each other. Whispering, "I can't believe it." Marsha whispered. "I can't believe this is happening." "Me, too, baby, me, too."

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"I think I've always wanted you and me together like this. But I never thought, not in a million years, that we ever would." As though to confirm that it was Mitchell in her arms, pulling back, she looked at his face. "Marcie, when I saw you at the J last year, then again the other night, I felt... something. I wasn't sure then, but I am now. I love you, and think, maybe, I have since we first met." "Mitchie?" Not wanting to move from her arms, now or ever, "Yes?" "Your dad and brother, they're waiting in the car?" "Christ! I forgot about 'em! Guess we'd better go, huh?" "Sounds like a good idea to me." Pushing the button, the door sliding open, "Oh, and by the way, you were right, mister." Walking through the lobby, "Yeah?" "Yeah! You are definitely scroungy, but cute." Wearing old, holey, cut-off jeans, a dirt-smeared T-shirt and dirty, white deck shoes without socks, he hadn't shaved since Thursday morning when he'd left the Halfmoon. "I'm kind'a thinking now's a good time to grow a beard." "Don't you dare!" Opening the right, rear door for Marsha, "Dad," he said proudly, "this is Marcie Goldman." Closing the door quickly, Mitchell entered the Buick from the other side. "Mister, Lipensky," smiling, "I'm glad to meet you." Returning the smile, "Me, too, Marcie. Mitchell hasn't shut up about you the whole trip." "And this squirt's my brother... Larry, meet Marcie." "Jeeze, Mitchie, how come you lied? She ain't all that ugly!" "Well, Larry," Marsha said, "You ain't all that ugly, either." Walter and Larry formed an immediate affection for this girl, and the feeling was completely reciprocated. "Guess we'd better get going! My wife's going to kill us as it is."

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Checking for traffic, making a U-turn, driving west on Pratt Boulevard, glancing at Marsha in the rearview mirror, thinking, She's beautiful! Walter sighed. * At forty-nine, the younger years of his life seemed to be yesterday, and Walter found it hard to realize that he was nearly fifty. When he allowed himself to think about it he became alarmed, because each preceding year seemed to speed by faster than the year before... and he felt his life whirling away. As for his wife, Walter tried to remain in love with her, but more often than not felt it a losing battle. As for Myra, the years had not diminished her insecurity about her husband's love for her. In addition she truly felt the boat was Walter's first love. For this reason the boat continued to be the main source of her almost constant--in her husband's and children's opinion--unreasonable anger. Throughout the winter months there would be a respite, of sorts, but in early March, when Walter began to spend more time in the back yard, sanding, scraping, painting and polishing, the hard words would always develop into open warfare. In May, Friendship's trailer was attached to a neighbor's truck and hauled to Navy Pier, where the boat was lifted off the trailer by a boat crane and lowered into Lake Michigan, and the mast "stepped." Begging his wife to be a part of his life, "Honey," Walter would plead, "it's calm today. There's almost no wind and it'll be a smooth sail. Please come with us!" "No!" would most often come Myra's reply. "You go without me! I'll be just fine here, alone!" It had become a weekly ritual; Walter always asked, but, except on very rare occasions, Myra refused. Larry was Walter's first mate, and he always, willingly, went with his father. Weather permitting, Morton was asked to come along. Sometimes he would and sometimes he would not. A part of Walter, though--an ever growing part of Walter--was secretly glad that Myra spent so little time on the boat because Friendship had become his domain, where he could be exactly what, and who he wanted to be: Skipper. At the end of the season, in late September, the sails would be stripped, the mast lowered and lashed to the deck. Hoisting Friendship out of Lake Michigan, the crane then lowered her onto the trailer to once again begin the yearly cycle. The studio and boat were the major factors in Walter's life. Unfortunately, Myra was one of those people who refused to accept what she could not change, but because she worked with her husband at the studio, she did know that she was, at least, that much a part of his life. But the boat! Always demanding of his love, even were he to invest his time on and with the boat moderately, which Walter didn't, the boat was something he wanted and she did not, so Myra hated it and participated with--and consequently her husband's enjoyment of--the boat less and less with each ensuing year... And with each ensuing year the battle of the boat wore on... and on. Walter well knew that Myra was jealous of the time he lavished on Friendship but, "Shit!" he rationalized, "if you've an investment like this, you've got to keep it up!"

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In reality, though, Friendship was more than just enjoyment and relaxation. Friendship was Walter Lipensky's psychiatrist, and lately, due to Myra's constant haranguing, his mistress. Despite a noticeable paunch, Walter was still a handsome man, and there were a few women at the club that he'd easily be able to have an "opportunity" with, but another woman was an involvement he did not want because he was sure the end result would be the loss of everything he'd worked for all his life. And also--though in a million years he would never admit it--he was truly afraid of Myra's ability to, as she'd always told him, "read him like a book." Glancing in the rearview mirror, looking at this lovely girl, Walter felt the soft pang of lost youth and the longing feeling in the pit of his stomach of wanting something... of wanting to be young, and in love with a young woman again. * A brown Chevrolet was parked at the front curb. "Looks like Ma and Pa are here." "Yeah, Larry, looks like." Pulling into the alley, parking just past the front crosswalk, leaving enough room for a car to pass between the Buick and his neighbor's hedge, Walter felt somewhat relieved because if the visit by Marsha did not blunt his wife's anger at them coming home this late, then he hoped the presence of her mother and father would. Sitting on the sofa alongside her husband, "Mitchala!" remaining seated, "Oy-yoy-yoy, Morris." Jennie held her arms to her grandson. "Look at him, Morris. He's so skinny!" "Ma!" Bending, putting his arms about her neck, hugging his head to hers, Mitchell kissed his grandmother's dry cheek. Straightening, he turned to his grandfather, who was now standing. He hadn't seen his grandparents since his last leave and was shocked at the change just one year had made; not so much with Jennie, because in his eyes she'd always looked old, but in his grandfather. Morris's scraggly eyebrows shot off in all directions. The whites of his eyes were tinged with a slight yellow cast, and the piercing grey, hawk-like corneas appeared to have a slight haze over them. The flesh beneath his chin hung lower than Mitchell remembered and, though still streaked with black, his hair was grayer and the stubble on his cheeks pure white. Holding back tears, "Pa!" Mitchell embraced his grandfather. Turning, taking her hand, "Ma, Pa..." bringing his attention to Myra, who was standing on the far side of the room, "Mom, this is Marsha." Going to the old lady, "Hello." Taking her hand, Marsha held it for a moment. Turning to Morris, who was still standing, "Hello," she held her hand to him also, then, walking across the room, extended her hand. In the flash of a moment, both minds whirling, the two women scrutinized each other. Sensing... something, glancing from Marsha to her son, seeing the look on his face, two thoughts came to mind: This one is it; this one is going to be my daughter-in-law! Myra also wondered if maybe, maybe she saw something in this young woman that she'd wanted, so it seemed, all of her life: a daughter. This lady could be my mother-in-law . "Hello, Mrs. Lipensky. I'm glad to meet you." Her heart warming even further, Marsha thought that maybe, maybe she saw something in this woman that she'd always wanted: a

BECOMING mother.

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Looking at the offered hand, brushing it aside, putting her arms about the girl, hugging her, "Welcome to our home, Marsha." Lost a moment, her arms hanging limply, Marsha hadn't been in another woman's embrace since... she didn't know when. Feeling a burning in her throat and a stinging in her eyes, fighting the urge to cry, instead, returning the others embrace, "Thank you," she said to Myra. And, to God, Thank you! who in Marsha's mind had brought her to this miraculous time and place. Hearing the back door open, "Don't slam the..." Myra called over Marsha's shoulder as the door slammed shut. "...door." She broke her embrace as Morton tramped through the kitchen into the living room with Cricket, who immediately ran to Marsha and sniffed her shoes. "That's Mortie, and the one with the spots is Cricket." And a dog, too. Stooping, petting Cricket, looking at the six-year-old, "Hi, Mortie. My name's Marcie." "Yeah, Marcie, hi!" Morton, as the rest of his family, had taken an immediate liking to Marsha. "Hey, Mitch, seeing as you're a guest here, I'll give you a crack at the hot water first. "Thanks, Larry." "Marcie, I've got to get out of these filthy clothes," he said, holding the T-shirt away from his chest as though it smelled bad, which in fact it did. "You be okay here if I take off for a few minutes?" "Sure! Why shouldn't I?" Feeling the warmth of his family, for the first time in remembrance Marsha felt as though she were wanted, and oddly, since she had been in this house for no more than a few minutes, as though she belonged here, too. "Maybe I can help your mother." Turning to Myra, "Anything I can help you with, Mrs. Lipensky?" "Don't be so formal, Marsha, we're not that way around here. Call my Myra, or better still, Mom." Mom? She wants me to call her Mom! Anyone else might have passed it off as someone attempting to be overly friendly, but, Yeah, Marsha thought, I can do that. Not comfortable, though, calling this lady that she'd just met "Mom," and feeling that "Myra" would be disrespectful, "Thank you," she said. Gesturing towards the fully-set table, "There's nothing left to do now, Marsha, but thanks for offering." Now, though, glaring at Walter, her voice hardening, "We expected you home hours ago, and," breaking with the Sunday-morning tradition, the Lipenskys now had their lox and bagels for dinner on Saturday, "everything's out but the fish and cream cheese." Having seen the set table when she'd come in, now, Fish? Lox? Marsha thought, Uh, oh! Going to his wife, kissing her on the cheek, "Sorry," Walter said apologetically, "we ran out of wind. What the hell could I do?" Trying to retain her faade of anger, "Yes, I know!" Dismissing her husband with a steely, kind of "I'll talk to you later" look, Myra added, "Go on! You get cleaned up, too!"

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Knowing his wife, knowing her moods well, knowing that her anger had passed, Thank you. Silently thanking God for small miracles, Walter obeyed. Motioning to the chairs on either side of the picture window, "Sit down, why don't you." Myra said to the still-standing young woman. "Here, in my home, you be comfortable." "Yes," sitting, "thank you." Her senses reeling, Marsha had suddenly been made a part of a family. A family with grandparents. A family with brothers--two of them--that even spoke to her. And most of all, a family with a mother. A mother that had even prepared a meal. Looking at the overloaded table, thinking, This is just for a lox and bagel dinner? It looks more like Thanksgiving. Not sure if she quite knew how to handle the situation, she did know, however, that if she thought she loved Mitchell before--Holy cow, they even have a dog--she loved him all the more now. Waiting, remembering the time it took for the hot water to get to the second floor... Finally, adjusting the temperature, aware that Larry and his father were waiting to shower, taking a "sea shower," wetting, turning the water off, lathering, rinsing, Mitchell showered, shampooed and shaved. Finished, turning the water to cold, he stood in the spray until his scalp and skin tingled. Pulling the towel from the bar at the foot of the tub, he roughly dried his hair and body. Stepping from the tub he squeakily rubbed the towel over the steamed mirror, then brushed his hair, as, drifting up through the stairway... "My dad owns a small, uh, kind of a restaurant near the Stadium," he heard Marsha say. And, Damn! Naked, his skin tingling from the cold water and brisk toweling, with the bathroom door open and Marsha just one short flight of stairs below, his mind as far from thoughts of sex as possible, Damn! he unknowingly had attained an erection. Looking at his penis in the mirror, You little pecker, he thought. Now, truly believing it, You really do have a mind of your own, don't you! In the bedroom, he put on Jockey shorts, Levis'. And, with but a fleeting thought of who it was that had given it to him, taking the cranberry colored cashmere sweater from its plastic bag, he pulled it over his head. Slipping his bare feet into a clean pair of canvas deck shoes, going back to the bathroom, looking in the mirror he bloused the sweater over his hips, then re-brushed his hair. Going downstairs, "Hi!" he said from the foot of the stairway. "So, you all acquainted now?" Turning her attention from the conversation with Myra, looking at Mitchell, Marsha could not believe that anyone could shower, shave, and get dressed in that short a time, and look that perfect. His still-wet hair shone black. His light eyes and teeth were dazzling in contrast to his tan and a thatch of hair showed from the V of the sweater. But, as attractive as he was, what was even more important--and still, she could not believe that this was really happening--was that she was really here with Mitchell and his family, and especially that Mitchell had told her that he loved her. "Yeah, we're all good friends now." Moving aside, making room for him on the armless chair, patting the seat, "Come on." Sitting closely next to her, he draped his arm across Marsha's shoulder. Putting her hand on Mitchell's knee, he covered it with his. As though she were incapable of answering, "So, Mitchala," nodding her head towards Marsha, "she's a Jewish girl?" "Jennie," Morris said, "she wears a Mogen David! Would a shiksa wear a Mogen David?" "Oy..." Craning her head forward, squinting, Jennie looked at the small six-pointed gold star that hung from a fine chain about Marsha's neck. "...so you're right, Morris. So I'm sorry... ehh?" Forgetting her name, she looked to her grandson for help. "Ma, her name's Marsha."

BECOMING "Yes, Marsha. So, Marsha, your mother, she keeps kosher?"

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"No, Bubby," smiling outwardly, "my mother doesn't keep kosher." Frowning inwardly, My mother doesn't keep anything. "Bubby, ehh?" Jennie smiled. "If you eat here, that's good. My daughter and her husband," looking at Myra, scowling, "they don't keep kosher, too." "So, Jennie, we don't keep kosher either!" "Morris, talk for yourself! You eat trayf--pork, shellfish--outside my house, it's up to you. In my house we don't eat trayf!" "Yes, but Jennie," Morris said patiently, "we also don't got for--dairy and meat products--milichedig and flayshedig. "So big deal! We use the same pots and pans and dishes." "And silverware! Don't forget silverware!" "So, okay already! So we don't got special for milichedig or flayshedig. God'll forgive me, but we got no trayf!" Smiling, Morris winked at Marsha. Enjoying the good-natured bickering, she giggled. "Your papa," Jennie asked, "he go to shul?" "Yes. Sometimes on Friday, if he can, he goes to the synagogue." "That's good." Looking at Myra again. "Is good someone goes to shul!" Morris had asked Walter on many occasions to go to the synagogue with him, and he'd been turned down on as many occasions. "So, Ma, what can I do?" Myra said defensively. "He'd rather be on his fershtonkina boat than go to shul. Should I tie and drag him?" "Hey, when's chow?" Bare-footed, toweling his hair, Walter came from the bathroom wearing trousers and an undershirt. "I'm starving!" "Don't blame me--dinner's been ready for hours!" "Yeah, I know, honey." Still placating his wife, going to her, putting his arms around her, he kissed her, this time lightly on the mouth. "And I am sorry we got in so late." Returning the kiss, "I'm sure you are!" Myra said sarcastically, pushing him away. "And get dressed, we've got company!" Marsha was unable to tell if she was angry, or playing with him.

BECOMING "Company?" Looking about, "Who's company?" "Marsha!" Going along with him, pointing to her, "Your son brought a girl home... Remember?" "You're not company, are you?" "Well, Mister Lipensky, I sure don't feel like company."

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Truly, she didn't. Marsha felt more at home here, in the half hour she'd been in this house, then she often did in the homes of her aunts. "Marsha, call me Skipper." "Skipper?" "Yes, please. Coming from you, 'mister' makes me feel old." "Go on," turning away, "go put shoes and a shirt on!" Scowling at Walter's request, thinking it ridiculous, going into the kitchen, Myra returned a few seconds later with the lox platter. * "You don't like lox?" Jennie asked, looking at Marsha, who had made a cream cheese, tomato, cucumber and bagel sandwich. "No, I don't care for any kind of fish." Said as kindly as she could say, "I never eat fish." "You don't like lox!" The old lady giggled. "Mitchala, you sure she's a Jewish girl?" "I like lox!" Morton piped up and chomped down on the thick sandwich forcing the gloppy contents to ooze out the other side. "When I was a kid," stopping, Mitchell chewed and swallowed his mouthful, "my folks sent me to military school," looking at Marsha, "and one of the things I remembered missing the most was our Sunday morning brunches and lox and bagels." "Go on, Mitchie," sitting to the right of Marsha, leaning forward, Larry looked at his brother, "tell 'em what you told me you used to eat when you got hungry at night." Laughing, "No!" remembering the real reason for the toothpaste raids, "I won't tell, ever!" But knew he would... somewhat. Putting her sandwich down, "I don't think I've heard this story. Come on, Mitchell," Myra said, "tell us! What did you eat at night when you got hungry?" Whining playfully, "Aw, Mom, do I gotta?" "Yeah," Larry said, "you gotta!" "I..." Beginning to laugh his infectious laugh, in moments, even though they had no idea why, Mitchell had everyone laughing along with him, even Jennie, who was giggling into the napkin she held to her mouth. "I used to eat..." barely able to get the word out, "t-toothpaste."

BECOMING "Toothpaste? You say you used to eat toothpaste?"

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"Well, yeah, Dad," pretending seriousness, "I got hungry!" as though that explained it. "And you know how I get when I get h..." Unable to continue, refireing everyone's laughter, he broke up again. "Yeah, Mitchie," catching his breath, "we know how you get when you get hungry. You'll eat anything that don't eat you first!" "I wouldn't talk if I were you, Lawrence! I've seen you go through the refrigerator like a tornado." Laughing again, "And it wasn't only toothpaste," he gasped, "toothpowder, too." Tears running down her cheeks, "Toothpowder, too?" Marsha asked. "Well, yeah!" Choking back laughter, "How long can man live on toothpaste alone?" Wiping his eyes with the napkin, "I'd go to the head..." looking at Marsha, "the toilet, at night and swipe everyone's tooth, uh, teeth cleaning stuff, but mostly I liked that cinnamony red stuff in bottles... Teel." Howling from his place at the head of the table, "I remember now!" Walter said. "Every time you wrote, you told us to send you another can of powder, and I remember I told mom that you... Oh, God! That you had to be eating the stuff!" "The other boys, Mitchell, they never found out on you?" "No, Pa. I'd only take a little from each of 'em at a time." "Mitchala, it's not nice to steal from your friends." "I know, Ma, but if you're hungry, you're hungry." "Every night?" Myra asked. "You did this every night?" "Sure, every night! I got hungry every night!" Laughter bursting from him, tears coming to his eyes again, "It's my fault they don't serve cookies and milk after taps?" * Parked about a half-mile from the house, under a huge oak tree at the dark end of an unfinished street, Marsha moved his left hand from her breast, and holding it, put it on her hip... then, a few minutes later, his right hand. It wasn't that the love he felt for Marsha was less than the love he had felt for Susan, or that his respect for Marsha was any less than that of Susan, it was just that when he was with Susan he was a boy of seventeen, and at seventeen, maybe, a boy was supposed to treat the girl he loved differently. But now, two months from his twenty-first birthday he was no longer a boy, he had become a man and, maybe, this was what a man was supposed to do, and besides, Oh, God, he thought, I want to! So he attempted to hold Marsha's breast again... And again a minute or two later, but.... Moving his hand, "Mitchie," pulling her lips from his, "you've got more hands than a, uh..." searching for a word, "centipede!" "Yeah!" He chuckled, and tried again, but...

BECOMING Moving his hand, "You'd better be a good boy," she said, "or I'm going to tell your bubby."

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"God, Marcie, I knew it was a mistake introducing you to my family. Pl-ease," he cried in mock horror, "don't tell my bubby!" As, nestling his mouth on the soft, warm flesh under her chin, kissing it, he nipped at her neck. "No hickeys!" Marsha cautioned. "Don't worry; I don't even know how to make a hickey!" "Yeah, I'll bet you don't!" "No!" Pulling back, he tried to look at her, but could barely see her features in the darkness. "I really don't know how to make a hickey." Mitchell, everyone knows how to make a hickey!" "Not me! I swear! I do something else when I get really hot." "Oh?" Leaning back, attempting to see him, also. Almost afraid to ask, "And what's that?" she asked. "Besides that!" moving his hand. The last prolonged kissing session he'd had was in 1953 with Elsa Schmidt on the night before Labor Day, three months short of two years ago, and now, feeling the pressure on his jaw reminded him and, "Well," he said, "I have this 'thing' with my bones." Holding his hand to her ear, making a fist he twisted his wrist, and his wrist went pop. "Yaght!" Moving her head away, "That's disgusting!" "Yeah." Holding his other wrist to Marsha's ear, "I can do it with the other wrist, too." Twisting that wrist, it went pop too. "That's your big trick when you get hot?" "Nah; that I can do anytime." "So, if you can do that anytime, what's the big deal?" "This is what happens when I get really hot." Placing his hands on either side of her face, moving his mouth to hers he kissed her, passionately... "Mmmm... Yeah, Mitchie, that is a neat trick." "No," placing the side of his face against her ear, "here's the trick." Putting internal pressure on his jaw, moving it outward and slightly to the side, his jaw went pop. Moving it back, his jaw went pop. "Oh, my God! That's terrible!" "See," he said sadly, cracking his jaw again... twice. "That's what happens when I get real hot." Moving his lips to hers, they kissed for a minute, then, pulling back, he, pop, popped one wrist, then the other, then pop, pop, popped his jaw. "Yup!" he said. "It's all your fault! You make me so hot I snap, crackle and

BECOMING pop." "Jeeze, Mitchie! Kind'a like a bowl of Rice Crispies, huh?"

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Sighing, "Yeah," he said mournfully, "and in a couple of minutes I'm gonna lose all control and all my bones are gonna start snappin' and poppin' and then I'm gonna kind'a fall apart... So unless you want to see me laying all over the place in little pieces, you better let me touch your boobies!" And, oh, yeah, he reached to Marsha's breast, again, and... Moving his hand, again, "Good Lord! Mitchie, that's just about the best line I've ever heard!" "Ain't no line! So help me, it's true. I'll fall apart!" "Okay, Mitchie, let me get this straight. What you're telling me is that unless I let you touch my boobies you're going to just fall apart, and that you'll be laying here..." laughing so hard she can barely get the words out, "flopping around in little pieces?" "Yeah, that's true!" he said sorrowfully, "I got this, uh, rare, tropical disease, and if I don't get my daily dose of boobie touching I just go to pieces." "Oh," she crooned sadly, "you poor thing!" Reaching overhead, flicking the switch to the dome light, turning it on, "Can I watch?" Pretending to pout, "Okay for you!" Turning the light off, "But, Marcie, you know I'm going to keep trying." For emphasis--his heart, and another part of his body jumping because she allowed it... for about two seconds--Mitchell did cup a breast in the palm of his hand, as... "And, my little centipede," she said, allowing his hand there as she said it, "you know I'm going to keep stopping you." For emphasis, she firmly removed it. June 19, 1955 "He's here, Mother!" "What do you want from me? So, let him in." Hesitating before pushing the intercom button, "Can't you at least put some clothes on?" "And what's wrong with what I'm wearing?" "What's wrong with what you're wearing? Mother!" Wearing an ankle length, leopard-skin patterned nylon robe, Rhea was lying on her side on the sofa with her left elbow and head propped on the cushioned armrest. The zipper to the robe was open about six inches, revealing a slight amount of cleavage. Light from the mid-morning sun, coming from the large window behind, dramatically highlighting her long, black hair, Rhea knew this was a seductive pose, because it was a pose she had used to good effect many times in the past when she'd had "friends" up. Rhea normally wouldn't go to this much bother--or, for that matter, any bother--for her daughter's friends, but this boy seemed to be somewhat different, and although she knew, or thought she knew, that he came from a wealthy family, she, truly, did not hold too much hope for him because Marsha's boyfriends were always, in her opinion creeps that she brought home just, Rhea was positive, to spite and annoy her.

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Actually, Rhea thought that Marsha was very pretty. But she also thought that she was far too nave and unsophisticated to attract a boy that was good enough for her. Certainly none of the boys that Rhea had met in the past had even come close, physically or financially, to whatever lofty standards she had set for her daughter. Rhea couldn't be bothered with Marsha when she was small. But she was no longer small, or for that matter a bother, and she would have liked to find a way to narrow the gap between Marsha and herself--especially since Roger had married, and because Brenda, his wife, seemed to be setting stringent guidelines for his and his mother's relationship--but yet, for some deeply hidden reason, still going out of her way to widen the breach... "If you don't like the way I look, my daughter," she said sarcastically, "then don't invite him up!" For a long moment mother and daughter glared at each other, then, indifferently lifting a book from the coffee table, Rhea pretended to read, as... Nine stories below, he rang the bell again. Having no intention of meeting Mitchell downstairs because she wanted to... Because Marsha could not wait to see her mother's reaction, "Okay, Mother." Shrugging her shoulders just as indifferently, pressing the intercom button, "Mitchie?" "Yeah. Hi, honey!" "Sorry it took so long. Come on up." Pushing the button, unlocking the security door, she went into the hall to wait for him. The elevator door opening, Mitchell stepped out. Her hair, rolled into a thick coil, falling over her left shoulder, Marsha wore white, high-cut shorts over a one-piece bathing suit that accentuated her long, slender, no-longer-"knock-kneed," darkly-tanned legs. Wearing white, cotton-wash slacks and a short-sleeved, powder-blue shirt out at the waist and unbuttoned to below his chest... "Hi!" The total effect on both the wonder of their long lost, newly discovered love, each coming into the arms of the other, "Hi!" Taking his hand, "Come on." Leading him into the apartment, "I can't wait for mother to meet you..." "Mother!" Her head still propped in the palm of her hand, still "deeply engrossed" in her book, moving her head from her palm, Rhea made a halting motion with her hand, as if to say, "I'm more interested in my book then in meeting this insignificant boy, but if he'll wait till I'm ready, I'll honor him with my gaze." Instantly reminding him of the actress Hedy Lamarr, Jesus, he thought, she's beautiful! "Mother," knowing this was an act, "Mitchell is here!"

BECOMING "Okay, Marsha!" Lowering the book slowly, forcing a smile, "No need to..." Lifting her eyes, the look of surprise apparent, unable to stop herself, "My, God!"

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Pleased at her reaction, "Mrs. Goldman," crossing the room, smiling his smile, extending his hand, "I'm glad to meet you." Mitchell being the last thing she'd expected to see enter the room at the side of her daughter, "Uh," sitting up awkwardly, clumsily shaking his hand, "Uh..." "Mother," smiling a very broad smile, absolutely tickled at her mother's reaction to Mitchell, and her unusual, to say the least, loss for words, "this is Mitchell." "Ah, yes, Mitchell!" Attempting to regain some semblance of composure, "Marsha has..." glancing darkly at her daughter, "told me so much about you." Obviously, though, Marsha sure hadn't told her very much. Holding her hand forward, "Sit down, please." Not sure if the woman was simply gesturing to a chair, or if maybe she expected him to kiss her hand on the way there, "No wonder Marsha's so pretty." Opting for the first, Mitchell sat down. "Thank you." Acknowledging the compliment, trying to soften the look of her frozen smile, searching for something... for anything to say, "You're Jewish?" Rhea said dumbly, "You don't look Jewish." He'd gone through this with girl's mothers in the past, and having only two ways to prove that he truly was Jewish, and not knowing Marsha's mother well enough to "whip it out," thinking the absurd thought, I could show her my circumcision. Or, smiling, this time opting for the second, taking the wallet from his back pocket, removing a picture, he handed it to her. Looking at Mitchell wearing a tallis and yarmulke in his bar mitzvah picture, handing the picture back, still looking for something intelligible to say, Rhea said, "Oh." Enjoying her mother's squirming, nonetheless, thinking, Maybe now's a good time to leave. "Mother, we've got to meet Shelly at Askanaz and we're running late." Looking at Marsha, surprised at this, but standing, Mitchell repeated, "Nice meeting you." Adding, "Sorry we have to run." Not even pretending to like them, often to the point of being noticeably rude, Rhea usually rushed Marsha's boyfriends from the apartment as quickly as possible. Now, though, wishing they'd stay a bit longer, wanting to know more about this young man, "Yes, Mitchell," forcing her eyes from his face, frowning at her daughter, "maybe you can stay longer next time." Oh, yeah! "Maybe you can stay longer next time," not words she'd thought she would ever hear her mother say in regard to one of her boyfriends. "Yes, Mother!" Marsha said sweetly. "Maybe next time." Motioning to a beach bag by the door, "This yours?" Still attempting to keep a straight face, "Uh-huh." Marsha nodded. Lifting the bag, opening the door, looking back, "Bye, Mrs. Goldman." Mitchell pulled the door shut. The elevator hadn't moved, so the door opened the moment Marsha pushed the button. Stepping inside, no sooner had the door closed when, her arms about his neck, "Have I ever told you how much I love

BECOMING centipedes?" "Actually, no." Smiling, "Why would anyone ever love a centipede?" "'Cause," kissing him, "they're cute and fuzzy and look like you." Walking through the lobby, disappointed when she'd said it, "I didn't know we were meeting Shelly." He'd hoped they would be spending the day alone. "You want to walk or drive?" "Let's walk... And we're not meeting Shelly. I just wanted to get out of there." Putting his arm about her waist, "Good!" Putting her arm about his waist, "You don't like Shelly?" "Sure I like her, but I love you and was hoping to spend the day alone with you."

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"Me, too, Mitchie. I want to be alone with you, too." Chuckling, "That's if you call being on a beach with a million kids alone." "You mother's very pretty. I can see where you get it." Frowning, looking at him, "You think she's sexy, ehh?" "Yeah. For someone's mother she is, very!" "Well, Daddy's pretty good-looking, too, and I'd much rather think I got most of myself from him." Taking a chance, "Seems like you don't care for your mother too much." Looking skyward, "It's such a nice day, I'd really rather not talk about her... You like hot dogs?" "Huh?" The question so far out of context he wasn't sure he'd heard right. "Hot dogs?" "Yeah!" Laughing, "Do you like hot dogs?" "Well, yeah, sure I like hot dogs!" Other than lox and bagles, one of his favorite foods had always been Chicago style, kosher style hot dogs. "As a matter of fact... Now you don't know this about me yet, Marcie, but I am considered to be one of the world's foremost connoisseurs of hot dogs." "Really? One of the world's foremost, huh? I don't know if I told you, but daddy's got an itsy-bitsy restaurant over on Madison Street; you know, hot dogs, hamburgers, chili, bacon'n'eggs and stuff like that. And I was thinking, that if tomorrow..." Stopping, she looked at him questioningly. "That is if you want to be with me tomorrow." Sounding almost angry, "Are you nuts? Of course I want to be with you tomorrow, and the next day and every day that I'm home! I even want to sleep with you!" Looking at each other, he smiled. "I didn't mean it that way... Well, yeah, I did mean it that way, too. But what I meant was that I want to spend every possible minute with you." Thank you, God! "Me, too, Mitchie."

BECOMING Thank you, God! "What about your job, though?"

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"I'll tell them something came up and that I've just got to take some time off. It's more important to me that I spend the time with you, so if they say no, then I'll just quit and find another job. But my boss likes me and I think it'll be okay." "I was wondering what I was going to do with myself while you were at work, and if that's what you really want to do, then it's great!" "Of course that's what I want to do!" Bumping his hip with hers. "Anyway, daddy makes the best hot dogs in Chicago..." Bumping her hip back, "The best, ehh?" "Yeah, the best! Anyway, I thought that tomorrow we'd take a ride to the store and have lunch, and then you two can meet each other." "Sounds good to me. That's why he's not home today, he's working?" "Yes." Marsha sighed. "He's there almost all the time. And it's not only him; my brother and uncle work there also, but daddy's there almost all the time! Living in that darned apartment costs a lot of money!" she said bitterly. Remembering, "Oh, yeah, Roger! Kind of a surly guy, ain't he?" "Yes, to say the least. But why'd you ask?" "When I talked to him the other..." "You talked to Roger! When?" "He didn't give you my message? I called from Michigan City." "No," she sighed, again. "He never told me you called." * After brunch at Askanaz,, they walked to the beach, where Marsha led Mitchell to "her spot." On the one hand she did want to be alone with him--at least as alone as they could be on a beach with "a million kids around"--on the other hand she also wanted her friends to meet and see him. Mitchell's head propped in his hand, he lay on his side looking down at Marsha. Lying on her back with her eyes closed, "You know, Mitch, your family is just great!" "Thanks. And in case you hadn't noticed, my mom and dad and the boys are absolutely in love with you." Spending the years of her life with none but the love of her father, suddenly having not only the love of Mitchell, but of his family, too, all but overwhelming her, opening her eyes, looking at him, "Really?" "Yeah, really!" Leaning downward, he kissed her nose. "But Star of David or not, my grandmother still thinks you're a shiksa."

BECOMING "'Cause I don't like lox?" "Sure, 'cause you don't like lox! What kind of a Jew doesn't like lox?" Her expression turning somber, "Mitchie, can I ask you something?" "Sure you can! Anything you want!"

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"Morton Humphry?" The serious expression turning to laughter, "Mitchell and Lawrence, okay... but Morton Humphry? That poor kid. How'd that happen?" Laughing also, "I don't know if it's true, but my mother says Mortie's named after two of her cousins that lived in a small village in England during the war." "You've got relatives in England?" "Beats me. I'd always thought all of her family came from Russia, then a few years ago they had some friends over and after they'd had a few drinks someone asked that same question, and that was the first time I heard anything about England. Anyway, according to my mother, these two cousins really loved each other..." "Boy cousins or girl cousins?" "Boy cousins. Anyway, these two cousins loved each other a real lot, and they each lived on the other side of a small river, and there was a bridge running across it..." "Uh, this is a true story?" "I guess." Shrugging his shoulders. "Do mothers lie?" "Yeah," Marsha said, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, "sometimes." "Anyway," touching his fingers to her cheek, "there was an air raid one day and the cousins ran out of their houses on either side of the river and began to run across the bridge..." "Why?" "Beats me. Anyway, the cousins began to run across the bridge calling each other's names... Oh, by the way, did I tell you what their names were?" "No, but I can guess." "Yeah, that's it! Their names were Morton and Humphry." "Really?" "Yeah. And as they ran across the bridge they called, 'Morton!' 'Humphry!' 'Morton!' 'Humphry!' Then a bomb fell on the bridge and killed 'em both." "No kidding," she said in mock seriousness. "Yeah," he said in mock sadness.

BECOMING Lifting her head, "Oh, what a sad story." she kissed his forehead. "Yeah, and that's how Morton Humphry got his name." "According to your mother." "Yeah." "You believe everything your mother tells you, do you?" "Sure, and my dad, too." Laughing, "When she was pregnant with Larry he told me that she'd swallowed a watermelon seed." "And you believed him?" "Well, yeah. Why not? What did I know about it then?" Laughing again, kissing her, tasting the salt of perspiration on her upper lip, "Hell, I don't even know that much about it now."

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Thinking his self-depreciating way rather a nice change from most of the know-it-all kind of guys she knew, closing her eyes, crossing her hands behind her head, "What are you planning on doing after you get out of the Coast Guard?" Thinking the way Marsha abruptly changed the subject kind of cute, lying closely together, their thighs touching, the sensation of bare, warm flesh upon bare, warm flesh transmitting charges of sexual electricity, "I really haven't made up my mind." he said. Laying on her back with her hands behind her head, the V of her bathing suit having spread across her chest, Mitchell saw the ridges of her ribs and the slight swell of her breasts and, Oh, God! how he wanted look at Marsha's breasts and taste the taste of Marsha's nipples. Oh, God! He actually ached to do this and had to fight the urge to do this. "I'll have the G.I. Bill and know it would probably be best to go back to college," he said as he tried to visualize what Marsha's breasts might look like: their size; the size, texture and color of her nipples. "But I'm not even sure if I want to go back to college, and..." Closing his eyes, he could almost feel them in his mouth: the softness of Marsha's nipples; the sweetness of Marsha's flesh; the salt taste of her perspiration. "I'll probably get married and..." Feeling her heart skip, Ask me! She thought. Ask me now and, Oh, God, I'll say yes! "...go to work at the studio as a salesman." And those legs! Oh, God, those long, tan, slender legs! Envisioning his waist held captive between those long, tan, slender legs... The flood of erotic emotion overwhelming him, "Marsha," he said hoarsely. Oh, God! He is going to ask me! "I love you!" Kissing her, "Marcie, I love you!" Pressing his body tightly against her body, kissing her deeply, imagining his tongue as his penis he moved it in and out, slowly, rhythmically, in and out... deeply into, and partially out of, Marsha's... vagina. Feeling him pressing hard onto her thigh, aware of, and joining into the sensual movement of his tongue, putting her arms about his neck she tightened her chest against his chest and drawing deeply, Marsha, too, imagined, and as his elongated, hardened tongue went forward and back, constricting her vaginal muscle, and loosening her vaginal muscle in rhythm with Mitchell's... penis, Marsha sensed the warm, wet flow of her passion and soon... very soon, the tug and, Oh, God! warm release within the well of her vagina, and, "Oh, God!" Coming from this special kiss breathless, "I love you!" Marsha felt the rapid beating of her heart and--as she realized what had, amazingly, happened--the sweet, warm glow of orgasm.

BECOMING

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"Oh, God!" Feeling the rapid beating of his heart--along with the tightness of his bathing suit that constricted his pulsing erection--their mouths but an inch apart, Mitchell felt the ragged breath of Marsha upon his lips and, no longer able to control his hands, feeling the ridges of her ribs beneath the hot flesh, he placed his hand flat upon her chest, between the spread of Marsha's breasts. Feeling Mitchell's ragged breath upon her lips, sensing their mutual love, and lust, still, unwitting flinching as she felt his hand upon her chest, rather than moving it, though, covering his hand with her hand, holding it captive, "Mitchie," glancing about, "there's so many people around." "Oh, God!" Taking a deep breath, shaking his head, "Every bone I have," popping his jaw twice, "and a few I didn't know I have till a couple'a seconds ago, are jumping all over the place." Trustingly taking her hand off his, putting her arms about his neck, pulling him closer again, their lips met again... less urgently--at least less urgently for Marsha Goldman. For Mitchell Lipensky, though, his hand held flat between their pressing chests, by stretching his fingers he was able to feel the softness on either side of Marsha's chest... But feeling he was doing something wrong... Feeling this was a betrayal of Marsha's trust, Mitchell withdrew his hand. * Several times throughout this day people that knew Marsha, both male and female, came to her. They stood or stooped in front of the blanket, or knelt on it. After a few minutes of small talk, catching the subliminal hint that said, "we want to be alone," the people left... And in the midst of the crowd, they were alone. * "God, Marcie..." Thinking, She's so cute, in her blue sailor suit. Happy to be with her, proud to be seen with her. "...how come you always look so beautiful?" he asked as, taking her elbow, they stepped from the sidewalk to the slightly moving, railed gangplank that went from shore to the permanently berthed, completely refurbished, long-retired automotive ferry ship that was known as "The Columbia Yacht Club." Inside, he led her past a glass trophy case containing dozens of sailing trophies, then into the dining room. Seeing them, an attractive, blonde, middle-aged hostess, "Hi, Mitchie," leaving her stool at the near end of the bar, "How's it going?" "Fine, Mandy, just fine.... Mandy, I'd like you to meet Marsha." "Hi, Marsha. This the first time you're aboard?" "Yes. Actually this is the first time I've ever been on a boat, uh," remembering, turning to Mitchell, smiling, "ship." "Come on," Mandy said. "I'm holding a table for you." Before becoming The Columbia Yacht Club, the dining room was the ship's bridge and captain's quarters. Now, three sides of the room were glass and there was a panoramic view of Navy Pier and Lakeshore Drive to the north, the beautiful Chicago skyline to the west, and the prestigious Chicago Yacht Club and Lakeshore Drive to the south. Even though it was only six-thirty, it was Sunday, and the dining room was jammed with people dressed in all type of clothing: dirty, or somewhat dirty denims or shorts for the working sailors and those who'd been rag

BECOMING bagging or stink potting; and somewhat cleaner, less disheveled clothing for their guests and other people, such as Marsha and Mitchell, who were informally dressed for dinner.

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As Mandy led them into the dining room, "Hey, Mitch!" they stopped at a table where a young man in denim slacks and jacket was sitting alone, eating a hamburger. "Karl!" Obviously glad to see each other, "Jesus, It's good to see you!" Heartily shaking hands, "How the hell've you been?" "Good, Mitch! When'd you get in?" "Thursday... Karl Metzenberg"--his mind flitted to the night of the "Friedman inquisition," but, passing it off just as quickly--"I'd like you to meet Marsha Goldman." Standing, "Marsha, hi!" Impressed, Karl looked at her a moment, then sitting, back to Mitchell. "We're going out in about an hour or so." Looking at Marsha again, "How'd you like to go for a nice, calm, moonlit sail?" "Yeah! You bet!" Looking at her, "Sorry, Marcie. That's only if you want to." "Yes," thrilled at the prospect, "I'd love to! But what about clothes? Am I dressed okay?" "Sure you are," Karl said, "except for those high heels. Take 'em off and you'll be just fine... Tell you what; you two take your time eating and whenever you're done just come aboard; we'll wait for you." "Thanks, Karl, that's really nice of you." "Don't mention it, pal. For the Coast Guard I'd do just about anything." Smiling at Marsha, "See you later. Enjoy your meal." Their table faced south, towards the prestigious Chicago Yacht Club where everyone in the dining room was properly dressed for dinner. "My, God, Mitchell, it's so beautiful!" Tickled that she was enjoying this as much as he, "Yeah, you sure are." He ordered prime rib, and Marsha, the fried shrimp dinner. When, "Shrimp?" he questioned, "Seafood, I eat," she responded, "but fish? No!" * "Wow! That's it? My God, Mitchell, it's beautiful!" Undeen, the Metzenberg schooner, was forty-five feet in length, painted glossy-black with fine-line, white piping, and had brightly varnished teakwood decks, hatches and rails. The two-masted boat had a galley, head, and room to comfortably sleep six or, if friendly, eight. Besides Karl, two members of Undeen's permanent crew were there: Stephen Krugman with his wife, Sally, and Reiner Krout and his girlfriend, Rita. "Steve! Reiner! Hey!" Waving, taking Marsha's shoes and peds as she, holding onto his shoulder for balance, pushed them off with her toes, then, holding his hand as, hiking her calf-length dress over her knees, she stepped from the quay to the gunnel as, reaching to her, Stephen, in the cockpit, took her other hand, and

BECOMING

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Marsha stepped onto the teakwood deck, then into the cockpit. Both feet planted firmly, smiling at Stephen, "Thank you," Marsha said, as... Stepping from the quay onto the deck, "Marcie, meet Steve Krugman and Sally." Shaking hands, "They're old married folk." Nodding their heads, both said, "Hi!" "And this kraut's Krout." Leaning across the transom, shaking hands, "Reiner, hi!" Glancing from Reiner to Marsha, "And this is his girlfriend," nodding to her, "Rita..." Smiling, "Hi!" Marsha said, nodding her head as she was introduced. "...Or is it...?" Mitchell asked, "You guys married yet?" "No," Reiner looked at Rita, then away, "we ain't married yet." Marriage, obviously, was a sore spot between these two because Rita scowled at Reiner before, smiling a forced smile, making a half circle wave to Marsha, "But we are going to do it any time now! Ain't we, Reiner!" "Yeah, babe. Sure we are!" "Sure we are!" Rita snapped back. "When cows shit sour cream!" Having heard this argument before, many times, "How long you been in the Coast Guard now, Mitch?" Sally asked. "About two and a half years." "Yeah!" Glaring at Reiner again, "'bout as long as this guy's been promisin' we're gonna get married!" "Hey," looking from Rita to Reiner, "I'm sorry! If I'd'a known I was going to start a fight, I'd never asked." "Nah, it's okay, Mitch. Me'n Rita's only playin' around. Ain't we, babe? Wooff!" Gasping, Reiner turned white as... Playfully punching him in the stomach, "Yeah! Sure we're playin' around! Ain't we babe!" Rita mimicked. "Hey, we got company, here! Enough bullshit!" Putting his can of beer into the wooden holder to the side of the helm, Karl pushed the button starting the auxiliary motor. "Let's get the show on the road!" No doubt about who the captain was, "Sure, Karl!" flipping their cigarettes over the side, stowing their beer, too, Stephen began to remove the sail cover as, jumping to the wharf, going forward, releasing the bow line, tossing it aboard, then going aft, Reiner released the stern line and hopped aboard as Undeen backed away from the dock. "I'll stow the fenders." "Sit still, Mitch. You're a guest here tonight. Rita'll get 'em! Won't you 'babe'?" Enjoying her position as--unless her place aboard was needed by another guest--a secondary crew member,

BECOMING considering these jaunts as a quickie kind of vacation, jumping to it, "Yeah, sure, Karl." Making a quarter circle in reverse, Karl then pushed the gear, reversing the screw and, after a few feet of backward drift, the bronze propeller bit, moving the black schooner forward.

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Passing the club tender--the powerboat that transported people from the club to boats secured to buoys, and back again--Karl tapped the button on the console and, UU-OOGGHH! And, UU-OOGGHH! the horn on the tender answered back. Navigating around boats that were under sail, that had the right-of-way, and those moored to cans... "Marcie," pointing to starboard, "there's my dad's boat." "Where?" Although the sun was to port; glaring on the calm water, having to shade her eyes, "Where?" Marsha asked. "Which one is it?" "There, at about two o'clock. See?" Pointing between a sloop and a motor cruiser, "There, the one with the white hull and green deck." "Oh, yes!" Much smaller and far less elegant than the boat she was on, nonetheless welcoming each bit of knowledge and information that led her deeper into Mitchell's life, "I see it now!" "Not quite like this boat." "Doesn't matter, Mitchie. It's beautiful, too." Passing the last line of boats... then the inner breakwater, "Hoist main and mizzen!" Switching the auxiliary motor off, Undeen drifted with forward momentum, as... Sails unfurling, crackling in the light, evening breeze, Stephen and Reiner cranked brass handles on the fore and aft masts, as... Head tilted back, Marsha followed the upward progression of the snow-white sails until, the breeze catching, moving forward, picking up speed Undeen heeled to port, as... Grabbing hold of Mitchell's knee, "Oh, my God!" her knees tensing, about to bound to the high side... "This the first time you've been sailing, Marcie?" Strands of hair blowing across her face, brushing them back, trying to hold them down, "Yes," she said, swallowing nervously, looking from Sally to the water that bubbled by the lowered rail. "Don't worry, honey, this crew's great." Rita said. "And this ain't even what'ch'ya'd call a breeze. Shit! I was aboard once when we were barrelin' across this lake and they hoisted the red flag, and..." "Red flag?" "Yeah. The hurricane warnin'." "Hurricane? We never get hurricanes here! Do we?" "No, not usually," Mitchell answered. "But a red flag here can be the near equivalent of a hurricane on the east

BECOMING coast." "Yeah," Rita continued, "scared the livin' shit outta me, but we made it okay." Still attempting to calm Marsha's fear, "Now this, this ain't nothin'! Right, Sal? Remember?"

503

"Jesus Christ!" Shaking her head, "How could I ever forget? It was the scariest thing I've ever been through." Relaxing... Sitting on the low side, trying to relax, "You two come sailing all the time?" "Nah, only if it's just cruisin', and Karl asks the guys if we want to, and if we ain't workin', sure! It's almost like a free vacation." Picking up more speed, the boat passed the outer breakwater. His arm protectively around Marsha, "I've been through hurricanes twice now. Caught a class one in the tower at Rockaway, and the tail end of another on the ship. Scared the shit outt'a me, too, Rita." Reiner passed a pack of Chesterfields. Taking one, Mitchell passed the light from his Zippo. "If you want anything," looking from Marsha to Mitchell, "you know where it is. Just make yourself at home," Karl said, "and go get it." Standing, "Think I'll get me a beer." Stephen went to the cabin, "Anyone else?" "Yeah, me... Marcie." Mitchell asked, "You want a can of beer, or some pop?" Holding onto the boat with one hand and Mitchell's knee the other, "Uh-uh!" Shaking her head negatively, "No, nothing, thanks." "Yeah," draining what's left in his can, "get me one, too, will you." Squashing the can, Reiner tossed it overboard. "You say you've been through two hurricanes?" "Yeah, Karl. It was a bitch on the ship. We'd rise on the crest till we thought we were going through the sky, then down in the trough till it felt like a rollercoaster, and, shit, you'd think God dumped a billion gallons of water on you," he laughed, "which I guess he did." "The other one," Marsha questioned, trying to keep her mind off the heel of the boat and the rushing water, "the hurricane at Rockaway?" Taking the can, nodding thanks, popping the tab, "That one, believe it or not, I ended up kind of enjoying." "How could you ever enjoy a hurricane?" Looking to port, Karl could still see the tall tower of the Randolph Street Life Boat Station. "And in one of those, yet!" nodding his head over his shoulder. Looking at the distancing tower, "Hell, the tower at Rockaway's more than four miles from the station; not a sissy like that one that's attached to a brick building. Shit, the one at Rockaway's on a skinny strip of land that overlooks the Atlantic on one side and Coney Island and Sheepshead Bay on the other, and..." drawing on the cigarette, swigging some beer, "when the winds hit I thought the fu..." looking at Marsha, "...the tower was going to take off, then this old guy and woman came out to...I still can't figure why they did it."

BECOMING "Did what?" Reiner asked. "Yeah," Sally piped in, "what'd they do?" "You said they were old. How old?"

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"I don't know, Marcie. I'd say... I don't know, thirty-five, forty, maybe. Anyway, I lost track of 'em for a little while, you know, reporting in on the stupid, schmuck fishermen..." He looked at Marsha again, but she didn't appear to be shocked by his language. "...who were too, uh, damned stupid to go ashore when there's hurricane warnings. Well, when I'm sure they're all finally in, I take my binoculars and look for these two people again, and when I spot 'em I can't believe what they're doing." Drawing on the cigarette, he tilted the can of beer to his mouth. "Yeah?" Stephen asked. "So what in the hell were they doin'?" "They were naked." "Naked!?" "Yeah, Karl. They were running around the point buck-ass naked wanting to..." glancing at Marsha, "screw in a hurricane." "They didn't know you were there?" "At first I didn't know if they knew I was there. Although I couldn't imagine how they wouldn't know someone was in the tower." Thinking back to when the woman had waved to him, and the man's response when he'd given him the victory sign, "Yeah, of course they had to know someone was there! Anyway, I got so interested in what these two were doing ..." "You watched?" Marsha asked incredulously. Causing the men on the boat to smile, "Well, yeah, I watched!" Mitchell said. "I got so interested in what these two were doing that I almost forgot about the hurricane. And I guess it wasn't that much of a hurricane 'cause the winds only got up to seventy-five, eighty miles per hour, but," looking at Rita, "it sure scared the shit out of me... At least till my two old pals showed up and took my mind off it." "You watched them do it?" Sally asked. "The whole thing? With binoculars, yet?" Crushing the can, he threw it over the side. "Yeah! You bet!" "Boy, ain't that just like a man!" But Rita, as well as Sally, knew that, given the opportunity, without a doubt, they would have watched also. "When I stood a four-hour watch it was my beach, and if they're too damn dumb to realize there's a lookout in the tower, then they deserve to be watched. Besides," looking at... comically leering at Marsha, wiggling his right eyebrow, "I learned lots'a real neat stuff from those two." Looking at him, "Yeah," Marsha said, kissing his nose, "what kind of real neat stuff?" "Maybe you'll find out," kissing her nose back, "someday." Now, at 7:53, the sun was beginning to set.

BECOMING Over the lake, to the east, the sky was darkening. "Marsha, look." Turning, looking westerly...

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Speckled with fractured clouds, to the west the sky was ablaze with color: red, gold and purple. Tinting the city's skyscrapers, the hues of the sunset reflected off their windows in a panorama of sparkling pinpoint colors. "My, God!" she said, softly, reverently. "It's so beautiful!" "Karl, okay to take a cushion forward?" "Sure, go ahead." Slackening the sheet, spilling the wind, "I'll keep this tack." Undeen rode on an even keel. "Thanks, pal." Standing, taking both of Marsha's hands, "Come on." "Where?" Though the boat no longer heeled, not too happy about leaving the comfort and safety of the cockpit, "Do we have to?" "Yes." Taking the cushion they'd been sitting on, promising, "I won't let you fall overboard!" he stepped from the cockpit to the deck. Marsha hesitated, then, holding his hand tightly, stepped up. Leading her forward, he laid the cushion lengthwise facing the sunset. Sitting with his back propped against the mast, "Come on." Mitchell patted the space between his spread legs... Alone, hidden by the rise of the cabin, Marsha sat with her back reclining against Mitchell's chest. Her head resting on his shoulder, his cheek upon her cheek, his arms about her waist, their four clasped hands lay upon her lap. Alone... Quiet... Quiet, and so... But for the faint movement of water, the slight crackling of sails, the balmy silence of the gently palpating breeze... and each other's warm breath, it was quiet... Quiet and peaceful... Peaceful... so lovingly peaceful. The first wispy shreds of a large bank of broken clouds passed across the face of the lowering sun causing silvery-gold streamers of light to charge across the horizon. As the body of splintered clouds crossed the orange orb, the sky became bathed in a colossal kaleidoscope of hues: orange, red, purple, blue and gray, and all underlain with translucent, silvery-gold. "Please, baby, don't think I'm being corny," speaking softly, his mouth near her ear, "but now is something I've prayed for all my life. I've seen hundreds of beautiful sunsets..." hugging her even tighter, Marsha could

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actually feel the beat of his heart against her back, "...and sometimes they're so beautiful I thank God for whatever beauty there is in my life, but whenever that happened it always made me lonely and sometimes I felt like crying because I didn't have anyone to share the beauty with, and..." The emotion becoming too much, his eyes watering, his voice catching, taking a few moments, until... "Marsha," he said emotively, "I swear that I've never seen a more beautiful sunset, or that any girl has ever been as beautiful to me as you are right now, and I never thought I could love anyone as much as I love you." Feeling his warm breath on her ear, hearing the heartfelt, softly spoken words and his faltering voice, experiencing a deluge of emotion, "Mitchie, I've always loved you..." her eyes overrunning, too, "I've loved you since that first night we met." Turning her face to his, looking into his eyes, "I don't think I've ever loved anyone but you." His hand held in hers, moving both from her lap, repositioning his right arm over her shoulder, Marsha moved Mitchell's hand to beneath her blouse, to under her brassiere, and held it, tightly, palm down to her left breast--for the first time in her life feeling a hand other than hers upon her bare breast--Marsha kissed Mitchell gently, with soft passion. Marsha still felt the beat of Mitchell's heart upon her back, and now he felt the beat of Marsha's heart through the fathomless softness of Marsha's breast. But, as the urge to touch and hold her breast had been all but overpowering the night before and earlier today, now, oddly, the feel of Marsha's bare breast within the palm of his hand was...? To Mitchell Lipensky, the feel of Marsha Goldman's breast, at least at that moment, was holy and the thump, thump, thumping of this girl's heart in the palm of his hand--transcending even sex--meant more to Mitchell than anything, than anything in the past. "I love you." June 20, 1955 "This is a terrible neighborhood!" Driving west on Madison Street, two blocks east of the Chicago Stadium, they were on the fringe of Chicago's skid row. "You're right, but daddy makes a good living out of the store." Pointing to the south side of the street, "There it is." "Where?" "There! See the sign?" ELI'S GRILL Vienna Meat Products Hot Dogs -- Hamburgers "Yeah, I see it now." Passing "Eli's," making a U turn at the next corner, coming back, the car stopped in front of the store. 11:05: With the exception of a man behind the counter dicing onions at the steamtable, the store was empty.

BECOMING Hearing the bell above the door, turning, the man smiled. If pressed, he would have to admit that, after his wife, his daughter was his second love, although, truly, Marsha was the only warmth in Eli Goldman's life.

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Smiling warmly, "Hi, baby!" Wiping his hands on the unstained, white apron he wore about his waist, coming from behind the counter, taking Marsha in his arms, hugging her tightly, Eli looked over her shoulder, to the boy she had brought to meet him. Having pleasing features, seeing Eli as slightly shorter than Marsha, with sandy-colored hair, striking blue eyes, a warm, very infectious smile, and a squarely built, powerful body. Mitchell's first, and everlasting impression of Eli Goldman was, Nice man! "Daddy, this is Mitchell." Holding his hand forward, "Mitchell." "Mister Goldman," shaking the offered hand, "Marsha talks about you all the time, and I'm so glad to meet you." Noting the sincerity in his voice, instantly liking the look and mannerisms of this young man, "I'm glad to meet you too, Mitchell." "Daddy, Mitchell says that he's one of the greatest connoisseurs of hot dogs in the world, and that he's eaten hot dogs from here to New York, and he says that your hot dogs couldn't possibly be as good as some of the others he's eaten!" "Oh, I did not!" Laughing, "Don't you believer her, Mister Goldman. I never said any such thing!" Placing an arm about each of their shoulders, "Oh, yeah?" Eli said jokingly, steering them to a booth, seating them on opposite sides of the table. "I'll fix you a hot dog that'll knock your socks off!" Going to the steamtable, "How many you want?" he asked from behind the counter. "Three? Four?" Reaching across the table, taking Mitchell's hand, "He's real bashful, Daddy." "Maybe about lots of things, Mister Goldman, but never about food, and especially hot dogs! Two, thank you." "Two hot dogs coming up! How you like 'em, Mitch?" "The works, Mister Goldman." "Mustard, onions, celery salt, relish, sport peppers, tomatoes and fries?" "Tell you what; hold the relish and it sounds like a dream." Looking at Marsha, "You, baby?" "Hamburger today, Daddy." "Roger," Eli called, "we've got company, take a break!"

BECOMING "Yeah," came a voice from the back room, "be right out."

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A White Sox baseball cap on his head, wearing an apron over jeans and a T-shirt, Roger came from the back room carrying a large pot of peeled and oblong cut potatoes. Seeing his sister, "Hi," he said unemotively as, walking behind the counter, he dumped the potatoes into a stainless steel bin alongside the deep fryer. "Roger," partially standing so she might see him better behind the counter, "this is Mitchell. I don't know if you remember, but you two met a long time ago, in the country." Leaving the pot there, wiping his hands on the apron, going to the booth he sat alongside his sister. "This is Mitchell," she repeated. "Mitch, this is Roger." Scarcely looking at him, let alone offering to shake hands, reaching into his shirt pocket, "Nah, I don't remember," Roger pinched a cigarette out. Irritated by, and instantly remembering the look of utter indifference he'd received from Roger six years earlier, "Yeah," he said in a none-too-friendly tone, "but I remember you." Softening his tone, "And I spoke to you on Friday, when I called from Michigan City." Catching Mitchell's tone, lighting his cigarette, "You called?" Inhaling, "Nah," he repeated. "I don't remember." Looking at the ceiling, exhaling, "Oh, yeah! That was you?" "Why didn't you tell me Mitchell called?" Shooting a look of annoyance at his sister, "'Cause I forgot!" Provoked, not wanting to let it pass that easily, "Roger," holding his hand forward, "even if you don't remember me, and even if you forgot to tell Marcie I called, I'm glad--like hell I am--to meet you anyway." Exhaling twin streams of smoke, Roger looked at the offered hand, then begrudgingly lifted his. Deliberately tightening his hand, "Yeah," Mitchell said, in his none-too-friendly voice, "you may not remember me, but I sure remember you!" You schmuck! Ignoring Mitchell's tone. Changing the subject, "So, you dating my sister?" "Yeah," he answered belligerently, as though challenging him to make it an issue. "I am!" "What'd you do? You a student?" "No. I'm in the service." "Army?" "No. Coast Guard. I'm stationed in New York." "Here you go!" Holding two tissue-covered plastic baskets, each containing a hot dog, two wedges of kosher pickle, and a mound of French fried potatoes, Eli placed both in front of Mitchell, who... "Thank you."

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Returning to the griddle, Eli flipped, then, pressing it flat with a wide spatula, scoped the sizzling hamburger up, put it into a bun in another tissue-covered plastic basket, heaped a mound of fries next to it, went back to the booth and, "Here you are, baby," put it in front of Marsha. "What'd you kids like to drink?" "Orange, please." "Me, too, Daddy." "Lunch crowd'll be starting soon." Standing, "Sit down and talk to 'em. I'll get the drinks." "Thanks, Roge." Sitting next to his daughter, "So, Mitch, my hot dogs as good as those in New York?" "New Yorkers don't know what's good; they just grill 'em. But nothing's better'er'n'a good old- fashioned steamed Chicago hot dog, and to tell the truth, Mister Goldman," starting on the second hot dog, "Marsha's right. These are the best, and I've eaten'em from here to there." Pinching a small mound of chopped onion that had fallen from the bun, putting the onion back in the bun, he took another bite. "Here." Placing two bottles of Nedlog's Orange onto the table. Glancing at him, "Thanks, Roger," Mitchell said. Taking a pack of Old Golds out of his shirt pocket, reaching under the apron, into his pants pocket for a lighter, "You about ready for another, Mitch?" Eli lit a cigarette. "Well..." He did want another hot dog, but did not want Marsha's father's first impression of him to be that of a pig. "Roger..." Choking on the smoke, coughing, his eyes tearing, his face becoming a deep crimson, Eli coughed 'till... catching his breath, "Roger," he said, "fix Mitch another dog with everything, hold the relish." Drawing on the cigarette again, becoming red in the face again, this time Eli was able to hold his cough down. "Marsha tells me you're in the service and home on leave. When do you have to report back?" Washing down a mouthful before answering, "I got in on Thursday. Today's Monday, and I've got to be aboard ship by 2400..." glancing at Marsha, "uh, midnight on the second. So I guess I've got about twelve days left." Without Mitchell! Now, suddenly Marsha could not imagine how she would be able to go back to living as she'd lived before. Without Mitchell? "Twelve days," her voice breaking, snapping her fingers, "will go like that..." Looking at his daughter, Eli realized that this young man was different than any of the other young men his daughter had introduced him to in the past. "... and if you don't mind," Marsha said, fighting back tears, "I'd just as soon not talk about when you have to leave." Looking at her, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow his mouthful of hot dog around the lump in his throat, "Yeah," Mitchell said, "me, too." June 2, 1955 Oh, God! It's time!

BECOMING "Bye, Mom."

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"Bye, Mitchie," holding back tears as she and her eldest son kissed, then held each other tightly for a moment. "Dad." The two men did as they'd done twice before: look stoically at each other, then--always surprising Mitchell--hug emotively. Staying back, Myra and Walter left the two to their own goodbyes. Walking hand in hand to the boarding gate, "My, God, Mitchie!" She'd tried to hold the tears back, but couldn't. The shine in her eyes becoming fluid, "I'm going to miss you so much!" At the gate, standing facing each other, watery eyes locked onto the others face, minds and hearts thinking and feeling as one. "Marcie," the painful lump in his chest moving to his throat, barely able to whisper her name, "Oh, Marcie." Averting his face so she wouldn't see him cry, pulling her to his chest, holding her tightly, "I love you! I'll miss you!" "Me, too, Mitchie! Me, too!" Knowing he must! Pulling from her arms, without looking back Mitchell rushed through the gate, up the boarding ramp, into the plane. Sitting on the port side window just aft of the wing, looking through the rounded-square window, through the shimmering distortion of his tears, still standing at the gate, he was able to see her, and... She saw him and waved, and Mitchell could see her mouth moving in exaggerated movements, and, though he could not hear the words, he knew what the words were and, silently mouthing the words back... "I love you!" "I love you!" "I love you!" Slammed shut, the hatch was secured by a stewardess... The portable stairway pulled away, the four motors sputtered... then roared to life... The plane, moving from the terminal... Goodbye. Goodbye. * They'd spent every possible moment together. That Monday, after leaving Eli's they had driven to Lanathin's, where Mitchell came in and stood by Marsha's side as she'd honestly told the store manager why she must have the next twelve days off. As the manager's husband had been in the army during Korea, and as she well remembered her own feelings, she did understand Marsha's and, liking this young couple, did give Marsha the time off... without pay. They went to the zoo, to the beach, to the movies. They went for quiet walks and long drives. With the barrier broken on Undeen, if the situation became "hot" enough--and, oh, yeah, it most often did--she

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would allow him to touch her breasts, but only over her clothing and, though he'd tried--good Lord how he'd tried--his hands and eyes were not again allowed under her blouse or bathing suit. They'd had long, hot--so hot--necking sessions with restricted petting and barely restrained passion, and even though at times he'd thought Marsha must think him a centipede and a half, Mitchell was happy to be with her, and to be allowed to touch and hold her within whatever boundaries she'd felt herself comfortable with, but... Being human with a natural curiosity and very much in love, and certainly wanting him as much as--having no idea of just how badly he--wanted her, she'd actually had--although, considering how emphatically she'd been able to hold him off, he would never believe that she had--a harder time controlling her passion than he and, oh, yeah, she did want to touch him there, and oh, yeah, she did want him to touch her there. But somehow Marsha was able to find the presence of mind to keep his hands, and eyes, above her bathingsuit or blouse and completely away from the area of her groin, and... Whereas she had counted their ever-dwindling days with dread, she really didn't know how much longer she'd be able to keep her resolve and virginity intact, and though she knew she would miss him terribly, she also thought, in a sense, that she'd be relieved when he did leave. But, oh, no, she wasn't, and... * Watching as the plane became little more than a reflecting silver speck, Marsha was sorry that she hadn't gone further with him, and allow him to go further with her... Maybe even... No! She knew herself and knew she'd never let Mitchell go all the way... Maybe. Now, this was the fear he'd felt when Mitchell had first realized the depth of his feelings for Marsha. Last year when he left home he'd had an immediate sense of homesickness; but not like this. Never like this! Now he knew, without a doubt, that he had left part of himself on the runway of the now barely visible airport. Their time together: Talking to Marsha; the feel of her touch; the scent of her hair; being with her; loving her... Also, the dream of sex: of seeing Marsha nude; of lying next to Marsha nude; of the sight and feel of Marsha's breasts, bare; of kissing her nipples, of tasting her nipples; of placing his hand onto her, into her, there; of feeling the warm moisture, there; of kissing her, there; of tasting her there; of loving her, there! Of Marsha loving him in return! Of, Oh, God! the consummate act. These were the factual thoughts and masturbatory fantasies that had occupied Mitchell's mind while he and Marsha had been together. But now... Passing over Illinois, the plane flew east, and with each passing moment, with the physical distance between Marsha and himself widening, he could remember only one other time in his life that he'd felt this alone and this lonely, and though there was not a thing he could do about it then... Now? For the first time, My, God! a thought came to mind, and, the thought jolting him, Why didn't I think of that before? He knew that this time, now, he definitely could do something about it. * The plane landed at La Guardia Airport at 7:57 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.

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Having thought about it the length of the entire flight, knowing with absolute clarity what he intended to do, taking the subway to Times Square, he walked no more than a half-block before finding the exact type of store he'd thought about finding. Inside he found exactly what he'd thought about finding, bought it, wrote the note he'd mentally written and rewritten the entire length of the four-hour flight, then, "Do you have a box for this?" he asked the girl behind the counter. Reaching into the waste can beneath the counter, "Yeah," she tossed him a cardboard box and cover that was triple the size needed. Using crumpled newspaper to hold it steady, enclosing it along with his note, "You got something I can wrap it with?" Chomping on a wad of Double Bubble, "Yeah," the girl handed him a brown paper bag, scissors and a roll of Scotch tape. He wrapped it, addressed it, and--using five stamps, just to be on the safe side--kissing it, Mitchell dropped the clumsily-wrapped package into the first mailbox he saw. Writing the note and sending the package had helped, somewhat, but now, despondent and lonely, standing on the bow of the Staten Island Ferry he saw the greenly-illuminated Statue of Liberty and the lights of the dozens of boats that were in the harbor. There was a bright, three-quarter moon and the pin-point lights of millions of stars that speckled the clear, pitch-black sky. "Marcie," he whispered as he struggled to keep from crying, "is it possible that maybe you're looking at this very same moon now, right now, at this exact time?" Mitchell never knew but wondering, Mitchie, is it possible that you're looking at this same moon this very same time? From her ninth floor apartment window, Marsha Goldman was. 46 Conversations and Impressions July 5, 1955, to August 29, 1955 Tuesday being the Fourth of July there was no mail. On Wednesday, Marsha Goldman came home from work, as usual, at 5:45. Her father, as usual, was still at work, and her mother, as usual, was...? It had been a long, hot day and she missed Mitchell terribly. Highly depressed since he'd left only three days ago, Marsha had no idea how she was going to exist until she saw him again. On her way to the kitchen, passing the dining room table, she stopped, turned around and, barely able to contain herself, ripped off the roughly wrapped brown bag paper and opened the cardboard box. Her first reaction was to laugh, then, suddenly realizing what it really meant, holding Mitchell's note in one hand and the garish, novelty store diamond ring in the other, she began to cry. 7/2/55 Dear Marsha, When we said goodbye and I got on the plane and left you today, it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my entire life.

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I cannot imagine life without you in the future. God knows I've been lonely before, but never like this. I know this ring isn't much, but I've spent my entire life's savings buying it. So until I can afford another one, maybe even a real one, please consider it as an engagement ring (but you don't really have to wear it). And please, please say that you will marry me. I love you more than life itself. Mitchell Reading the note again, "Oh, my God!" she said to empty apartment. "Yes! Yes, Mitchell! Thank you, God! Thank you!" Elated, confused, Marsha did not know what to do or who to call first. "Rosalie!" she shouted into the phone as soon as it was picked up. "Marsha?" She never called her Rosalie unless there was something wrong. "What's wrong, Marsha?" "Rose! Mitchie... He sent me a ring and a letter and asked if I'd marry him!" "Really, Marsha? Really!?" "Yes, really!" "And he sent you a diamond ring?" "Yeah," she laughed, "from the ten-cent store. But it's the most beautiful ring I've ever seen. I can't believe it!" "So, what are you going to tell him?" Knowing she knew that Rosalie knew she was going to accept, "Are you nuts? I'd walk to New York and marry him right now if I could!" "Your folks know yet?" "No! You know no one's home. I called you first." "Think your mother'll have any objections?" "She never wanted me in the first place, and now's her chance to get rid of me. And, to be honest, I don't give a damn what she thinks." Reflecting a moment, "You're the first of us to go," Rosalie said. "Good luck, Marcie. I hope you have lots'a kids." "Yeah, thanks, Rose. Me, too. Look, I'll talk to you later. Bye." Six o'clock here, she thought, New York's an hour later. Wonder if he's on the ship. She'd put the scrap of paper in her wallet when he gave it to her... * "Coast Guard Cutter Halfmoon!" Electricians Mate Second Class Raymond Carson, the Officer of the Deck, answered the telephone in the watch shack alongside the aft gangway.

BECOMING "This is the Chicago operator. I have a person-to-person call to Seaman First Class Mitchell Lipensky."

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"Hold on a minute, operator, let's see if he's aboard tonight." Checking the duty roster, Mitchell's section did have liberty, but he hadn't gone ashore. "He's here, operator. Hang on, will you?" "Lipensky, lay to the quarterdeck, on the double!" The call coming through the loudspeakers reverberating throughout the ship, "Lipensky! To the quarterdeck, on the double!" "Christ!" Writing a letter to Marsha, he was lying on his bunk in his underwear with a note pad propped on his knees. Thinking, What the hell do they want now? swinging off the bunk, he shoved his cap on his head and his legs back into the denims he'd taken off no more than ten minutes earlier. "Carson, I'm on liberty! Why the hell you callin' me?" "Keep your shirt on, Lippy, you got a call." Unless an emergency, local calls were not accepted; long distance calls were accepted only for the time needed to ascertain who was calling so the information could be passed onto the man called, but Carson had taken his share of Mitchell's pennies and nickels at their penny-ante poker games. "Oh," sheepishly, "sorry, Ray." His first thought was that something was wrong at home. Picking the phone up with apprehension, "Hello." "Mitchell Lipensky?" "Yes, operator, I'm Mitchell Lipensky." "One moment, please." Still excited, "Mitchie!" her voice boomed over the phone. "Marcie!" Overjoyed at hearing her voice again, "Hi, baby!" "Mitchie, I got it! Yes! Yes! I will!" "My God," he said softly. "Thank you, baby. Thank you!" "I miss you! I love you!" Looking at Carson, "Me, too, Marcie!" "You know," Carson whispered, "you ain't supposed to get calls here. Okay, just for a minute." Giving Mitchell some privacy, Carson walked to the fantail. "I can't wait to do it! When do you want to?" "The sooner the better," she answered. "I can't wait either." "Your folks know yet?" "No, I haven't even seen them yet. Do yours?"

BECOMING "How could they?" Laughing, "You just told me you would." "Yeah, you're right, I'm so nervous... Mitchie, how'll we be able to afford it? I mean, my living away from home and us having to pay rent and our own bills and things."

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"You're working now, aren't you? And when you get to New York you'll be able to say you have experience as a... uh?" "Corsetier." "Yeah. And as a, uh, corsetiere you've got to make pretty good money, right? And I checked with my pal Don, he's the yeoman aboard, and he told me you'll get an allotment check of $91.30 a month, and I get paid, too, don't forget, with a wife, about twenty-two bucks a month. I know it's not much, but it's enough to buy groceries with, which, by the way, we can buy at a PX, and with that and what you'll be making we should be able to get by pretty good. I don't know if I told you, but I've been taking a yeoman's correspondence course that..." he admitted, "I've been 'schluffing off' on. But now that I've got a reason, I'll get back to it, and if I make a higher grade, we'll get more money." "I know you can do it, Mitchie. And now that you've told me, I'm sure"--she hoped--"that we'll manage just fine... When do you think you can take leave again, so you can come home and we can, uh..." still unbelievable, finding it hard to say... "get married?" "I checked on that, too. Right now I still have a week coming, but I've just had leave, and there's other guys here that want it before our next patrol. Probably when we get back, in October." "October! My birthday's in October. That's just fine, sweetheart." Sweetheart! No one had ever called him sweetheart before. The familiar lump coming to his throat, "Marcie, honey, I love you!" "Please, Mitchie, don't ever stop saying that." Laughing, "I must really love you. You realize that I'll be giving up a beautiful name like Goldman for Lipensky." Immediately realizing that what she'd said might have hurt his feelings, "Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky. God, that sounds great!" He'd never thought of his name as being particularly ugly, and did feel a slight flush of... but, instantly placated by "Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky," "Yeah," he said, "the things we do for love." "Hi!... Mother and daddy came in, and I want to tell them." "Tell them what?" Rhea asked from the living room. "I'll tell you in a minute, Mother..." Turning her back to her, speaking softly, "Mitchie, why don't you call your folks and let them know. Then reverse the charges and call me back, and let me know what they said." "Sure, honey. I'll call back in a little while. Bye-bye." "Bye, Mitchie." "Hey, Ray," he called. "Thanks! I'm getting married!" "No shit?" Flipping his cigarette over the side, "Congratulations!"

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"Yeah, thanks." Going below to his locker, he took a couple of nickels from his wallet. Back topside, saluting the flag, starting down the gangway, "Got a couple'a calls I gotta make, Ray." "Sure, Mitchie, go ahead." Leaving the ship, walking to the row of telephone booths by the facility's entrance, fishing a nickel from his pocket, Mitchell dialed "O." A Mixed Bag "Mother, Daddy," Thinking the best way to say it was just to say it, "Mitchell asked me to marry him..." Putting the phone on the cradle, walking past them into the living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa, fully expecting her father to be happy for her and her mother to be negative, "and I told him I would." Eli's mouth dropped open. Swallowing, blinking his eyes a number of times, a look of sadness coming to his face, "Baby, you mean now, while he's in the service? And you'll leave here," encompassing the room with a sweep of his arm, "and go to New York?" Following Marsha, sitting heavily onto one of the easy chairs, "He expects you to leave your family," Eli said unbelievably, "and move all the way to New York City!" Surprised at his attitude, "Daddy, yes. We love each other!" Simply put, Eli could not imagine life without his daughter. Simply put, Marsha was often the one person in the world that could make Eli smile. Married! he thought, My baby married and away, far away! He'd never thought of her getting married. And this young? Why, she's not even nineteen yet... Yet Rhea was only sixteen when she and Eli had married. "How will you live?" he asked desperately. "Mitchell can't make enough money to support the two of you in the, uh...?" "Coast Guard, Daddy. We've talked about that. Mitchell said that I'll get an, uh, allotment check from the government each month, and he gets paid for being in the service, also. I'll have to work, of course, but I'm working now anyway. And with my Lanathins training and a recommendation I shouldn't have a problem finding another job. I know you're worried, Daddy, but we'll get by okay." "Well, baby, Mitchell seems like a real nice boy..." Attempting to smile, Eli's smile was but a thin veneer and, his sadness at losing his daughter showing through, "if that's what you want, then I'm happy for you." But at that moment, Eli Goldman hated Mitchell Lipensky. Her eyes tearful, much to Marsha's surprise, coming to the sofa, sitting next to her, "I'm so happy for you!" Oddly, she meant it, not as her daughter imagined--because she was going to be rid of her--but with Roger married and strangely distant, and her daughter soon to be married, with or without her blessings, Rhea felt as though a part of her life was about to end, and for the first time in her life she felt maternal towards her daughter. Further shocking her, "Would you like a wedding, Marsha?" Rhea asked. "A real wedding?" Stunned, Marsha realized that her mother was sincerely happy for her. Also, she saw something she had never seen her mother do--at least as far as she could remember--she was crying. And Marsha felt something from her mother that she had never felt before: maternal love. "Mother," fighting back tears, "do you want to make me a wedding?" "Oh, yes!" Rhea answered emphatically, as though by doing this she might be able to wipe away near-nineteen years of neglect and indifference. "Baby,"--baby?--squeezing her daughter's hand for emphasis, "we'd love..." glancing at Eli, then back to her daughter, "to make you a wedding."

BECOMING Knowing his wife, having some idea of what she meant by "a wedding," "But the money?" Looking at Eli, "Don't worry about the money!" "Yes, sure," Eli said sincerely. "Nothing's too good for my baby." Standing, Eli went into the bathroom, closed the door, sat on the edge of the bathtub... and silently cried. *

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Walter and Myra looked at each other, each waiting for the other to get off the sofa and answer the telephone. With a sigh, putting his coffee cup onto the coffee table, pulling himself onto his feet, Walter crossed the den and, lifting the receiver, "Yes, operator," looking at his wife, "we'll accept the charges..." Mitchell, what's wrong?" Turning her attention from television, Myra looked at her husband. "Nothing's wrong! I've got good news--great news!" Walter thought, and rightfully so, that Mitchell was wasting his time in the Coast Guard education-wise, just as he'd done in high school. "Yeah, and what's that?" he asked facetiously. "You get a promotion?" "No, Dad..." Knowing his father was crazy about Marsha, and fully expecting him to be happy about this, "I've asked Marsha to marry me," he said, "and she said yes." For a long moment the line was silent, then, "Mitchell..." The tone of his voice causing Myra to come to the desk. "you're too young," looking at his wife, "to get married now." Myra's hand going to her throat, "He wants to get married?" "Come on, Dad. I'll be twenty-one next month. Lots'a guys on the ship are married, and most of 'em," he lied, "are even younger than me." Aware that, probably, there was not enough time to tell, still, "Is Marsha pregnant?" Angered at this, "How can you even ask something like that? No! Of course not!" "What are you going to do for money? Where do you plan on living?" "She'll get an allotment check, and I get paid, and she'll work, just like she's doing now, only here. Look, you and mom have been telling me that I ought to look up your aunt Ida, so I thought I'd call her, and go see her on my next weekend liberty, and maybe look for an apartment near her, so at least we'll have some family near by." "Mitchell, I'm telling you," looking at his wife again, "that your mother and I are completely against this!" "Okay, Dad," his stubborn tone taking over, "so now you've told me!" "Think about it! This is for a long time. Forever! Marsha's a nice girl..." truly, Walter was crazy about her, "but why the rush? Why can't you wait till you're discharged, until you know what you're going to do with your life, and that'll give the two of you time to get to know each other better."

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"Dad, Marcie and I have known each other for years. We love each other and want to be married, now! And when I get discharged I'm coming to work for you as a salesman, like we've talked about. You still want me to, don't you?" "Yes," Walter said begrudging, "of course I want you to! ... Myra," giving the phone to his wife, "you try to talk some sense into him!" Going back to the sofa, he lit a cigarette. "Mitchell, why now? she asked angrily." Making a V of her index and forefinger, motioning for Walter to give her a cigarette. He handed her the one he'd lit and reachd for another for himself. "Why the hell can't you wait?" Surprised at his mother's tone of voice, "Mom, we love each other! We can't stand being away from each other like this!" A jealous possessiveness gripped Myra's heart. Feeling she'd lost her husband to a boat, she was now loosing her eldest son to some girl, "Just how well do you think you know her?" "Well enough, Mom. We've known each other for more than six years. "Bullshit! So you met her six years ago? That doesn't mean you know her! Know what I think, Mitchell? I think you just want to get laid!" In the back of his mind he remembered his mother had said this very same thing about Susan. Even though, shocked at her choice of words, "No, Mom!" Even if, yes, he most certainly did want to get laid, "How can you talk this way?" Stopping short of re-asking if Marsha was pregnant. "Okay, mister smart-guy..." She'd heard her husband ask these same questions, but had not heard the answer. "...what are you going to do for money? Where'll the two of you live?" "Mom," he said tiredly, "she'll get a job like she's got now, and she'll get an allotment check from the government, and I'm going to look up aunt Ida and see if there's someplace near her to live." Not giving up, "Why didn't you talk to me first, before you asked... her?" Her? What the hell's going on? Last I saw, she was crazy about Marsha, too. "Talk to you first?" he questioned. "Why, Mom? You think dad asked grandma Lipensky's permission to ask you to marry him?" "Your father was old enough to make his own decisions!" "And I'm not?" he asked angrily. "No, Mitchell, I don't think you are!" "Okay, Mom, that's your opinion, but we are going to get married whether you like it or not. I don't need your permission, you know!" "And a wedding? I suppose she's going to want a wedding!" "Mom, I don't..." "We can't afford to make a wedding!"

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The novelty of three-dimensional photography having declined over the past few years, Mitchell was aware that cheaper competition had taken a large chunk out of the studio's monthly billing. "Mom, first off, you know Marsha's name! And we didn't have time to talk about a wedding, but we do want to do it as quickly and cheaply as possible. I can't get another leave till almost the middle of October, so that's when we'll do it... Mom," softening his tone, "I know that you've always wanted a daughter. I know that you like Marsha and that she likes you. And if you think about it, it's like you're finally going to have a daughter." The thought had entered Myra's mind, but having this girl, that she'd been with a total of three times, for a "daughter" was far outweighed by the thought of losing her son. "It's not exactly the same thing, Mitchell." "Okay, Mom. I'm really sorry that you and dad feel this way, but Marsha's a real nice girl and it's completely up to you whether or not you'll have her for a friend, or maybe even like a daughter." Digesting this, pondering the word daughter. Knowing, if indeed Mitchell and Marsha did marry, that it might very well be up to her to make or break whatever type of relationship she may have with her future daughter-in-law... My daughter-in-law! He waited for his mother to respond, but when she didn't, "Mom, I want to get Marsha an engagement ring. You've been holding my Bar Mitzvah gelt and all my war bonds. You told me I got about eight hundred for my Bar Mitzvah, and I know that I've got to have at least twenty bonds that have matured by this time, and if there's any that haven't..." Putting her hand over the receiver, whispering to Walter, "He wants his Bar Mitzvah money, and to have the war bonds cashed to get a ring for her." "...I'll cash in anyway. Do you think we can get a nice ring for..." Walter shrugged his shoulders. Interrupting him, "Mitchie, we don't have your money." "What do you mean, you don't have my money? It is mine, isn't it?" "Yes, of course the money was yours..." "Was?" "...but we had to use it for..." "But I was counting on it for a ring, Mom." Becoming defensive, "Mitchell, we needed the money for business! We always planned on putting it back, but when money was slow coming in, when things got real bad, we had to use it to pay bills." Shit! "Okay, okay! I'm glad it was there when you needed it, but I need some now! Can you give me anything?" "Hold on." Covering the receiver with her hand, "He wants to know what we can give him." "Tell him, uh, seven, eight hundred."

BECOMING "You father says we can give you a thousand, maybe twelve hundred." Shit! "Okay, Mom. It's less than I expected, but if that's all there is, I guess that's all there is." Wanting to change the subject, "Mitchell?"

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Extremely upset because they'd taken his money--the money that he'd counted on--without asking him. "Yeah, Mom?" "Children? You'll be careful, won't you?" "You don't want to be a grandma?" Grandma! The idea of being a grandma hadn't occurred to her and, Myra's heart jumping, "Yes, of course I want to be a grandma, but not until you can afford it... You will use rubbers won't you?" Rubbers? It had never occurred to him that his mother and father had used contraceptives. But then again, even at this time, about a month and a half from his twenty-first birthday, Mitchell Lipensky still could not imagine his mother and father having intercourse. And then again, having his mother tell him to use rubbers was more than just a little disconcerting and, feeling the heat of embarrassment, "Yes, Mom," he said. "I'll be sure to use rubbers." "You'd better! ...Well, if you insist on doing this, you may as well give me Marsha's number so we can call and congratulate her, and meet our machetunim." "Machetunim?" "Your future in-laws, Marsha's parents, Mister and Mrs... uh?" "Goldman." "Yes, Goldman. The Goldmans and Lipenskys are about to become machetunim, and I want to invite them to dinner on Sunday, so we can meet each other." "Great! That's great, Mom! Marcie's number is... You have a pencil?" "Yes." "Sheldrake 3-4709... And, Mom," very relieved at her acceptance, "thanks." "Thanks for what?" For accepting this. And for having the Goldmans for dinner." "I was young once, too." Looking at Walter, fleetingly wondering where the years had gone. "Bye, Mitchie." * Waiting at the table, waiting for the phone to ring... Bounding from the chair, grabbing it at the first ring, "Yes, Operator, I'll accept it... Mitchie!" "Marcie, what's wrong?"

BECOMING "Nothing, baby, everything's fine. How'd your folks take it?" Stretching the truth, just a little, "They both loved it." "Really?" "Yeah, sure. My mom's always wanted a daughter, and she's going to be calling any minute to invite you'n'your folks over for dinner, so everyone can get to know each other... So, how'd yours take it?" "That's so nice of her... Mitch, the greatest thing has happened!" "Yeah, what's that?"

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"Mother and daddy asked if I want a big wedding, and of course, what girl doesn't want a big wedding, so I said yes, and they're going to make us a wedding--a real wedding!" "Uh, Marcie," His mothers' words coming back to him, "business hasn't been so great for my folks for a while, and I don't think they'll be able to afford to do something like that." Marsha's heart sinking a bit, thinking, Their own home and business, and a boat, and they can't afford a wedding for their son? "Don't worry, Mitchie," she said, "my mother'll pay for most of it." Most of it? Anticipating a problem with "most of it," Well, he wisely thought, I'm here and they're there, so let them work it out. "When'll it be, Marcie?" Anxious, very anxious. "How soon can we do it?" "Do it" having more than one connotation. "There are so many things to do: have a dress made; find a place to have the service and reception; reserve the rooms; get a band and a photographer and a caterer..." Catching her breath, "I think it'll be sometime in November or December." November! he thought. December! he thought. "November! December!" he said. "Marcie, today's the fifth of..."--almost said, fuckin'--"July!" "I know, Mitchie, but it'll be something we'll remember all of our lives; the movies'll be something we can show our kids." Kids? He'd said it to his mother to soften her up, but, the brief reference aside, the thought of him having a kid, let alone kids, was preposterous. Looking through the apartment at Rhea, who was still sitting on the sofa, moving into the kitchen, out of sight and the range of her mother's hearing, "Mitch, we need everything! We don't have a stick of furniture, or a TV, or a pot or pan or even a towel, or anything!" Loneliness and sex aside, kids, pots, pans, towels, the practical impact of marriage began to sink in. "I know I'll have at least two bridal showers--one from my family and one from my friends--and probably one from your family, too. And between the showers and the wedding we'll probably get just about everything we'll need to set up housekeeping. Also, knowing my relatives and some of my mother's friends, we'll get money, too, maybe a lot of money, and then we won't have to go to New York broke and emptyhanded."

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Money! He's been lonely before and he'd survived and, God knew, he had wanted to have intercourse all of his life, so it seemed, and if he'd been able to wait that long, what was another month or two... or three or four or, Shit! five? So, "Think there may be enough for the down-payment on a used car?" "I thought the DeSoto was yours." "Used to be. But when I enlisted I gave it to my mother and, actually, she ended up making most of the payments on it." "Well, I didn't like the car all that much anyway, and yes, there may well be enough money... When Roger got married, Brenda's folks couldn't afford to make a wedding and they had to get married by a judge, and even at that they got over two thousand dollars, and when my cousin got married, they say she got over four." "Huh?" Almost choking on this. "Jesus, four thousand dollars!" "Yeah. And knowing some of my mother's friends, maybe we'll even get more." Four thousand bucks--maybe even more! "Marcie, you really do want this wedding, don't you?" "Yes, Mitchie, I really do." "Okay, baby. I hate having to wait any longer than necessary, but,"--four thousand bucks, maybe even more--"I won't be selfish. If that's what you want, then a big wedding's just fine with me." The Machetunim, They Meet Rhea: Self-centered. Narcissistic. Beautiful. Dainty. Sure of herself and her hold over the men in her life. A highly manipulative woman, Rhea was wholly content with the power her sexuality afforded her. Rhea's children: Selfish of her love and attention, Rhea had lavished what there was of her love and attention on her son, denying, up until the announcement of Marsha's engagement, the smallest iota of her mental or physical self to her daughter. Myra: Big-boned. Attractive. Lacking in confidence. Myra never wore makeup, fingernail polish, stylish clothing, or attempted in any way to take advantage of the multitude of products invented and designed to help women appear more alluring and feminine. Myra had always been an attentive, loving mother. The relationship between the mothers was perfect! Taking advantage of her helpless, china-doll demeanor, Rhea was the eternal exploiter, one of those people who somehow was always able to find another person who was only too happy to do her bidding. Myra often felt beneath the people she knew, so thought she must work to earn and retain their friendship. With Rhea, the exploiter, Myra happily became the exploited. Eli: Intelligent. Soft spoken. Modest. Always immaculate--other than at the grill--Eli wore well-pressed, stylish clothing. Walter: Tall. Paunchy. Extremely vocal when putting forth an opinion. Proud of his "working skipper" image,

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Walter tended to be sloppy about his leisurely appearance, and avoided shaving on weekends, and whenever else possible. Eli considered Walter gruff and highly opinionated. Walter considered Eli prissy with a milquetoast personality. July 12, 1955 "Mitchie! Hi, baby." "Hi, Marcie. Boy, it sounds good to hear your voice again. I miss you so much." Each Tuesday, at approximately eight o'clock Chicago time, he was to call collect, one week at her home and--Marsha would be picked up, brought to the Lipensky home for dinner--the next week at his. "Me, too, Mitchie... Mitch, I've got some good and some bad news." "Uh-oh! Give me the bad first." "We found out that after the blood tests there's a three-day cooling off period before we can get married, and if there's a screw up someplace it'll really screw things up!" "Three days, Marcie? I'm only going to be able to stretch it for twelve days, and that won't give us hardly any time at all." "Yeah, that's the bad news. Want to hear what we figured?" "This is the good news?" "Yeah. So to be on the safe side, we're going to be married twice." "Twice? What in the hell are you talking about?" "I'll tell you in a minute, but first, do you think, under certain circumstances, that you might be able to get a three-day liberty and take a two-day leave at the same time, maybe right after your next patrol?" "A seventy-two-hour pass and a two-day leave? The XO's a pretty good guy, so maybe. I can try. Why?" "If you can do that, it'll still give us ten days leave for the real wedding, and time for us to get to back to New York and, uh, get acquainted." Marsha was looking forward to the "get acquainted" part almost as much as Mitchell. "Marcie, please tell me what you're talking about!" "Okay, look. When you get back from patrol, on your first liberty weekend, see if you can get that Friday off, also, with Monday and Tuesday leave. Leave the ship sometime early Friday morning and fly here. We'll pick you up at the airport and go directly to get our blood tests and then we'll be married on Monday, by a judge or a justice of the peace. We'll arrange that, and that'll give us all day Monday, and Monday night, for us to be together before you have to go back on Tuesday..."

BECOMING The "and Monday night" was not lost on Mitchell.

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"...And that way, when we do have the real wedding, we'll still have ten days before you have to report back." July 19, 1955 "I talked to the XO and explained everything to him, and he said that he couldn't allow me to take a seventy-two hour liberty, but, for that reason, what he'll let me do is to take a three-day leave with my regular weekend liberty sandwiched between, so that'll leave us nine days for a honeymoon. We'll be back in port on the tenth or eleventh of October, and I'm in the liberty section that first weekend, so we've got the paperwork set up already and I've made the reservation. I'll be home on Friday the fourteenth." "The fourteenth! My birthday's on the fifteenth, and we'll be married two days later. What a great birthday present!" "Yeah, I thought of that. The plane'll land at eight-thirty in the morning and we can go right to the doctor's office for the tests." Everything falling into place, both were silent a moment. "Mitchie, I've got some good news, too: the wedding is set for the nineteenth of December, at the Palmer House." December nineteenth. Today's July nineteenth. Ticking the months off on his fingers, "That's five months away," Mitchell said, and, under different conditions he would be upset that the marriage was that far off, but October seventeenth was only three months away and, after all, he had waited all his life for this, and now knowing exactly when it was going to happen, standing in the telephone booth in Staten Island, New York, Mitchell Lipensky sensed a tightening in his shorts. August 2, 1955 "I went to see my dad's Aunt Ida. She lives in a place called Seagate; that's on the tip of Coney Island." "Where they have the big amusement park?" "Yes, and it's the neatest place. It's surrounded on three sides by water and there's a fence and a guard's gate in front, and unless you live there, or are a guest of someone that lives there, you can't get in." "A guard gate? That's kind of different." "It's really nice there. There's lots of old mansions that have been converted to apartments, and Aunt Ida said there's some that are pretty inexpensive. The bus stops right outside the gate that goes to the subway, and Coney Island is right next door to Bensonhurst, where you'll probably go looking for a job. Aunt Ida's a real nice old lady, and if you do want to live there, then at least we'll have a relative near by so when I go to sea I'll feel better knowing you're not alone, and also because it's safer for you because of the gate." "And we'll live right near the ocean." "Surrounded by the ocean." "Yeah, Mitchie, it sounds great!"

BECOMING August 9, 1955

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"Marcie, I've got the greatest news! Aunt Ida introduced me to an old friend of hers who owns the building directly kitty-corner from her, and this lady and her husband are completely remodeling the building and everything in it is going to be like brand new. And guess what?" Catching his excitement, "What?" she asked. "They own some kind of a furniture factory, and they're furnishing some of the smaller apartments with brand new furniture, what she calls seconds, and everything's going to be really nice, and this lady, Mrs. Tennenbaum, showed me one of the apartments. It's only one big room and a kitchen, but she said we could have it for seventy bucks a month, completely furnished. And guess what else?" "Mitchie, honey, slow down! It sounds too good to be true. I hope you told her yes. What else could there possibly be?" "The building won't be ready 'till early December, and you'n'me'll be the very first people in the apartment." "So, what did you tell her?" "Are you nuts? What do you think? Yeah! I told her yeah!" What he didn't tell Marsha was that Mrs. Tennenbaum had allowed him to pick the paint color and the carpeting. Knowing that Marsha's taste ran to shades of lilac, as a surprise, he'd picked a pale lilac paint for the walls, and a contrasting lilac for the wall-to-wall carpeting. Personalities: The Two Families In an attempt to solicit more attention from her husband, whose cognizance of her had, in her opinion, completely eroded; from Mitchell, whose love, Myra felt, was being diluted due to Marsha (whom she was beginning to resent); and from Lawrence, whose attention, as he grew older, was starting to focus outward, away from herself and her home, Myra began to use anger and illness--sometimes real and sometimes feigned--as a ploy to refocus attention to herself. Myra had always wanted a daughter, but now, rather than attempting to cultivate Marsha for the role, going about it slowly, with patience, Myra attempted to be the girl's mentor. Trying to bury her growing jealousy, she undertook the unwanted task of teaching Marsha how to be a good wife and homemaker, and in so doing became impatient and demanding. Myra wanted Marsha to call her Mom. As she had never called even her own mother Mom, simply put, Marsha could not get the word Mom past her lips. Also, though she truly hoped Myra would be the mother she'd never had, she now was trying to bury her own growing animosity, and rather than show disrespect by calling her future mother-in-law by her first name, Marsha used no title at all when addressing her, which only caused Myra to become more disgruntled. Almost nineteen years after Marsha's birth, Rhea had found a smattering of love for her daughter, but after nineteen years didn't quite know how to demonstrate it, so she showed her love the only way she did know: by spending money... Lots of money! And, oh, yeah, Marsha took great delight in her mother's attention.

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Though Eli made a good living at the store, it was, after all, only a hot dog stand, and he wondered where all the money--at least all the money he was aware of--came from. But again, Rhea's mother had always helped when money was needed, and besides, if Marsha... If his baby was going to be married and move away, then he was glad that she was going to have a real wedding and, to Eli, the money, so long as he didn't have to worry about it, became secondary. As for Walter, he had liked Marsha from the moment he'd first seen her, and at this time did consider her as his daughter. Whenever possible, weather permitting, he and Larry would pick her up on Sundays, or at the lingerie shop after work, and take her to dinner and sailing. Although Myra was always asked to join them, even though it was by her own choice to always say "No!" this, of course, only added fuel to Myra's fire. Unaware of Myra's jealousy and growing resentment, Marsha truly enjoyed the company of, and the time spent with, her future father and brother-in-law. The sailing, however, she could have lived without. Walter and Myra did agree on one thing: They considered the wedding--which, in their opinion, had grown completely out of hand--as a unneeded frivolity on the part of Rhea, and planned on contributing as little as possible to it. But even though Myra had dismissed herself from all but the smallest financial obligation, she did consider herself a full partner in the planning of the affair, and in so being was extremely outspoken regarding the way she felt things ought to be. Myra had become Rhea's almost constant companion, and--since Rhea did not drive a car and Myra did--her self-appointed chauffer. Rhea accepted Myra's attention with condescending good nature, and, for once in her life thinking of her daughter's happiness, she held her tongue during Myra's real and attempted manipulations. Gossamer Threads and Widening Ripples "No, here's the right way to do it!" spinning "Cut the vegetables smaller!" spinning "Straighten the sheet!" spinning "I'll teach you how!" spinning "Stir it harder!" spinning "Mix it faster!" spinning "Here's how!" spinning "Do it!" spinning "Wrong!" spinning "Right!" spinning

BECOMING "Yes!" spinning "No!" spinning

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Marsha's visits to the Lipensky house always became a lesson, and as Myra pushed the girl harder, the visits became fewer... Which only added fuel to Myra's fire. August 11, 1955 "You like that ring, don't you?" "Mother, who wouldn't like a pear-shaped diamond?" "How big's the stone, Sid?" "Two and a half carats, Rhea." "Take it out, will you." Sid, the "friendly" jeweler, took the ring from the showcase, shined it with a jeweler's cloth, then slipped it onto Marsha's finger. "Oh, Mother!" Holding her hand forward, "It's beautiful!" "It's a good stone, Sid?" "Of course it's a good stone! Would I ever show you anything else?" "You want it, Marsha?" "Do I want it?" Thinking she was joking, "Of course I want it!" Standing in silence, "Rhea, Mitchell doesn't have anywhere near that kind of money!" Myra did not think she was joking. Looking at Myra... Rhea stared at Myra for five long seconds, then, turning back to her daughter, "It's yours!" Gasping, as thought the breath was taken from her lungs, "Mother..." "It's yours!" Rhea said with finality. "Sid, you and me," their eyes locking, "we'll discuss price later." "Mother..." Marsha could not believe it: a two and a half carat, pear-shaped diamond. "Rhea, my son cannot affor..." Cutting her off, "Forget it, Myra!" glaring at her, daring her to say more, "I'm paying the difference! And Marsha wants a ring for Mitchell." The slits of her dark, stony eyes turning from Myra, "That one, Sid," she said, pointing to a velvet-lined tray. "The one in the gypsy setting, How big's the stone?"

BECOMING "One carat." "It's a good stone, Sid?" Shrugging his shoulders, "Rhea," sounding hurt, looking at her over his glasses, "you trying to make me crazy?" "Show me, please." Wiping the ring with his cloth, Sid handed it to Rhea.

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Holding the ring to the artificial light, looking at it a moment, slipping it onto the corresponding finger of her daughter's other hand, "Marsha, would you like to give this ring to Mitchell?" Actually, Marsha had never considered giving Mitchell a ring--other than a wedding band--and dazed at what was either her mother's utmost generosity, or, more the likely, the depth of her guilt, holding her hands to the fluorescent light, Marsha looked at the sparkling facets of the two diamond rings on her engagement and wedding fingers, "God, Mother," barely able to stammer, "yes!" "Okay, Sid," Once again looking at Myra, once again daring her to speak, "we'll take them both." She had the money for the wedding, and also for the down-payment on the building, but, I'll be damned if I'll let my daughter wear a six-hundred-dollar engagement ring to a seven-thousand-dollar wedding! she had thought. And on the trip from downtown Chicago to the north side, Rhea contemplated how she was going to come up with the rest of the money needed to close the deal on the slum apartment building... that just happened to be smack-dab in the way of the recently-begun Edens Expressway. Morrie Jacobson, an old time "friend" in Mayor Daley's office, had received the tip through a good friend in the city assessors office, and for her friendship, and continued friendship, Morrie had given Rhea the "sure thing, big money, hot tip." ...A thought occurring to her, Well, I'm not going to be needing the money till the end of the year anyway, and by then I know who I can borrow it from. Or maybe, so long as I'll be holding the money anyway, I'll just invest it for them. Glancing at Marsha in the back seat, Maybe I'll even make them partners. Having solved her problem, Rhea sat back, lit a cigarette, and enjoyed the ride home... As Myra drove from the Wabash Avenue showroom to Pratt Boulevard in icy, angry silence. August 14, 1955 Having lunch at Askanaz, "I saw a television show the other night." Myra took a bite of her sandwich. "The man, a soldier in Korea, wanted to propose to his girlfriend," and washed it down with ice tea, "so he proposed over the phone and his mother put the ring on the girl's finger. It was so touching." Marsha and Rhea glanced at each other. "I've been thinking: next Tuesday Mitchell is going to call at my house, and I thought it would be a nice idea if I had your family over for dinner that night--even Roger and Brenda--and when Mitchell calls I... we'll... have him propose to you over the phone, and..." "But," Marsha cut in, "he's already proposed."

BECOMING Ignoring her, "...and then I'll put the ring..." Marsha nudged Rhea with her knee under the table. "...on your finger." Looking expectantly from Marsha to Rhea, Myra awaited confirmation of her idea.

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"Really, Myra, that doesn't sound like such a good idea to me. If you ask me, I think the kids should be alone when Mitchell puts the ring on her finger." "Oh, really!" Myra said icily, shifting her gaze to Marsha. "And what do you think?" As retribution for Marsha not addressing her as Mom, lately Myra had taken to not addressing Marsha by name either. Swallowing, attempting to keep her anger down, but looking steadily at Myra, "If your son... If Mitchell agreed to do that," Marsha said, "I'd call the whole thing off." Spinning... Widening. 47 Fall Patrol August 30, 1955, to October 11, 1955 In the fourteen months since his first patrol to Ocean Station Charlie, his entire life had turned about, and this patrol--his second to Ocean Station Charlie--unlike the first, was spent in pushing the days, because now he had someone waiting for him, someone he could not wait to see again. If the days were filled with the cold, hard work of the ship, the nights were filled with warm, hard dreams of Marsha. September 30, 1955 "Hit me." Seaman First Class Stuart Baker brushed his hole card lightly over the Formica table top. The dealer, Radio Man Third Class Ollie Kittler, turning a card, slammed it alongside Baker's six and trey cards. "Queen, for nineteen! You're busted, asshole!" "The fuck I am!" Turning his hole card, Baker revealed a duece. "Fuck you!" Kittler slid a nickel across the table. "Me, too; a little one." "Yeah, an' here's a little niner for you, Lippy." "Too much." Turning his cards, he slid his nickel to Kittler. "...died today in a high speed automobile accident on a highway in Southern California."

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"Hey, j'ya hear who the radio just said died today?" Seaman Apprentice Owen Shroyer, holding his card to his chest, looked at the loudspeaker on the upper bulkhead. "Lippy, who'd he say died?" "Beats me." Mitchell looked at Baker. "I wasn't listening. You hear it, Ollie?" "Nah. Hey!" Kittler yelled across the compartment. "Any'a you guys hear who the radio said got killed?" "Ain't you heard," one of the swabbies answered, "James Dean. He got croaked in a car accident." "Jesus," Baker said, "I can't believe it. James Dean, dead." Sitting quietly for a moment, "Okay, asshole!" Boatswains Mate Third Class Myron Linton hit the table with his fist, causing the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters to jump. "Let's see a fuckin' card!" "You fucker! Ain't you got no fuckin' respect?" "Sure, Ollie, but not when I'm holdin' what I'm holdin'. Hit me!" Coming from Newfoundland, the music and news was picked up by the Half moon and piped into the mess and recreation areas. "Jesus H. fuckin' Christ!" Linton, going bust on a three-cent bet, slamming his card angrily onto the table, "God-damn nigger music! Is that all they ever play at that fuckin' station?" "Hey, prick!" Kittler said. "That ain't no nigger music." "Oh, it ain't huh! Then just what the fuck is it, then?" "You dumb asshole! Ain't you never heard'a Elvis?" "Elvis?" Linton looked around the table. "What the fuck's an Elvis?" October 11, 1955 Pulling the pillow over her head, covering her ears, she still heard the ringing. Opening her eyes, Marsha looked at the clock: 5:53. "My, God!" Remembering, realizing what day it was, and who would be calling this early, running from bed to the kitchen, grabbing the phone, "Yes, operator, I'll accept the charges... Mitchie! Hi, baby!" Having the warm, fuzzy quality of a woman who'd just awoken, silent a moment, relishing the sweet sound of her husky, early morning voice, "Marsha, God, you sound so nice! I'd give anything to be with you now, only still in bed." "Oh, God, Mitchie, me, too. When'd you pull in? I can't wait to see you!" "About 0510, and I came ashore to call soon as we secured from duty stations." Remembering the hour's time difference. "Hope it's okay, my calling this early." "Sure it's okay! I'm glad you called now."

BECOMING "God, Marcie, I can't wait till Friday. You realize I'll be seeing you in three days! Can you believe it?" "Can I believe it, huh? 'Flight 702 departing La Gurdia Airfield, 10/14/55, five-thirty a.m., E.S.T, arriving Midway Airfield 8:45 a.m., C.S.T.' Mitchie, that's all I've thought about!"

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"Marcie," said in true awe, "we're going to be married in six days! That's all I've thought about since I saw you in Askanaz in June: holding you, touching you, seeing you, making love to you... Oh, God, real love!" The line silent a moment, a solemn look crossed Marsha's face. As the day of this first marriage came closer, Marsha's thoughts of how she was going to tell him had been on her mind almost constantly. And yet, still not having the words, "Believe me," she said in absolute truth, "I can't wait either!" "Really, Marcie? Really? You can't?" 'Yes, really! I've told you before; most girls aren't that much different from guys. We all want the same thing, only girls show it differently." Momentarily quiet, recalling that long ago conversation with Frank Rizzo, "Baby, I've been thinking; I don't want to spend our first night together--our only night together--at our parents. Let's go to a hotel." Hesitating, "We'll talk about it when you get in, okay?" "Yeah, honey. But it wouldn't bother me, not one bit, if you were to make a reservation someplace in the name of..." Now he hesitated. "God! I still can't believe it... Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky." 48 The Marriage October 14, 1955, to October 18, 1955 Nervous about seeing Mitchell; first, because she was going to see him, and secondly, because of what she should have, but still hadn't, told him. As the plane taxied to the terminal, becoming ill, Marsha ran to the washroom. "Hi!" Looking for her, Mitchell kissed his mother. Not too sure if he was supposed to kiss Rhea, he kissed her anyway. "Where's Marsha?" This being the first time she'd been this close to him, Rhea looked closely at her very-soon-to-be son-in-law and, still wondering how it all came about, "She'll be right back, Mitchell. She wasn't feeling too well." "Mitchie!" Turning to the sound of his name, she was there, running to him." Coming together, "Oh, God, I missed you!" Embracing, "I love you!" they kissed. After a few seconds, "Come on, kids." Myra urged them apart. "It's rush hour and we've a long drive downtown."

BECOMING "You okay, Marcie? Your mother said you weren't feeling well." "No, honey. Now that you're here, I'm just fine." * "That wasn't so bad," Marsha asked, "was it?" The blood test over, heading north on Lake Shore Drive. "No, it never is. I guess it's more the thought of the needle that gets to me."

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Throughout the long drive from Midway Airport to downtown Chicago, he'd been waiting for Marsha to say something, but she hadn't, so, "So where'd you make the reservation?" Turning from her place on the front seat, "Reservation?" Rhea looked at her daughter. Thinking, Oh, God! Marsha turned her eyes from those of her mother. "Monday," Mitchell said, smiling, "after we're married," glancing at Marsha, looking back at Rhea, "Marsha and me are going to take off and spend the day--and night--together, alone." "Marsha, you didn't tell him?" This was the moment she'd been dreading for a month, and not knowing how to tell him, hadn't. Looking out the window, answering her mother, "No." "No, Mitchell," Throwing a stone into the water, making a long-lasting, reverberating ripple, "you two are not spending the night together, alone!" "What do you mean, 'we're not spending the night alone'?" "She was supposed to tell you!" Rhea said angrily. "I told her to tell you!" "Tell me what?" "What? What I said: that the two of you are not spending the night together, alone!" "Why?" Sitting up in the seat, glaring at Rhea. "We will be married, won't we?" "Marsha, you tell him, now!" "Mitchie," she said haltingly, "in the eyes of God..." looking beseechingly at her mother, who, nodding her head emphatically, gave her daughter a go-ahead sign. "Uh, on Monday," turning her face to the window, "in the eyes of God..." speaking as though by rote, "we won't really be married." "What in the hell do you mean, we won't really be married in the eyes of God? Who's that religious all of a sudden?" "Calm down, Mitchell! Monday is only a formality, and as far as we're concerned," nudging Myra with her knee, looking for support, but this had been all Rhea's idea and Myra drove without comment. "...until you're married by a rabbi, as far as your mother and I are concerned," glancing at Myra, "you are not married in the

BECOMING

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eyes of God! And we want you to promise us, Mitchell, that you will not have, uh," Marsha had, under great coercion, promised to take care of this, and Rhea was struggling to find, and say, the proper words. "...sex, uh, intercourse with my daughter." "Your daughter? My wife, you mean! I can't believe this! Marsha, is this the way you want it?" Knowing her morals, this, coming from Rhea at any other time would be ludicrous. But for the first time in her life Marsha was enjoying her mother's attention--to say nothing of her money--and also, for the very first time in her life she felt loved by her mother. So, continuing to look out the window, "Yes," she mumbled, "I guess so." "My daughter's already promised us, and I want you to promise us, too, Mitchell, your mother and me, that you won't, uh, do... it... until after the real wedding." "You know, Mrs. Goldman, I..." "Rhea. If you want to, it's okay to call me Rhea." "Okay, Rhea. I really don't understand this!" "I am spending a lot of money for a white gown! Do you know why a bride wears white, Mitchell?" Not waiting for an answer, "I'll tell you why. It's because white is the virginal color, and if Marsha is not a virgin when she gets married..." "But we will be married!" "When she really gets married," looking at her daughter, "in the eyes of God, if she is not a virgin she does not deserve to wear the white gown!" Her dark eyes shift, looking into Mitchell's first, then--as she'd turned from the window--Marsha's. "Do you understand me, Mitchell?" No answer. "Myra, you agree with me!" Nudging her again, harder, "Don't you!" Stopping for a traffic light, turning, looking at her son, trying to lighten the situation, "Look, you kids have all your lives to get laid. Just remember, you're not really married..." "Yeah, Mom, I know," Mitchell said wearily, "in the eyes of God." "...until you break the glass under the huppe." Looking forward, she accelerated away from the light. "So, Mitchell, do I have your promise?" "Rhea, I am not going to rape your daughter!" he said angrily. "If she's promised she won't, and if she doesn't want me to, then it doesn't matter whether I promise or not, because I love Marsha, and I would never do anything to her that she doesn't want me to!" "Okay, then it's settled." Turning, Rhea looked forward. Oh, God! Mitchell thought. You're going to drag this on forever, aren't you? What have you got against me ever getting fucked... even by my own wife?

BECOMING October 15, 1955 "Mitchell, but I want you to do it this way!" "But, Mom, it's so embarrassing! I can't understand why you want me to do this, now." "Mitchie, for me. Please, do it for me!"

534

Saturday evening: Both families, including Morris and Jennie, and Roger and Brenda, were at the Lipenskys for a combination engagement and nineteenth birthday party for Marsha. Having served coffee and birthday cake, after Marsha had blown out the candles, Myra had motioned for Mitchell to follow her into the den, where she'd handed him the small, square box that she'd insisted Rhea give her earlier when Myra had demanded, "I went along with you; now you go along with me!" Returning to the dining room, Myra took her place at the foot of the table and Mitchell went back to his seat alongside Marsha, who looked at him questioningly, but, looking straight ahead, he said nothing. Tapping her glass with a spoon, "Everyone!" Conversation stopping, all eyes turned to Myra. "Mitchell has an announcement to make." "Uh," turning to Marsha, "Marcie, I..." "Stand up!" Myra commanded. "Stand up so we can all hear you." Standing, looking down at Marsha, reaching into his pocket he removed the black box, opened it and--surprised at the size and beauty of the ring--"Ehhh-ehhh!" Nervously clearing his throat, "Uh, Marsha..." looking at Myra, who motioned for him to go ahead. "I love you and, ehhh-ehhh, will you marry me?" Becoming red in the face, without waiting for Marsha to answer, lifting her hand, the wrong hand, Mitchell put the ring on her finger, the wrong finger of the wrong hand. Looking down at the ring, then up to Mitchell, Marsha felt embarrassment for both him and herself. She looked at Myra, who had a satisfied, smug look on her face and, though she had come close a few times, now for the first time since meeting her, Marsha allowed herself the thought, I hate her! Unwilling to prolong the embarrassment longer than necessary, shifting the ring to the proper hand and finger, "Of course I'll marry you," she said. Standing, she kissed him lightly on the lips, glanced at her mother, and sat down. Breathing a sigh of relief, Mitchell gladly followed. "Marsha," Myra asked, "haven't you something for Mitchell, too?" Refusing to be manipulated, "Something for Mitchell?" Pretending to think, "No," she said, "I don't think so." Glaring at her a moment, "Walter," turning to her husband, "I thought you were going to take some pictures." "Oh, yeah!" Going to the den, returning with a camera, posing everyone around Marsha and Mitchell, Walter took a number of pictures at the table, then in the living room... "Marsha," sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by Roger, a very pregnant Brenda, and Larry and Morton, "hold your hand up so we can see the ring."

BECOMING Holding her hand forward, showing the ring, "Sure, Skipper." The picture taking through, "How's about opening some presents!" * The last birthday gift unwrapped, looked at and thanked for, "Mitchie," Marsha whispered, "please get our coats. I'd like to go for a ride." "Now?" "Yes, now!" She'd been a little standoffish since dinner, and he knew why. When they were outside, having thought this over, Marsha said, "Let's go to where we were the last time, before you went back to New York." But when they got to the once-secluded spot, there was now a row of houses. "I know where we can go."

535

Driving to Oakton Park, parking at the end of the dead-end street leading into the park, turning the motor off, "Marsha, I know why you're mad, and I'm sorry. Believe me, I didn't want to do it that way, but..." Having their first argument... "But, you just had to listen to your mother, didn't you! Is this the way it's going to be after we're married?" Angered by Rhea's decree, but not saying anything, now, his seething anger boiling over, "You're a fine one to talk! When did you agree that we're not going to make love, even after we're married? How in the hell did you ever let your mother talk you into that?" Both knowing the other was right, each stared at the other angrily, then, averting his face, Mitchell stared out the windshield. Marsha looked at him in profile, then she, too, faced forward. In a few long seconds--Mitchell's anger, sometimes quick to ignite, usually quicker to quench--his hand, inching across the seat, touched the outside of Marsha's thigh, and was instantly met by hers. "Marcie, honey," turning to her, "I'm sorry... Believe me, I'm sorry I let my mother talk me into doing that." Afraid to say what she really thought of his mother, Marsha said nothing. When Marsha did not answer, "And if you don't want to go all the way now, it's okay, I understand." He chuckled, dryly."Well, no, I don't really, but I love you, and if that's what you want I'll probably go along with it. But remember, I didn't promise nothin'!" "Mitchie, I love you!" Her mouth finding his... As a thank you for going along with her, or, just because she knew he wanted to, or, because she wanted him to, as the kiss lengthened, making the slightest movement, reaching through her jacket, inching her blouse out of the waistband of her slacks, pushing the bottom of her brassiere up, taking his hand...

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This was the first time she'd allowed him to touch her bare breast since that evening on the Undeen four months ago and, lost within the taste of their kiss, lost within the touch and taste and feel of Marsha's tongue, for a brief moment Mitchell was not sure he was touching what he so desperately wanted to touch... Then, his heart quickening as the warm fullness that weighed in his hand registered on his brain... both brains, Oh, God! Circling the, suddenly not-so-smooth circumference of her nipple with his thumb, "God!" he said passionately, "I love you!" "Me, too, Mitchie! Me, too!" Her mouth finding his again, her tongue touching his again, holding his hand to her breast, sensing the tightening of her nipple, Marsha, too, wanted to touch, to feel. And she certainly knew that she could, and she knew, for a certainty, that if she did touch him there one thing would certainly lead to another, and she knew, by the erotic, suddenly slick sensation within her vagina that, for a certainty, she would not stop him. And knowing that one thing was certainly, definitely about to lead to another, "Mitchie," she said, catching her breath, "I didn't want to give it to you at her house, but... Oh, God! Wanting to kiss her breast, wanting to taste the taste of her breast, wanting, Oh, God! to see Marsha's breast, about to work his way down, kissing her ear... "I, uh," shivering as the point of his tongue found the inside of her ear, "I have... something for you." Kissing the warm, lightly scented, soft flesh beneath her chin... If she didn't get him to stop, now... "Please, baby, let's go for a walk." "A walk? Now?" He didn't move--either his body, or his hand. Feeling herself losing the battle, "Mitchie, please, come on!" "Yeah, Marcie." But still... "Mitchell!" "Marcie, I don't want to let go of you... ever!" Actually thinking, I don't want you to either, but, "Come on. I'll let you do it again." "This?" Gently squeezing, loving the soft feel of her breast. "This? Just like this? Really?" "Yes!" Thinking, Maybe. "Just like that." "Promise! Maybe even when we come back to the car?" "Mitchell!" She laughed. "Yes, I promise I'll let you hold my boobie! Maybe even when we get back to the car. Come on now! I've got something for you." Although it was mid-October, the air was cold and they could see the vapor of their breath in the light of the brightly shining moon. Motioning to a park bench--the same bench Sandra had led him to in 1951--"Let's sit here." Sitting closely together, his left arm about her shoulders... Pressing a small box into his right hand, "Here."

BECOMING "What's this?" "Something for you, honey."

537

Opening the box, "My God!" looking at the diamond ring, "Marcie," he said in amazement, "you got this for me?" "Yes." Taking the ring from the box, putting it on his wedding finger, "We'll switch hands before we put our wedding bands on." "Marcie," holding his hand to the moonlight, "this had to cost a fortune! Where'd you get the money?" "Actually, my mother asked if I'd like to give it to you as a wedding gift, and she paid for it." "And your ring, too?" "Yes... Well, she added the difference to what you had. You're not mad are you?" "You like your ring?" "My, God, Mitchie, yes! It's the most beautiful engagement ring I've ever seen, I love it!" Exhibiting one of the unselfish traits that Marsha loved about her father, "Then I don't care," Mitchell said. "If it makes you happy, that's fine." "I'm so glad, baby! I was worried you'd be mad." "Nah. The only thing I'm mad about is you. Is this," holding his hand up, "what she meant when my mom asked if you have something for me?" "Yes." Trying to keep her voice natural, hoping he wouldn't notice the resentment towards his mother by the tone of her voice, "You mother, well..." choosing her words carefully, "sometimes she tries to, uh, run things. She came up with an idea sort of like what she asked you to do tonight before. I told her that you'd already proposed, and that I'd much rather you gave me the ring when we were alone." "And she insisted to do it her way, anyway?" "Yes, but you've got understand, Mitchie"--telling him what she'd told herself the first few months--"she's nervous about losing a son." Trying not to sound as if he were rebuking her, "That's ridiculous! It's not like I live at home! I've been away for two and half years and it's not like she's losing me, but more like she's gaining you. And if there's one thing I know my mother's always wanted, it's a daughter." She could have had me that way, Marsha thought. Knowing this could be, to say the least, a very sensitive subject, also knowing that it was something they had to discuss, but not wanting to argue with him again, trying to be tactful, "Mitch, your mother... she kind of pushes a little too hard. I like her, and want to be with her," she lied, "but she can't always be with me and my mother. And that's kind of the problem: she expects me to act like her daughter, and I can't--she's not my mother; I have my own mother." Hesitating, Marsha wondered how much she should reveal about the relationship between her mother and herself. "Mitchie, I don't want to talk about it too much now. I'll tell you why someday, but my mother and I have never gotten along, and now, for the first time in my life she's treating me like she's supposed to, like a real mother, and

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that's why I agreed with her about you'n'me not doing it until after we're married in December. Now can you understand why?" He did, but not wanting to admit that he did, "Marsha, to be honest, about that, no! But about my mother? I think you're a smart girl and I know you'll do whatever's right. And I think once the wedding and all the tension's over with, you and my mother'll get to know each other and everything'll be"--he hoped--"just fine." "Yes, Mitchie, I'm sure you're right." Unfortunately, though, deep down, Marsha sincerely doubted it. Married October 17, 1955 At precisely 10:30 a.m., three cars left the north side of Chicago and drove downtown in caravan. The lead car, a green 1953 Buick, was driven by Eli Goldman with his wife, Rhea, alongside him. The second car, a maroon 1954 Buick, was driven by Walter Lipensky with his wife, Myra, as far from him as the seat would allow. The third car, a gray 1948 DeSoto, was driven by Mitchell Lipensky, with Marsha Goldman, his soon-to-be-wife, practically sitting on his lap. Stopping in front of an office building on Wabash Avenue, the three cars waited in a No Parking zone as, running into the building, taking the elevator to the doctor's office on the fifteenth floor, picking up their blood test certifications, Mitchell rushed back to an elevator, down the fifteen flights to the gray DeSoto... And the caravan continued. Parking in a lot across the street from city hall, going into the building, asking directions of an elevator operator, riding to the third floor, the two sets of parents and two young people went into an office where, handing their blood test certifications to a wizened clerk along with five dollars, Mitchell was given a form that Marsha filled out, that both signed. Then, sitting on wooden benches, they waited for twenty minutes, until... ...In a short, civil ceremony, presided over by a judge in a black robe, with both sets of parents as witnesses... In the eyes of the law--if not in the eyes of God... Mitchell Lipensky and Marsha Goldman were married. * Back on the street, with kisses and handshakes and a stern, kind of "remember, you promised" look from Rhea, Eli and Rhea went to Eli's Grill on West Madison Street, and Walter and Myra went to Walter Lewis Studio, Inc. on North Clark Street, and... The newlyweds were alone. Mitchell drove east on Lake Shore Drive, and south about two miles to the jog of Lake Shore and U.S. 41. Turning left, the DeSoto went along Solidarity Drive to the furthermost, secluded point of the huge, now-vacant parking lot between the Adler Planetarium, which was always closed on Monday, and the loudly

BECOMING crashing water of Lake Michigan. Blowing through a minutely opened window, cold wind moaned softly. Unable to separate sky from sea, the leaden sky was darkly overcast. Breaking on slabs of granite, carrying on the wind, a mist of spray laid upon the windshield. Married. Married!

539

A surrealistic sensation brought about by the unreality of what they had done, feeling a part of a world different from any world they'd occupied before, sitting apart on opposite sides of the seat, the two stared at the grey panorama before them. Married. One hand, fingers splayed, now lay on the seat between them. The other's hand moved now, to within an inch. Fingers... As positive and negative magnets are drawn to each other. The tips of their fingers touched... caressed... and entwined. Married! "I love you!" Married! "I love you!" Beginning with a passion that built... and increased... and heightened, the kiss broke only when the two were left breathless... "Marcie..." Opening her eyes, she looked at him. "Marcie, please... I want to see you, Marcie. I want to kiss you, here," touching a breast over her coat, "with nothing between." He wants to look at me. With none of the shyness she had always thought she would have, And I want him to! "Oh, yes, baby!" Without hesitation, angling her body so she was partially leaning against the door... Also, by sitting in this position she was able to see if there were any cars approaching from the western end of the parking lot. Kissing her again, he unbuttoned the three buttons of her coat, and, as though to prolong the ecstasy and the once-in-a-lifetime excitement of seeing Marsha's--his wife's--bare breasts for the very first time, he moved slowly, teasing himself into a near unbearable state of arousal.

BECOMING Under the lightweight coat, she wore a cardigan cashmere sweater.

540

Moving back, Mitchell unbuttoned the six pearlized buttons, from the bottom up... The sixth button, the fifth... The light-toned flesh of Marsha's stomach was revealed, along with--as he'd never seen her stomach bare, for some reason surprising him--the tiny bubble of her "outtie" navel that he thought was cute, so, bending forward, he kissed it... The fourth button, the third... Jutting forward, Marsha's ribcage sharply defined her lean, concave stomach. The second button... Stopping, he looked into her eyes. Watching Mitchell's face intently, Marsha sensed his mounting passion, and hers, too. He pushed the first button through, hesitated, then, moved the fully open sides of the sweater to either side of her brassiere. The brassiere lifted Marsha's breasts upward and inward, and a soft swelling of white flesh flowed from over the rounded twin tops of the lacy, silken fabric. Leaning forward, kissing Marsha, his hands went to behind her back, where, feeling the two clasps, squeezing one between thumb and forefinger, feeling the release, squeezing the other he felt the release of pressure as the two sides detached. Moving back, lifting both cups... "Marcie," his breath catching, "you're beautiful!" he said softly, blinking his eyes as if testing to be sure that what he saw was real and, as of about forty minutes ago, "his,"--really his--to see, to touch--conditions right, with Marsha's approval, of course--whenever he wanted. Fantasies of big tits wholly forgotten, "You're beautiful!" he repeated, because in his eyes, Marsha's--his wife's--breasts were the most beautiful he'd ever seen, because, except for a few scattered freckles, the flesh was milk-white in comparison to the retained tan of her chest... Lying to him on Saturday night, she had not let him hold her "just like this" again, and, on the two occasions that Mitchell had been allowed to touch her bare, he now saw why--that for a few seconds or so he'd been unable to discern it by touch--because, about the size of half-dollars, the dark pink, domed areolae of Marsha's nipples lay upon the flesh of her breasts without the slightest differentiation. But now, even as he watched--excited by just his look--tightening, the circumference wrinkling, the color magically changed from dark pink to brown and, "Oh, God" holding each from beneath, lifting, tasting, he touched his tongue to the barely seen perforation of one, of both, from where milk would one day flow. Pressing his face to her chest, though scarcely large enough to do it, Mitchell squeezed the soft flesh of Marsha's breasts to either side of his face and, Oh, my God! Mitchell felt...? at home, as if the scent and the softness of this girl that was now his wife was where God had always intended him to be. Now was the first time any eyes looked upon her, as his eyes did. Now was the first time any lips kissed her breasts, as his lips did. Now was the first time, Oh, God! any mouth had closed over a nipple and drew upon it, as his mouth did, and, "Oh, God!" The suckling, sweet prickling sensation caused Marsha to close her eyes and hug his head to her breast, and--sensing the itch of longing within the depth of her vagina, moaning softly--to tighten and loosen the internal muscle within her vagina. His face pressed to a breast, he did not hear the soft moan, but did feel the acceleration of her breathing, and as he drew on the now-tightened projection of Marsha's nipple, bringing his elbow into the crook of her skirt covered crotch, he began to rub. Feeling the pressure there, not caring... Yes! Caring! Wanting the sensation to go on forever, forgetting her mother, and her vow, opening her thighs to him, "Mitchie," she whispered, "I love you!"

BECOMING Moving his mouth from her breast, "Marcie, I love you, too!"

541

Wanting to be touched. Wanting her to touch him. Wanting to be... desperately wanting to be held within her hand, "Marcie," he whispered, "would you like to see me? Would you like to hold me?" For a moment she didn't quite understand what he'd asked. Then... Marsha had fantasized about Mitchell, and yes, in the past about other boys, too. Once, in a rather hot necking session, the boy had moved her hand onto the bulge on his thigh, and, out of curiosity she'd allowed it to be held there... for only three or four seconds. She'd seen eight-pagers and crude, pornographic drawings of male members. Having an older brother, on occasion she did think about it, but had never seen Roger nude--This is Mitchell, she thought. He's my husband for God's sake! Rationalizing, He is my husband! Glancing about the car, There's no way we can do it here... go all the way. And that, after all, was all she had promised her mother: not to go all the way. I didn't promise anything about fooling around. And, though she was afraid--knowing Mitchell would go only as far as she wanted him to go, more afraid of her desire than his, but knowing that she was going to see it eventually, wanting to see it now--after a long moment's hesitation, "Oh, yes!" she said. Yes! Shrugging his jacket off, moving back on the seat, he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the top button, unzipped his fly, then, glancing over his shoulder to be sure there were no approaching cars--knowing, from what he'd gathered from their conversations, that this, now, would be the first adult penis Marsha had ever seen--parting the fly of his Jockey shorts, allowing only his penis and whatever long strands of pubic hair that came along with it freedom as... Holding her breath, Marsha's eyes widened in sensuous disbelief as.... Taking a pinkish blush when fully erect, at between six and six and a half inches in length, Mitchell was of average size and circumference. But now, being with Marsha, seeing the heretofore only imagined beauty of her breasts, tasting the heretofore only imagined sweetness of her breasts, now, knowing she was looking at him, feeling not only the emotion of the moment but, for the first time in his life--it had never gone this far or been this open even with Susan--in a passion-filled situation such as this, the cells of his penis engorged with even more blood, causing a muscular contraction that, as usually happened when he was very aroused, but never this quickly, a thick drop of clear pre-semen worked its way through the urethra, and... Standing starkly upright through the slit of the white cotton material of his underpants, appearing as an entity detached from the body of her husband, though the sight of the bulk of Mitchell's penis did send an additional surge of heat from mind to vagina. Having only seen a baby's before, now, although of average size, to Marsha, it looked...? almost frightening. Watching her face as she stared at him... at it, "Marcie," he asked quietly, "touch me, hold me." Hold him? Touch it? Yes! Reaching to him, careful not to touch the shiny streak left by the drop of semen, tentatively touching the ring of the glans with the tip of one finger, jerking her hand away as though she'd received an electric shock, bringing it back, her fingers gently grasping the shaft of his penis, Oh, God! Touching it, holding it... Holding her husband, there, for the first time, Marsha was unable to comprehend how anything that looked so hard, could, at the same time, feel so soft and so warm, as... My God! Mitchell more than felt Marsha's hand encircle him. More than skin deep, Marsha's touch reached from his penis, up his spine, into the furthermost recess of his mind, and... "I love you!" The words coming concurrently from each, their lips once again came together in an open-mouthed, tongue-filled kiss. As they kissed, Mitchell's hand moved under her skirt and up along the inside of her long legs and silky

BECOMING smooth thighs, as... Powerless, unwilling to stop him, Marsha parted her thighs. Touching, his fingers caressed the moisture-slicked crotch of her panties, as...

542

Feeling him touch her there, taking a sharp intake of breath, Marsha unwittingly moaned, as... Finding the way beneath the elastic, the first feel of damp hair and, a moment later, the soft, fleshy folds of Marsha's labia caused a low moan to break from his throat also. Moving his mouth from her mouth, bringing his lips to a breast, he drew hard, taking the nipple, along with much of the flesh of her breast, into his mouth, as, turning his wrist outward, Mitchell's finger slipped through the crease of her labia, deeply into the well of, "Oh, my God!" Marsha's tight and oh-so-wet vagina... "Oh, my God!" Now, this was the first time that any hand, other than her own hand, had ever found and touched her secret, innermost place, as Mitchell was doing, and now, holding his head to her breast with one hand, and his penis with the other--not caring that the thin stream of clear semen now flowed onto her fingers--now opening her thighs even wider... now moving her pelvis in motion with the movement of his finger, the angle of his hand causing his thumb to rub against the--still unknown to Mitchell--engorged bud at the upper cleft of her vagina. "Oh, my God!" Quickly, much more quickly than Marsha had ever brought onto herself, closing her eyes, clenching her teeth, Marsha felt the intensity of the sharp, much sharper, sweet, much sweeter release... And knowing by the movement within her hand that there was great urgency there, instinctively aware of how she was able to release it, now, her own urgency subsiding--or was it--watching over the top of his head, catching his rhythm, moving her hand up and down, along the hard, soft, warm shaft, as... Pulling his lips from Marsha's breast with a loud, vacuum breaking sound, "Oh, my God, baby, I'm..." Looking at her naked breasts and transformed nipples, feeling the slick overflow of her secretion upon his entire hand... "Mmmm, GOD!" The dam burst, and... Feeling the sharp penile contractions, Marsha watched the arching jets of spurting, creamy semen in pure wonder, then, when no more came, "Oh, God, Mitchie," she said seriously, "this is it!" Holding her hand up, looking at it, apparently not caring that it was wet with his semen, "This is it!" she repeated in awe. "The stuff that makes babies!" As always--thinking of it as a premature ejaculation--embarrassed when this happened, "Marcie," drawing his hand from between her thighs, "Here," reaching into his pocket, with his dry hand, removing his clean handkerchief, "wipe your hand." Taking the handkerchief, "Wait," she said. "Don't move!" "What do mean, don't move?" "Please, Mitchie, sit still a minute, I want to watch it." "You want to watch... what?" Thrilled that she had been able to get that kind of a response from Mitchell just by using her hand, to say nothing of the kind of response he'd been able to get from her just by using his hand. Thrilled also with the knowledge and experience that she'd gained in the last ten minutes--more than she'd had in her entire lifetime of nineteen years--Marsha watched in rapt attention as the blood reversed and the hard, erect tissue was magically replaced with soft, spongy tissue, and as it shrunk, it slipped, unaided, through the slit, into the confines of Mitchell's white, cotton Jockey shorts.

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Trying to bring herself and Mitchell back to some sort of normalcy, "Know what I think?" she asked jokingly. "I think you're some kind of'a miracle of modern engineering." Miracle of modern engineering? Still feeling somewhat embarrassed, laughing, "Shucks, Marsha," he said in mock modesty, "almost any guy can get a boner!" "Yeah, maybe," she said, "but you're my guy!" Wondering why so many things always reminded him of things in the past, wiping a drop of semen off the dashboard with the handkerchief, "I'm sorry it happened this way," motioning towards his lap with the handkerchief, "but, Marcie, you got me so hot!" "Yeah, you got me pretty hot there, too. And don't say that," reaching behind her back, re-clasping her brassiere, "I'm not sorry for anything that's happened today!" Zipping his fly, watching her, "Hold on, baby," reaching to her, lifting one of the cups of her brassiere from the bottom, popping it up, over a breast, kissing the breast, "I love you!" "Yeah, sure!" Pulling the cup down, grasping the brassiere from the bottom, readjusting it. "You just love my boobies." "Yeah, baby, I sure do, but I also love what's attached." Reversing the car, "Marcie, baby, you'n'me, we're married now..." "Yeah, baby," rubbing her hand high up on his thigh, "we sure are!" Feeling her fingers graze his, not-altogether-flaccid penis, smiling, "And I've been thinking that we can do whatever we want now that we've, uh," looking at her hand, "kind of broken the ice..." Sensing her flow again, "So to speak." wantonly tightening her fingers around his absolutely-no-longer-flaccid penis. "What say we find someplace to eat, then... Damn it, Marcie, we're married now and I know," her hand still on his penis, "you want to make love to me, really make love to me and believe me, I want to, too, so much! So, please, we have all day, so let's find a motel someplace. We don't even have to tell them we did it if you don't want to. Marcie, we're married now and it's none of their fu... uh, business if we make love to each other!" Her hand no longer holding him, "Mitchie, you're right! Believe me, too!" Oh, God I want to! "I do want to, but just can't!" Holding her hand up, stopping him from speaking. "Besides the fact that I promised my mother, maybe she's right and we're not really married in the eyes of God till it's done by a rabbi..." "Or maybe," Mitchell cut in, "if she wasn't spending so much for a white wedding gown." "Yeah, maybe that, too." Not wanting to think that money spent on a virginal, white wedding gown was the real reason they couldn't spend the night together, alone, doing what newlyweds do. "Anyway," Marsha said, "I hated the way it happened with that judge, so fast and so...?" "Impersonal." "Yes, impersonal. You know what, Mitchie?" Without waiting for his response, "I've waited so long to do it,

BECOMING to make love..."

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Never telling her that he hadn't, because a guy, a twenty-one-year-old guy, that hadn't had intercourse by this time, to his way of thinking, should have, so he thought, Yeah, me too. "... that I might just as well wait another couple of months so you and I can do it right." "In the eyes of God?" "Yes. And also, about us finding a motel and not telling them. I want the two of us to get started off right, and I don't think lying about something like that is the right way to do it." "In the eyes of God! All of a sudden our families got religion. I think the last time my mother and father's been in a shul was when I had my Bar Mitzvah. How 'bout yours?" he asked, trying to make a point. "When's the last time, you know of, that your folks went to shul?" "When she's gone, I don't know, probably for Roger's Bar Mitzvah, too. But daddy's religious and goes every Friday, if he can." "Okay, I respect your dad for that, but I don't think he's the one that came up with this stupid idea. I don't think any man would ask that of another guy. And I know my mom, and it's sure as hell not her!" "Well, your mother didn't exactly not agree with her." "Maybe not, but I think she was forced into it." Knowing Myra was, "Yeah," Marsha conceded, "maybe she was." "And, Marcie, I don't know if after this..." putting his hand on her thigh, "I can go back to New York tomorrow and wait 'till December... hell, 'till almost the end of December! Marcie, I dream of sleeping with you. Of turning over at night and touching you. Of waking in the morning next to you. Yeah, baby, it is the sex, too, sure it is! I can't wait till we're naked in bed together doing it... But, to be honest, it's mostly the closeness to you that I dream of." This was true... sometimes. "Mitchie, I feel the same way"--she did, oh, yes, she did--"and I've got an idea." An idea? "What idea?" "What if I call... Better yet, I think we'll do better talking to her face to face, so let's go back to my place and we'll tell mother that if we were going to do anything, we would have already, and that we want to spend the night together. No! I'll tell her that we are going to spend the night together, and that we won't do anything! I'll say that one of us--uh, huh--will sleep under the blanket and one above it, or something like that." Oh, yeah, "or something like that," indeed. "And," Mitchell asked, "if she doesn't buy it?" Sighing, "You're right, Mitchie, December is a long way off. If she says no, then we will go to a motel." "And we'll..." Mitchell asked. Oh, yeah, sure thing!

BECOMING "... sleep over and under the blanket?" "Of course we'll sleep over and under the blanket!" Marsha said sternly. "Of course we will," Mitchell said slyly. * "Walter Lewis Studio!" "Myra, the kids are here, and they've come up with something of an ultimatum." "An ultimatum! What kind of ultimatum?" "They say..." staring at them, "that they want to spend the night together." "Together! They want to spend the night together?" "Myra, please stop repeating everything I say! Yes, they want to sleep together." "Together! They want to sleep together?" Christ! "Yes! But they say they won't do anything." On the other end of the phone, fighting back laughter, "Won't do any..." "Do not repeat that! They say that one of them will sleep on top of the blanket and one of them will sleep under the blanket! And they say if I... if we, don't let them, they'll go to a motel."

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"You buy the blanket thing?" Hardly able to hold it back, "Sounds like a bunch'a bullshit to me." Holding her hand over the mouthpiece, Myra began to laugh. Wincing at "bullshit." "I don't know." Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her, getting a bit edgy under Rhea's intense stare, Marsha and Mitchell listened to the one-way conversation. Stifling her laughter, "You believe them, do you?" Myra asked. "I don't know! They are married, after all." Thinking the whole Eyes of God thing as ridiculous, trying to sound serious, "Yes, they are," Myra said solemnly. "And what's true is true." "What's true is true?" Glancing skyward, "Well, like they said, if they were going to do something, they would have already!" Looking from her daughter to Mitchell, I certainly would have! "How do you know they didn't, or won't?"

BECOMING "No," looking at Marsha, "I know my daughter! And anyway, right now it's beside the point." "Rhea, this was your idea! What do you want from me?"

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Not trusting Myra, knowing she was not taking this seriously, "In your house they'd have a bedroom with a door." Smiling at Marsha, "And here they'll be sleeping in the living room, with a door that doesn't close all the way..." now, smiling at Mitchell, "and here they'll never know when I might just pop in on them." October 18, 1955 Washing the pills down with the last sip of coffee--which was exactly what Marsha had counted on--stretching, "Think it's time I went to bed." Mitchell looked at his watch: 1:05 a.m. After receiving permission to spend the night together, driving to Skokie, waiting for Walter and Myra, the new Lipensky family went to dinner with the old Lipensky family. Returning to the house in Skokie, Mitchell collected his toilet kit, pajamas, and a robe, then, meeting Rosalie and her boyfriend, Marty, the two couples went to see Lady and the Tramp and afterwards to Askanaz for a nosh. When they returned to the apartment at 11:50, Eli had long since been asleep, and Rhea, as expected, was watching television. Midnight, "Mitchie," after Jerry Lester's Broadway Open House, "I'm so tired!" Not so subtly dropping a hint she'd hoped her mother would take, "Why don't you go in the bathroom and change into your pajamas?" "Yeah," he said, just a little louder than necessary, "that's a good idea!" Taking his overnight bag--an A&P shopping bag containing his toilet kit and pajamas--Mitchell went into the bathroom. While he was in the bathroom, Marsha went into her parent's room, to Eli's bottom drawer, where, knowing he wouldn't care, she took a pair of unworn silk pajamas that he'd received as a birthday gift two years earlier: big panamas, with buttons and a fly. When Mitchell came from the bathroom wearing pajamas and a robe, Marsha went in to change. Even though Rhea--uncharacteristically, considering her lifetime of infidelity--wanted her daughter to remain a virgin until the real wedding, the "in the eyes of God" wedding, always putting glamour before good sense, Rhea would never consider telling someone to sleep in their clothes. So, when Marsha had told Mitchell to get into his pajamas she did not object. Also, it would never occur to her to tell someone to wear underwear beneath their pajamas, so Rhea didn't... And the newlyweds sure as hell didn't. Shaking her head, "Good God," Rhea said when Marsha returned to the living room, "those things make you look so klunky!" Then, remembering that her daughter was going to be spending the night with Mitchell, in bed, "Good!" she'd added. "Klunky's good!" But still not taking the hint, Rhea remained in the living room to watch the Late, Late Show. 12:38 a.m.: "Mother, I want to open the bed... Mitch, help me, will you." Not taking that hint either, Rhea, without comment, changed from the sofa to a chair. 1:05 a.m.: Finally the Late, Late Show ended and "God Bless America" was sung by Kate Smith and the picture of the flag was replaced with the test pattern. Finally, sipping the last of her coffee, taking her pills, "Think it's time I went to bed." Standing, stretching, looking sternly from Marsha to Mitchell, "You two be good now!" Rhea said. Oh, yeah!

BECOMING "Marcie, come on out!" he whispered. "It's got to be hot in there!" Teasing him, she'd rolled herself into the blanket and would not come out, or let him come in. "I know why you want me to come out!" Kissing her nose, "You do, huh?" which was all he could find to kiss within her cocoon of the blanket. "Why?" "'Cause you wanna touch my boobies, that's why."

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Oh, yeah! Pretending to consider a moment, "Yeah, that's true, I do!" Forcefully pulling the upper end of the blanket open, putting his arms about her... "Mitchie," she said seriously, "I don't want my mother coming out and catching us!" Knowing that after Rhea took whatever pills she took she always fell asleep, Marsha reasoned, If he thinks she may be awake and checking on us, it might keep him from trying too hard. "And I'd really"--no longer fully trusting herself--"like to keep my word." Hugging her, his mouth alongside her ear, "I said it before and I'll say it again," flicking the inside of her ear with his tongue, "we'll only go as far as you want, but..." Yeah, she thought, that's the problem! "...damnit, we're married and I want to hold you!" He sounded angry, so in response, Marsha bit his ear. "Ouch! You coming out?" "No," holding the blanket open for him, "you come in." Giving Rhea time, hopefully, to fall asleep, laying on their sides with their arms around each other, whispering, kissing... Earlier Marsha would have taken bets that he wouldn't be wearing underwear and, by the jiggling beneath her pajama top he'd thought she wasn't wearing a brassiere. Then, when Rhea looked away, Marsha left no doubt when she'd very quickly, very unexpectedly, lifted her top exposing her breasts causing him to all but hop through the fly of his pajamas. Now, feeling the delightful pressure of her breasts pressing against his chest, reaching through the back of her bottoms, truly surprised to find that she wasn't wearing panties, his hand moving in a circle, touching, caressing, for the very first time feeling Marsha's small, tight, oh-so-warm, so soft, so smooth buttocks, and, Oh, God! Her ass feels so good! Now, Marsha's hand beneath the back of his bottoms was touching and caressing, and she, too, for the very first time held her husband's, or for that matter, any boy's bare bottom, and, Oh, God! His tush feels so good! Also, Marsha now felt the prod of his penis, which had poked--because, Oh, God, how it had wanted to poke--through the fly of his pajamas, and now, feeling the delightful grazing of his bare penis against her silk-covered vulva, tightening her hold, her fingernails taut in the flesh of his buttocks, constricting her thighs...

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Knowing where he was, well knowing where he was, enveloped between the silky smoothness of her pajamas and the warmth of her vulva, lifting his top and her top, now feeling the soft warmth of Marsha's naked breasts against his bare chest, sensing the tickle that foretells the flow of the first drop of his pre-semen... Now, feeling the warm hardness of Mitchell's bare chest against her naked breasts, sensing the tightening of her nipples, and the flow of her secretion... "I love you!" "Oh, God!" "I love you!" In the darkness of this room Mitchell could hardly see her face, yet he was able to discern the light and dark contrasts of her breasts and chest. Kissing the soft flesh, drawing the tightened circle into his mouth... Earlier, that day--the marriage, where they had been and what they were doing--seemed to Marsha to be...? Seemed to have an unreal quality and, though she had seen him then, now...? In the darkness of this room, in her own bed, however unrealistic as it still seemed, reaching to him, tightening her hand around the hardness, the so warm, so soft hardness, Oh, God, I'm holding it! I'm really holding it! ...The feel of her touch transmitting erotic electricity, "Marcie," breathing the words in her ear, "Oh, God, Marcie, I want to be in you! I want to feel myself in you!" Hearing... sensing, feeling his words... Discovering now what she hadn't discovered earlier... Wanting to, Oh, God! Wanting to! Discovering: her fingers twining through the hair there, What do I do? Discovering: holding the weight of his scrotum, God, I want to! Discovering: gently feeling the ovals of his testicles... Kissing, tasting, touching his tongue to her chest, to her breastbone, to her navel... Wanting, Oh, God! Wanting, desperately wanting to put his mouth there. To taste her there! But, thinking in her innocence, and wisely so, that she might think of that as an unnatural act, he didn't, and instead, his probing fingers twining the silky fineness there... "Mitchie..." "Marcie, you want me to stop?" Not wanting to! Please say no! "Should I stop?" "God," she answered immediately. "No!" Caressing the soft, moist folds... finding the orifice... The touch! The touching! The love and the loving. The undeniable enjoyment of taking was far outweighed by the indisputable pleasure in giving. "Marcie, I want to be a part of you!" he said huskily. "Tell me to do it! Please, Marcie, tell me to do it!" "Mitchie..." Feeling the press of his chest against her breasts and the feel of the flesh within her hand... and the dandling, oh, so nice feel of the touch of his finger within her vagina, "My, God, Mitchie, I..." Moving from her hand, positioning himself above, holding himself, moving to between her naked thighs where he pressed himself tight against the cleft of Marsha's moist vulva, where...

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Feeling the length of his penis tight against the lips of her vagina, tightening her thighs, holding him, hugging him, Marsha felt his body atop her body and his penis entrapped within her thighs, and, He is my husband, after all! We are married, after all! "Mitchie, yes!" the voice in his ear whispered, "Please! I want you to! "Yes, baby," the voice whispered back. "Oh, yes, baby!" Squirming out of their pajamas: tops and bottoms. The blanket again tented above their, now, for their first time together, fully nude bodies... Positioned above her... Taking hold of him, "Mitchie, please, baby, do it slow. It could hurt this first time." Guiding himself to her... Now! God, yes! Mitchell was glad, actually glad, that he'd waited all of his life for this moment. The fact that his waiting was not voluntary--was far from voluntary--didn't matter. What did matter, what really mattered, was that he and Marsha, his wife, the girl he'd always loved, were going to give up their virginity together, to each other, and this registered on his mind as a poetic, god-ordained circumstance. What did not register on his mind, however, was the fact that he was not using a prophylactic. Anxious, oh, yes! Fearful, yes indeed! Wanting to, oh, yeah! Not thinking of the fact that Mitchell was not using a prophylactic, either, nor how she was going to explain a bloody sheet if she should bleed when her hymen ruptured... Positioned above her... Taking hold of him, "Mitchie, please, baby, do it slow. It could hurt this first time." Guiding himself to her... But... There was no need to worry about pregnancy due to a forgotten prophylactic, nor about any blood from her ruptured hymen, because... The bedroom door opened noisily and, clearing her throat noisily, Rhea turned the hall light on. Mitchell rolled off Marsha and both attempted to contain their ragged breathing, as... A rectangle of bright light shown from around all four sides of the hallway door that, due to countless coats of paint throughout the years did not close properly, and the bathroom door opened and closed noisily as... Standing before the toilet a minute, flushing it, going to the sink, needlessly washing her hands, opening the bathroom door, going back to her bedroom, closing the door, Rhea left the light in the hall on. Waiting a few minutes, hearing nothing more from Rhea, the thin rectangle of light a small thing in comparison to his need, Mitchell brought his body back to Marsha's, but... "Mitchie, honey..."

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Pretty sure; not knowing for sure and of course Rhea never knew, but her deliberate action that night did get the result she'd wanted, because... The moment had passed, and... Pressing her hands to his chest, "Mitchie, honey," Marsha said, "we've waited so long. Please, baby, let's wait a little longer." Oh, yes, this act of Rhea's--in her mind--justifiable interference did get the result she'd hoped for, because... Marsha and Mitchell were cheated of the "giving and taking" treasure of their lifetimes because this lost moment was the right and proper time for their love, and marriage to be consummated. What was rightfully theirs was taken. Never again would their love be as totally peaceful and as untouched by the tension and pressure of everyday living... or as wholeheartedly perfect as it had been then, at that exact time. Excluding, of course, the need to think of a reason and excuse for a bloody sheet caused by a ruptured hymen, or, of course, the possibility of pregnancy... But really, what girl gets pregnant the very first time she does it? 49 Ripples October 30, 1955, to November 4, 1955 "Marcie, hi, honey! So, how was the shower? How'd we make out?" "We got lots of nice things, but it was... oh, okay, I guess." "What do you mean, okay, you guess?" "Mitchie, I don't want to bother you with this." "If you're saying it that way, then it's got to be my mother, right?" "Really, I'd rather not talk about it." "No, Marsha," becoming angry, "tell me, what happened." "Marsha"? "Today, at the hotel... Oh, maybe it's not such a big deal." "If it's not such a big deal, then why's it bothering you so much?" "Look, Mitchell, I don't want you to be mad at her, it's just that... Darn it! My aunts made the shower for me, not her!" "Mitchell"! Sighing, "So tell me already, what happened?"

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"Okay... You know how she thinks she's funny sometimes, and how she likes to think she's running things. Well she took charge, and if anyone should have taken charge, it should have been one of my aunts," she said indignantly, "not her!" "She took charge of your shower?" he said angrily. Misconstruing his anger, "Yes! But it's more than just that. I don't know why, but your mother thought it was her place to open my gifts, and I just sat there like an idiot while she did it! And she didn't have the right to do it!" His tone softening, "Maybe she thought she was helping you." Embarrassed by his mother's interference, "Maybe she was just trying to help out." Her turn to sigh. "Maybe you're right. Nah, don't say anything, Mitch. It's over with, and it'll only hurt her feelings and make things even worse between us. Besides, there's only a week before you ship out and I don't want you having any more aggravation." After a few moments of prolonged silence, "Oh, yeah," Mitchell said. "I got a letter from Norman. He told me he's joined the Navy and won't be there to stand up for me." "That's a shame," she said sincerely. "So who are you going to ask?" "I've been thinking; we're going to be married a long time..." "No, Mitchie! Not 'a long time.' Forever!" "Yeah, honey, forever! And that's why I thought I'd ask your brother. Maybe it'll help him'n'me be friends." "That's a real nice thing to do, Mitchie. I don't know what he'll say, but it'll sure make Mother happy." November 4, 1955 Looking at the clock again, Please, she prayed, let him call, now!" Picking Marsha up at work, Walter had brought her to Skokie for dinner and Mitchell's last call before the Halfmoon left on patrol the next morning. Now, sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, Myra sat directly across from Marsha. Walter, on the bench along the wall, sat to Marsha's right. The table cleared, each had a cup of coffee before them. For a reason not yet known, Myra had been silently angry ever since Walter and Marsha came through the door, and the young woman had done her best to stay out of her way, physically and verbally. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, "I've been thinking about it all day, and I still don't know why, all of a sudden your brother is going to be best man!" Having spoken to his son, knowing it was his choice, "That's why you've been so quiet, Myra?" Glancing at her husband, looking back at Marsha, "It's not like they're friends; they hardly know each other." "That's why!" Marsha said. "He thinks it'll help make them friends. Anyway, it was your son's idea."

BECOMING "Oh, yes! I'm sure it was!" Ignoring the snide remark, "Mitchie thinks it'll make Roger and him... well, if not friends, then at least friendly brothers-in-law, and I told him if that's what he wants, it's certainly okay with me. "I'm sure it is! And your mother, I'll just bet she loves it!" "Sure, why not? Mother felt horrible when Roger and Brenda were married by a judge because Brenda's parents didn't want to make a wedding." "Shame we can't all be as rich as Rhea Goldman!"

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"Look..."About to retort angrily, thinking better of it, "Having Roger as his best man is your son's idea, not mine or my mother's!" "Know what I've been thinking...?" Turning her cup in her hands, said to no one in particular, "If your brother is best man," now looking at Marsha, "I may not be there." His head snapping up, "Myra, what in the hell are you saying?" Glaring at him, "Stay out of this, Walt! I'm not talking to you!" "Just what is it you're telling me?" No longer able to contain her anger, "Are you telling me that if my brother is best man, you're not coming to your son's wedding?" "Yes!" Myra hissed back. "That is exactly what I'm telling you!" "You have no right telling Mitchell who he should or shouldn't have as his best man! And if he wants my bother, then damn it, that's his business!" Glaring at Marsha, subconsciously turning the cup in her hands... "Just who is it you want as best man? Larry? Maybe Mortie?" "You..." pointing at Marsha, "shut up!" Losing all control, flinging her cup across the table... Instinctively cocking her head, coffee splattering on her head and left shoulder, the cup shattering against the wall, standing quickly, Marsha's chair fell to the floor. "Jesus Christ, Myra!" Hearing the shattering of the cup and the clatter of the chair coming from the den, but knowing better than to butt in, and in any case not knowing whom to butt-in in defense of anyway, standing quietly, Larry and Morton watched, as... Stammering, "I, I can't believe you did that!" Marsha looked at the boys, then, hoping for support, to Walter. "How could you?" "And I want to know..." Myra screamed across the table, "Why do you refuse to call me Mom?" Her mouth dropping open, "So that's what this is really about, huh?" Again Marsha looked to Walter for support, but...

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Fearing Myra would start on him next, making a mistake he quickly, and always thereafter regretted--because Walter truly loved Marsha--"Yes! For God's sake," siding with his wife, turning on the girl, "that's not too much to ask! Why in hell can't you just do it?" Tears coming to Marsha's eyes, she felt she'd been assaulted by Myra and betrayed and abandoned by Walter--whom she'd truly considered as a friend rather than her father-in-law--and now, trapped, having no means of leaving this house, her eyes shifting from Myra to Walter and back, standing lost and terrified, not knowing what to do, what to say... The phone rang. "I'll get it!" Looking at Marsha, stepping out from behind the table, "It'll give you a chance to calm down." Going to den, "Hello." Surprised his father had answered the phone instead of Marsha. "Hi, Dad. How are you?" "Fine, Mitch," he said a little too quickly, a little too loudly as he looked at Marsha, who had followed closely behind, then at Myra, who was standing in the doorway. "How's everything with you?" "I'm not overjoyed at shoving off tomorrow, but there's not a hell of a lot I can do about it... How's mom and the boys?" "Fine." Looking at Myra, "You want to say hello to your mother?" Still wondering why Marsha hadn't answered or been put on the line by now, figuring he'd just as soon get the conversation with his mother over with before speaking to Marsha, "Yeah, sure, put her on." Not trusting herself to speak calmly, shaking her head, Myra whispered, "Tell him I got sick and went into the bathroom." "Mitchell, your mother's not feeling too good tonight, and she's in the bathroom... Here, here's Marsha. Bye!" Handing the phone to Marsha, holding his forefinger vertically in front of his lips, "Shhh!" he warned her. Taking the phone from Walter, "Hi, baby," breathing deeply, trying to sound as natural as possible, "how are you?" Sensing something was wrong when Marsha hadn't answered the phone, and now, by the tone of her voice, "What's wrong?" The family would usually give Marsha privacy while speaking to Mitchell, now though, they were all in the den, listening, waiting to see what, if anything, she'll say about what had happened. Still having a hard time believing that Myra had actually thrown a cup of hot coffee at her, finding it hard to converse, "Everything's just fine," she said a little too quickly, a little too loudly. "As a matter of fact..." Mitchell believed there was a problem, but if there was, Halfmoon was sailing tomorrow morning and there was nothing he could do about it anyway, so, Really, he thought, I'd just as soon not hear about it. "....I've got some good news, some really good news!" "Good news, eh? That would be nice for a change."

BECOMING Ignoring the comment, "My uncle Willy..." she said, forcing what earlier had been barely contained excitement, "you've never met his friend, Myron, but he owns a used car lot, and guess what?" Catching her feigned excitement, "Yeah, what?" "Uncle Willie told me that he told Myron to be on the lookout for a real nice car that he can give us as wedding gift." "No kidding? A car! Your uncle Bill's getting us a car?"

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"Yeah!" Attempting to match Mitchell's excitement, "He asked if we'd like one, and I told him that we were planning on getting one with some of our wedding money, and he said there's other stuff we'll be needing, and that Myron had been keeping his eyes open for a 'cherry,' and that he found one." "Marcie, I can't believe your uncle is giving us a car! What is it?" "Uncle Willie won't tell me what make it is, only that it's beautiful and that we'll love it!" "Really?" "Yeah!" This being the last conversation they'd have in over a month, holding her hand to the mouthpiece, "I won't say anything!" Marsha said to Walter through clenched teeth. "Let us talk!" Glancing at his wife, motioning to the boys, Walter, Myra, Larry and Morton left the room. * The moment their conversation ended, Marsha asked Walter to take her home, and... Marsha never again entered the home of Walter and Myra without Mitchell. Before this evening, Marsha had sincerely felt: When the tension of the wedding was past... When Mitchell's enlistment was through... When they returned to Chicago... When their lives were normal... Marsha felt certain that her mother would revert to her old ways, and that Myra would be the mother figure she had so desperately wanted all of her life, but... She knew then that Myra would never be a mother to her, and Marsha felt a great loss because of this... And because of Walter's cowardly betrayal, Marsha never again felt the warmth... the love she had felt for him, and to her he was no longer "Skipper" and she would never again address him in that way, or in any way. Marsha did not tell Mitchell about the events of that evening, but...

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The stones of thoughtlessness, once thrown, made everlasting ripples that reverberated throughout a lifetime. And the gossamer threads of unwanted acts spun into an everlasting, ever-thickening, unbreakable cable that stretched into the future, binding Marsha and Mitchell from their youth to... forever. 50 Winter Patrol November 5, 1955, to December 12, 1955 A piercing, glacial wind howling across the yawing deck, solid sheets of frigid water and salt spray blew across the superstructure. The prow of Halfmoon, rising from the water, slammed back with a jarring crash. His watch cap pulled low on his forehead, wet and cold and even though he wore foul-weather gear and layers of clothing beneath, still, spray coming through the collar trickled down his neck. Standing on the port side of the lookout bridge, he tried to find a place where there was even minimal protection from wind and water, but the pitching ship offered no concealment. Glancing at the luminous face of his watch: 0557. "Fuck!" Not sure if he'd said it because there were still two hours left to this miserable watch, or because of his miserable--Why'd I do it?--thoughts. Why? Am I that fuckin' lonely? Actually, yes. Am I that fuckin' hard-up? Actually, yes. "Shit!" She ain't even all that fuckin' pretty! The frustration of, once again, being cheated out of intercourse, even though he was married, even though it was justifiably and legally right had been on his mind since the start of this patrol and highly negative thoughts had festered and filled his heart with doubts about Marsha, himself and, most certainly, about their marriage. If her fuckin' mother had stayed in her room another minute! One minute more! Shit, five seconds later and I'd been there!--the thought still incomprehensible--Inside her! He thought reverently, Inside Marsha! Due to circumstances throughout his life that had made actual penile penetration impossible, the completion of the sexual act, in Mitchell Lipensky's mind seemed an impossibility, and even when he does do it, if he ever does it, that in some way, some how... in this respect, more and more, Mitchell had actually come to believe--and maybe so--that God was truly against him. But then again, considering the potency of a healthy, twenty-one-year-old male and the fertility of a healthy, nineteen-year-old female, and the fact that the healthy, twenty-one-year-old male did not have a prophylactic handy, maybe, after all, God may not have been against him. And all of a sudden, he thought, why all of these fuckin' problems? At first the complaints that he'd received from Marsha and his mother seemed minor, and more than likely gross exaggerations.

BECOMING But for the last few weeks... "Mitchell, your future mother-in-law..." Future? "Mitchell, your future wife..." Future? "Marsha never calls anymore." "Marsha won't let me tell her anything!" "Marsha includes me only when she absolutely has to!" And the big one, oh, yeah, the real big one... "Marsha refuses to address me when she talks to me." And Marsha! And Marsha! And Marsha! Also... "Mitchie, I don't know what's wrong with your mother!" "Mitchie, I can't seem to do anything to please your mother!" "Whenever I talk to your mother she sounds like she's mad at me." "I can't ever do enough for your mother!" "I don't know what your mother wants from me!" "Your mother!" "Your mother!" "Your mother!" "Marsha this!" "Your mother that!" "Marsha..." "Your mother..." "Fuck it!" "Fuck it!" "Fuck it!"

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Hunching his head lower into his jacket. Pulling his watch cap lower onto his head. Jamming his hands even deeper into his pockets, Maybe we shouldn't have done it, he thought. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten married. As black waves surged beneath the ship, black thoughts surged through Mitchell's mind, and heart. But we did! he reasoned. We're really married! Rather than the wonder he felt when he was with Marsha, Mitchell now thought of his marriage as a sentence and again, Shit, we never even screwed! And a nagging thought came to mind, a thought he'd put down each time he'd thought it. But now, letting it surface, he remembered hearing: "When a guy's married, until he and the girl screw, they're not really married, and the guy can get it...?" Thinking, trying to remember the word... The yawing ship, the biting wind, the frigid spray and drab sky coloring the world exactly to his depressed mood... Remembering, he said the word aloud, but, the wind carrying the word away, as though the word was the solution, saying it louder: "Annulled! I can get the whole fuckin' thing annulled!" Digging its way through, in the distance a thin stream of light pierced the clouds and shone, beacon-like, onto

BECOMING the roiling ocean below.

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Mitchell's eyes focused on the streamer of early morning light, But, he rationalized, her parents have spent so much for the wedding. As the adage, "Where there's life, there's hope," for Mitchell, now, where there was light, there was hope and, the beam of light bringing a ray of optimism, But she loves me! he thought. Maybe even more than anyone ever has or ever will! Remembering! He remembered a sad time in the past when he'd said these exact words to a different girl under yet worse circumstances. And lo, now another positive thought came to mind... And the apartment's great! * The two-story elevator building was owned by Harry and Clara Tennenbaum. Because the Tennenbaums had known Aunt Ida for years and, thinking of him as "a nice Jewish boy," not only had Clara given Mitchell the lowest possible rent, but, as the building was in the process of being remodeled and refurbished, Clara had also taken the decorating of the one-room, second-floor apartment on as her own project, and had furnished it with the very best, brand-new "seconds" from her husband's furniture factory in Brooklyn. Closing his eyes, he could see it. Opening the door in the plushly-carpeted hall, he stepped into the sixteen-foot wide, thirty-foot long apartment. Looking straight ahead, there are double-hung windows. About twenty feet beyond the windows is the brick wall of the neighboring building. Under the windows is a double-sized sofabed that had been upholstered in muted, floral design pastels. In front of the sofa is a blonde, glass-topped coffee table. On either side of the sofa are matching end tables with ceramic lamps. To the right of the doorway is a large dresser with the same light finish as the coffee- and end tables. To the left of the door there are two Danish modern chairs separated by a table and lamp. The entire left wall is sliding closet doors. In the far right of the apartment is the kitchen area with lavender-colored, asbestos floor tile, a white porcelain sink, a contrasting lavender Formica countertop, a new built-in oven and range, and a reconditioned Philco refrigerator. The bathroom is to the right of the kitchen. The entire apartment is painted a flat, pale lilac, and the synthetic wall-to-wall carpeting is moderately darker. Light and cheerful, in the opinions of Mrs. Tennenbaum, Aunt Ida and himself, this apartment was the perfect place to begin a marriage. Ready for occupancy when Halfmoon returned to Staten Island on December twelfth, five days before the "real" wedding, even though the Tennenabums were allowing occupancy, as a wedding gift to Ida Charney's grand nephew--that nice Jewish boy and his "shayner kalleh," [pretty bride]--the actual rental would not begin until January first. Marsha had sent her clothing and shower gifts--pots, pans, dishes, silverware, linens and the dozens of knick-knacks that go into making a room a home--by rail-express, and the four large boxes had been accepted by Mrs. Tennenbaum and carried into the apartment by a workman. Mitchell would have two liberties to unpack and get the apartment ready before he returned to Chicago on Friday the sixteenth, the day before the wedding. He'd even thought of ordering a telephone from New York Bell, which will have been installed by the time he

BECOMING got home... Home! The black clouds were now stippled with streamers of light and the jagged holes lined with silver. December 12, 1955 "Marcie!" Purposely not calling till now, "Hi, sweetheart!" "Mitchie! You're back!" "Yeah! Oh, baby, I love you! I miss you!" "God! Me too, honey! I love you, too!" "Hey, you'll never guess where I'm calling from." "The boatyard?" "Too easy. Nah!" "Aunt Ida's?" "No." Never telling her he'd ordered a phone, "I'll give you a hint... Ready?" "Sure!" "I'm sitting on the floor and I'm surrounded by all kinds'a junk." "Home! Mitchie, you're in our home!"

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Our home. The thought bringing tears to his eyes, "Yes, baby. I'm..." momentarily finding it hard to speak, "I'm home." "When'd we get the phone?" "I ordered it before I left. Mrs. Tennenbaum let the guy in to install it." "God, Mitchie, I wish it was all over with and I was there with you, on the floor." "Me, too, honey. Only we wouldn't just be sitting on the floor." "Yeah? What would we be doing?" "Oh, baby, you know what we'd be doing! So..." Bracing himself for complaints, "How's everything in Chicago?" Afraid if she started she'd tell Mitchell about the coffee-throwing incident, "Fine, Mitchie." Telling herself to hold off with the complaints. "Now that you're back, everything's just fine!" Relieved, "You know," he said, "not everything we got works like it's supposed to."

BECOMING "Hmm. Everything should. What's not working?"

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"They let the liberty section off as soon as we secured, and knowing all this stuff's here waiting for me to put away, and that I couldn't talk to you till you got home from work at about six, your time, and seeing as I was hungry, on the way here I stopped and got some stuff at the A&P, and tried to make blintzes in the electric frying pan you sent, but the damned thing wouldn't get hot. I had those blintzes in there for almost an hour and they wouldn't even defrost, so I finally cooked 'em on the stove in a regular frying pan. And talk about bad design, Jesus! You know they got a screw inside the pan holding the electric coil on? I was afraid to dunk it in water, so I..." hearing laughter, "so I, uh, just kind'a sponged it off." On the other end of the line, "Mitchie," in Chicago, Marsha was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out, "where's the pan now?" "I was going to dump it, but thought I'd let you take a look at it so maybe you can figure out how it's supposed to work." "Go get it!" "Hold on," Putting the phone down, back in a few seconds, "Okay, I got it." "Mitchell, look at it closely." Looking at it, "So?" He turned it over. "Mitchie," laughing again, harder, "the cover's..." catching her breath, "inside the pan. I put it in upside down to save space and you..." breaking up again, "just tried frying blintzes in the lid." Looking at it closely, yanking on the side of the pan, he pulled the lid out. "Damn!" Now laughing, too, "Who'd'a guessed?" Another reason she loved him: the ability to laugh at himself. "Almost any genius!" She giggled. "God, Mitchie, this is going to be so much fun! I can't wait to see you again!" "Five days!" Can you believe it? Only five days!" "Yeah, honey, but only four till I see you." * On Friday the sixteenth of December, Mitchell had permission to go ashore two hours earlier than the regular commencement of liberty. Leaving from LaGuardia, flying to Chicago, arriving at 6:10 p.m. Chicago time, he was to be picked up at Midway and taken directly to the hotel for the rehearsal. On Saturday morning Mitchell would go with his father for his tuxedo and, after making certain that everything fit, he and Marsha--and he could hardly wait--were to be driven to Myron's used car lot where they were to take delivery of the car Marsha's uncle Bill had bought for them for a wedding gift. The wedding was to be held in an adjoining hall and the reception and dinner in the Crystal Ballroom of the Palmer House starting at 6:30. The newlyweds were to sleep at the Palmer House that night, where--and he could not wait--they would

BECOMING finally consummate their two-month-old marriage.

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The next morning, whenever, they awoke and, what's more important, whenever they decided to get out of bed and get dressed, Marsha and Mitchell were to drive to Skokie for brunch with both families, load their new car with whatever clothing hadn't been shipped ahead, then drive to New York City, spending one night--and he could hardly wait--on the road, arriving at their new home in Seagate sometime Monday afternoon. They had decided to spend as much time as possible in their new home before he had to report back and, as she'd never been there, Mitchell wanted to show Marsha those sights of New York City that he knew, and discover other places together, making those few days of his leave somewhat of a honeymoon. The seven-day leave period was to officially begin on Monday, December nineteen, and end at 6:00 a.m. on Monday, December twenty-six, which, as it happened, covered Christmas day. * "So, how's the apartment look?" Marsha knew it was only one room, but hadn't the slightest idea how it had been decorated. "It's beautiful, Marcie! I can't wait till you see it." "Mitchie, come on, don't be so mean," Pouting over the telephone, "Pleeease tell me what it looks like!" "Nope!" 51 The Wedding The Day Before December 16, 1955 It had been snowing since mid-day and traffic throughout the city had been slow, snarled, or, in many areas, even nonexistent. The mothers at the hotel "organizing," Walter was tied up someplace on the south side, and because Marsha didn't drive, and wouldn't in any case due to this snow, Eli was only too happy to get away from the tumult at the Palmer House and spend some time alone with his daughter, and he'd--though he would have certainly been drafted--volunteered to drive to the airport to pick up Mitchell, where now, the excitement had caught up with Marsha and she was once again in the washroom vomiting when Mitchell's plane landed. Looking for Marsha, "Eli, hi!" shaking hands, "Don't tell me..." Remembering that the last time he'd come home she'd been in the washroom vomiting. "...she got sick again." Smiling, "I guess you just do something to her, Mitch." "Mitchie!" Turning to the sound of her voice, seeing her running to him, "Marcie!"

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Flinging herself into his arms, they kissed till--he'd never seen her without a tan; even last October she'd still had the remnants of a tan--now, though, holding her at arms' length, "You okay? You look so pale." An uncomfortable thought in her mind, "Mitchie, I just threw my guts up." "Yeah," he smiled, "your dad said I make you sick." "That's not exactly what I said, Mitch." "Daddy, he does make me sick. I puke whenever he comes home." Taking Mitchell's hand, "Guess you do something to me, kid." Hugging her again--knowing that after tomorrow nothing in the world could possibly happen to, literally, keep them apart--whispering in her ear, "I'm going to do something to you alright!" "Yeah," whispering back, "me, too! But now," she said, "we'd better get going because by the time we get there everyone'll be waiting for us." Grey exhaust smoked from the thousands of cars that inched their way through the snow-induced, extended rush hour. Slapping from side to side, the wipers of the Buick left streaky, wet stripes across the windshield. Holding hands, sitting closely together in the front seat, "You hear anything else about the car?" "No, only what I told you: That Uncle Willie say's the motor's in great shape, the body and paint look like new, it's got brand new tires and that Myron will have it all shined and gassed up waiting for us tomorrow." She looked at the filthy, snow and mud-encrusted cars around them. "And that he says it's 'cherry.' I can't wait to see it." He knew what cherry meant regarding Marsha and himself, "Yeah, me, too." but couldn't quite relate their virginity to a new car. Finally, they were beneath the el tracks of Wabash Avenue. Within minutes, stopping in front of the Palmer House, Eli handed the keys to the doorman and the three rushed through the revolving door. Taking the elevator up, "They're here!" someone shouted as they entered the large room and, as Myra, Walter and Rhea went to welcome them, the rest of the ensemble applauded. * Within forty minutes of starting, the rehearsal was finished. The entire wedding party taken to dinner at a nearby restaurant by the parents of the groom, Mitchell looked for a sign of hostility or animosity between Marsha and his mother, but at the moment, happily, there did not appear to be any. Marsha and Mitchell went to the homes of their parents, to sleep alone for the last time, in the eyes of God, as unmarried people.

BECOMING 52 The Wedding The Day of... December 17, 1955

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Clear and cold that morning, there was about four inches of new snow on the ground, but the streets were relatively dry as Mitchell and Walter drove to the formal wear shop on Devon Avenue where they tried on their rented tuxedos. Everything fitting properly, they took them from the shop on oversized hangers inside large, white plastic bags weighed down by the bulk of their black, patent leather shoes. After driving to the Goldman apartment, Walter waited in the car as his son ran into the building to get Marsha. "You okay? You look even paler than yesterday." "Yes, I'm fine, Mitchie." She didn't know how to tell him. "It's just the anticipation, and all this excitement is getting to me." "Maybe you'll feel better after breakfast." "Yeah, maybe." Thinking, God, I wish it were that simple. At a Sambo's restaurant, Mitchell had his usual of orange juice and coffee, eggs over easy, pork sausage, hash-brown potatoes and a toasted English muffin with cream cheese. Walter had the same, but with ham instead of sausage. Marsha, looking as though she were ill, just had toast and tea. Finished eating, dawdling over his third cup of coffee, "Come on, Dad!" Prodding his father to drink faster, because... * "My, God, Myron, I can't believe it! It's fantastic!" "Bill and me, we kind'a thought you kids'll like it." "Like it?" Slightly revived, "I love it!" Marsha said. The cream-colored top was down on the sleek, shiny, navy-blue '52 Ford convertible with automatic transmission, revealing the dashboard, AM/FM radio, steering wheel, and dark-blue, leather upholstery. "Hmmm?" Always trying to think of ways to placate Myra, especially during the sailing season, "Wonder if your mother would like a convertible?" Walter asked, thinking, But even if she doesn't, I would! "If you'd like, I'll keep a lookout for one, Walt." "Yeah, do that, Myron." Handing him a business card. "Give me a call at the office, but if a lady answers, just leave your name and tell her to tell me to call you back." Looking at Mitchell, "Don't say anything to your mother, okay!"

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"Sure, Dad." Patting Marsha on the behind, "One of the first things I'm going to do when we get to Seagate is to teach you how to drive." "That sounds..." A sharp pain shooting through her lower abdomen, trying to hide it with a weak smile, "...great." Noting the catch in her voice, looking at her closely, "You sure you're okay?" "Yes," squeezing his hand, "I'm fine. It's just that I have so much to do today." Glancing at her watch, "Maybe we'd better get started back." The pain worse when she stood, anxious to sit down, "I've got to be at the beauty shop by one, and if they're going to have enough time to make me beautiful, I'd better be on time." "Honey, you've plenty of time! And besides, you're beautiful just the way you are." But the way Marsha looked then, he didn't really mean it. "Look kids, I've got to be heading home, too," Walter said. "I've got a barber's appointment and, knowing your mother," looking from Marsha--a pang of regret crossing his mind--to Mitchell, "she'll have a million things for me to do this afternoon. Tell you what; why don't you two take the Buick, and I'll drive that wreck," jerking his thumb towards the Ford convertible. "Yeah, sure, Dad. Fat chance!" He'd felt Marsha's coolness since the night of the coffee cup incident, and sorely missing her affection, now putting his arms about her, "In case I haven't told you, and in case I don't have time later, I do want you to know that I'm very happy to have you for a daughter." Looking into her eyes, he silently asked for forgiveness. But, Marsha's arms hanging by her sides, receiving nothing in return, trying to hide his disappointment at this, going to the Buick, waving half-heartedly, "See you later." "Bye, Dad." Knowing that Marsha did have a great fondness for his father, bewildered by her coldness to him, but unwilling to question her, or to get into an argument about it on this day, holding the door open for her, "Okay, baby," waving to Myron, "let's see how this thing drives." * "So, how's it feel, Mitch?" "Marcie, It's wonderful! It drives like a dream... Look, it's not too far out of the way, and I promise to get you there in plenty of time. Come on with me, I want to show the car to my mother." Looking at her watch, then the clock in the dashboard, "The clock seems to keep good time... Sure, I want to see your mother's face when she sees it." * Parking directly in front of the house, as Mitchell ran to get his mother--because she wanted to see the look on Myra's face--Marsha slid into the driver's seat. Coming out of the house with a coat over her shoulders, looking at the car, but apparently seeing only Marsha, "What's she doing here?" Myra said loud enough for Marsha to hear, and without another word, turning, going back in the house, rattling the windows, Myra slammed the door shut.

BECOMING "Huh?" Flinching at the sound of the slamming door, bewilderment showing on his face, standing with his mouth open, he looked at Marsha, "Huh?" then at the door. Hurt and angry, "Mitchell, come on!" Taking a step towards the house, "What in the hell was that about?"

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"No! Come on, Mitch!" Sliding over to the passenger seat again, Marsha did not want him to fight with his mother, today of all days. "Just get me to the beauty shop, please!" "But, why?" "Please!" "Why'd she do that?" Getting into the car. "Everything was fine last night! What in hell's bugging her?" "Your mother's nervous about tonight." Starting the motor, "Yeah, aren't we all!" Pulling away from the curb, "I don't understand! Why'd she do that?" "That's what I've been trying to tell you all along. I don't know why she does these things." "But Marcie, everything was fine last night. I watched to see if there was any problem between you two, and there wasn't. And I know you haven't talked to her since then, so what in hell happened to make her act that way?" "Your mother's been doing this to me ever since we became engaged. Everything'll be okay one minute, then the next she's mad at me and I never know why." Sometimes, though, she did. "Sorry, baby. I don't know what she's trying to prove." Snuggling close, "Mitchie, don't let what happened just now bother you and spoil our day. We have this beautiful new car, and we're getting married tonight..." "In the eyes of God!" "Yes, 'in the eyes of God', and tomorrow we'll go home." "Yeah, and tonight..." he said slyly, kissing her forehead. Knowing what he was thinking. Knowing it was time she told him, "Mitchell," she said seriously, "I've got to tell you something." Looking at her, Marsha's expression and tone of voice causing his heart to lurch, because for a second he, unreasonably--especially since she'd just said, 'we're getting married tonight'--thought she was going to tell him that she didn't want to marry him. "What's wrong?" "Mitchell, I've... I don't know how to tell you this, but... Look, it wasn't supposed to happen for another nine days, and that's one of the reasons we picked today for the wedding, but..." Alarmed, steering to the curb, "Marsha," putting the car in Park, "what's the matter?"

BECOMING "Last night... I, uh, I got my period."

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"Your period?" Relieved that that's all it was.... for a moment. Then "my period" sunk in and, "Now!" he said in an accusatory tone of voice. "You got your period now?!" "Yes, more than a week early. I'd guess because of all the excitement, but I wasn't feeling well yesterday..." "Yeah, I know," he said facetiously. "Whenever I come home you get sick!" Ignoring him, again, "....and when I woke with cramps last night, I prayed that it wasn't, but this morning I knew it was." "And," he said thoughtlessly, "that's why you look so lousy?" A bit upset at his choice of words, "Yes, I guess. The cramps are terrible the first couple of days." "Isn't there anything you can take?" "For the pain?" Thinking he may mean for a way to eliminate her menstrual cycle. "Yes, of course, for the pain." "Sure, pain pills. I took one when I got up this morning, but it's worn off now." "And this means we don't...?" Remembering "yuckie"... "We can't... No sex?" "Yes." Yes! "Yes?" he said hopefully. "Yes! No! I don't mean yes we can, I mean yes, we can't." Sighing, looking out the window, I should have known! "Marcie," turning back, taking her hand, "I know it's not your fault, and I know you don't feel well, and I know that you're looking forward to it as much as me..." Thinking, No one could possibly be looking forward to it as much as me! "Yes, Mitch," she said sincerely, "of course I was... I am!" "Marcie... there's something I want to tell you." He had debated with himself whether or not to tell her and he'd come to the conclusion that not only would Marsha appreciate his honesty, but also the fact that they'll be doing it with each other, truly, for the first time. "I've... never gone all the way with a girl." Disbelievingly, "What?" she looked at him. "I said I've never gone all the way with a girl." Almost every guy she knew had gone all the way with some girl. Not that she'd asked, of course, or that they had all told her--well, some of the jerks with big mouths bragged about all the times they'd done it. Also, she'd heard some of her girlfriends talk--not that any of her girlfriends had gone all the way, because if they had and she found out they wouldn't be girlfriends for very long--but some of her girlfriends had talked about guys they knew--leastwise all the guys that weren't creeps--had done it, or said, or intimated that they'd done it.

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Mitchell was one of the best looking boys she'd ever known, and Marsha could not believe that any guy that looked as he looked would not have gone all the way by this time with some girl... hell, with a dozen girls! "Mitchell," she said, "I can't believe it!" "Marcie, don't get the wrong impression; I've tried! Good, God, how I've tried! But all my life things have always happened to keep it from happening. Like when I fifteen, a pal of mine, an Italian kid from the south side..." Frankie! Thinking of Frank Rizzo for the first time in years, feeling a pulling in his heart. "...fixed me up with a shiksa... Frankie and me went to military school together during the war, and he'd told her about me, and she wanted to do it with me so she could see what a Jewish guy's... you know, thing looked like." Remembering, he laughed. Glad the tension over her period and Myra had eased, laughing with him, "What's so funny?" "Gina--the shiksa's name was Gina--Gina couldn't understand why Jewish guys get circumcised, and the big thing in her life was to see what I looked like with the tip of my... the tip whacked off." "Whacked off?" "Yeah. That's what Gina called it: whacked off. And all she wanted was to see what mine looked like, and to, uh, go to bed with me." "Sounds like a real nice girl. So, what happened?" "I... I..." Laughing again, harder, "got drunk on homemade Italian wine and..." exaggerating slightly, "puked all over her." "Mitchie..." Holding her stomach, rocking back and forth with the cramping pain, exploding into laughter, "... you puked all over her? I can't believe it! Were you guys dressed, at least?" "Nope. We were both naked." "You puked all over her, naked!" "Yeah! And to top it off, we were in her girlfriend's bed." "Oh, my God! You puked all over her, naked, in her girlfriend's bed, yet. I can't believe it!" The laughter subsiding, becoming serious again, because, truly, this was a serious subject, at least to Mitchell Lipensky. "Yeah." Going on with his poor-Mitchie-why-he'd-never-been-able-to-go-all-the-way story, "There were other times too. A girl that was ready to do it right then and there, a lot of times, told me that if I do do it, she'll make me marry her, so I didn't, leastwise, we didn't, uh, go all the way, uh, that way." "Uh, go all the way, 'that way'? What way did you go, then?" Not wanting to go into what he meant by "that way." "I'll tell you some other time." Meaning, I'll show you some other time. Oh, yes! "And lots of girls said no, like you. Yeah, I know that sometimes when a girl says

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no she may really mean yes, but I can't read what a girl means when she says one thing and really means something else, and"--completely passing on the Ina Dorfmann story because, though, he knew--at least in retrospect--that the flashlight episode was hilarious, he could not think of a delicate way to explain it, nor a way to tell Marsha the story without sounding like a complete idiot, but, in any case, no longer embarrassed at being a virgin at age twenty-one--"in case you haven't noticed, I'm a nice guy, and when a girl says no to me, it's no." "Yeah, I remember," she said, half jokingly, "that's when you become a centipede." "Yeah, Marcie, you know I keep trying, but I'd never force any girl to do what I think she doesn't want to do, no matter how much I may want to and, oh, baby..." Bringing her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, "you know how much I've wanted to!" "Yeah, I sure do. But, Mitchie, look at you! Almost every guy I know has, you know..." "How do you know they have? Not all guys that say they have, really have." "And you're a sailor, yet! Everyone knows about sailors!" "Okay. So how do sailors meet 'that kind of girl'?" Answering himself, "In bars! I've gone to bars, too, but I've got to, at least, like someone before, I... uh, make love to her... Hell, before I even kiss her!" Marsha could, certainly, respect that. "And I've never met a girl in a bar that I've liked enough to want to go to bed with." Well, he had, but though the girl was beautiful, her hair reeked of tobacco and her breath of bourbon, and her body had an underlying odor of sweat, and even though he had received definite "come on, let's go do it" signals, he'd backed away. "I did meet a girl at the USO in Manhattan, though, and"--suddenly realizing why--"do you know what attracted me to her?" "She vas gorgeous un' so sexy!" Marsha said in her yiddish dialect. Laughing, "No! As a matter of fact, it was because she reminded me of you." "Well," she said jokingly, "thanks a lot!" "No, I didn't mean it that way... It was right after I got back from leave; you know, that first time, when we saw each other at the J. And Chriss... the girl's name was Christine... well, I didn't know it at the time, but what attracted me to her was that she reminded me of you. She was an actress, and..." "Yeah, that's what I said, she was gorgeous and sexy." "Nah. Skinny as hell with stringy, black hair--only kidding. She had long, black hair, and was tall and thin, like you. Chriss had this great apartment overlooking the city, and she took me to it and we had some scotch--a lot of scotch--and believe me, she wanted to do it with me as much as I wanted to do it to her! But..." his voice trailed off. "But?"

BECOMING "But..." He smiled. "But, she had her period." "Oh, no!" This said in mock horror.

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"Yeah," he replied, "and we went on patrol the next day and by the time I got back she'd moved and I couldn't find her." "Oh, you poor thing!" she said facetiously. "Yeah! Then me and the girl I love got married, and guess what?" "Uh-oh!" "Yeah! Uh-oh's right! And then, just to be on the safe side, and sure it's okay with God and our... your mother, we waited another two months and even got married again! And guess what again?" "Oh, no!" "Yeah!" Becoming serious, "Really, Marcie, maybe it was meant to be this way. Maybe that's why I always got stopped. Maybe God meant for me to do it only with you for the first time, and for you to do it with me the first time. And if you think about it, except for this," pointing to her crotch, "you having your period now, it's really kind of beautiful." Having a chance to think about it, the thought of both of them losing their virginity together, to each other, truly seemed rather beautiful. "Yes," Marsha said, "I think so, too... You're not mad, then, because of my period?" "Well, yeah! Bet your ass, I'm mad! But it's not your fault." "Know what, Mitch? In six days it'll be even more beautiful." "Six days! I can't wait six fucking days!" The loud expletive surprising her, "No, Mitchell, not six..." struggling with the words, "fucking days! Six fuckless days!" Surprised, too, "Marsha, that's the first time I've ever heard you swear." Starting to laugh, "Coming from you, it's kind'a cute. Come on, say it again! Say 'fuck'." "No!" Though pale, blushing, red spots appeared on her cheeks. "You know I never swear! It's just that you made me so darn mad." "I'm sorry, but six days! We'll miss our whole honeymoon." "What am I supposed do, Mitchell? You want to call it off--the wedding?" Looking out the window, pretending to think, "Nah," he said, "I love this car too much to give it back to your uncle." Marsha punched him, hard, on the shoulder.

BECOMING "Ouch! Hey, you got hard, bony knuckles!" "Yeah! And if you ever say anything like that again..." "Yeah?" Rubbing his shoulder, faking anger, "An' what if I do? What'ch'ya gonna do 'bout it?" Balling her fist, tapping his chin, "I'll sock ya in the kisser." "Boy-oh-boy, ain't she ever sweet!" "Come on," kissing him on the cheek, "I've got to get to the beauty shop!" "Where's it again?" "On Peterson." *

569

"Marcie, you got a picture of your fianc?" Standing behind the chair, combing her out, "I want to show it to her," nodding her head towards an extremely pretty, dark-haired young woman two stations down. "Do I have a picture?" Looking at the beautician's reflection in the mirror, "Are you kidding?" Opening the purse on her lap, taking her wallet out, thumbing through some pictures, Marsha handed Erma a snapshot of Mitchell taken on Friendship the summer before. Looking at it a moment, walking to the young woman, "Take a look at this guy," Erma said, handing the picture over the woman's shoulder. Taking the picture, holding it in front of her face, her eyes opening widely, swallowing, chewing nervously on her lower lip, the young woman looked at the photo for what must have been at least thirty seconds, then, looking up, she looked at Marsha's reflection in the long mirror. Waiting, watching in the mirror to see the usual reaction to Mitchell's looks, Marsha was baffled at the play of emotions she saw on the woman's face. Looking into the reflected image of the others' eyes, the two women silently studied each other. "He's, uh..." Searching for the right words, seemingly unnerved, "Your boyfriend's..." "He's not my boyfriend," Marsha corrected, "he's my fianc; we're being married tonight." "Tonight..." Blinking her eyes several times, quiet a long moment, "You and Mitchell are being married..." she questioned softly, "tonight?" Mitchell? Sitting a bit straighter, "Yes, we are, tonight." Watching closely, "Do you know Mitchell?" Taking a few seconds for the other to speak, "Yes," she said faintly, "we used to know each other." Turning her face downward, somewhat away from Marsha's questioning gaze, "Tell him," the young woman said haltingly, "that..." swallowing again, her lower lip quivering, "Please tell Mitchell that Susan Friedman wishes him... both of you... good luck." ...The wedding

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The first couples through the doorway and under the flower-covered trellis was Lawrence and Marsha's friend Sandy, then her cousin Maxine and her boyfriend, David, followed by Rosalie and her fianc, Marty, then Shelly and her fianc, Alvin. They were followed by two other couples who, at a precise distance, walked down the white-carpeted aisle to split right and left before the raised platform. The ring boy, Morton, looking very serious, walking by himself, took his position to the left of the huppa, the plume-covered arch under which the bride, the groom and the Rabbi were to stand throughout the conservative Jewish ceremony. The best man, Roger, following Morton, went to the right of the huppa. Pearl, Marsha's grandmother, was helped down the aisle by her daughter Sadie, while Ruth, Marsha's other grandmother, was accompanied by her son William. Arm in arm, Morris and Jennie Barrish walked the aisle together. My, God! So many people! Standing in the doorway beneath the trellis, looking across the huge, pink plumeand flower-adorned room, thinking, And they're all looking at me! Hearing the barely whispered comments... "He's beautiful!" "He's gorgeous!" "He's so handsome!" Blushing, suddenly the white, starched collar was much too tight, and Mitchell had an all but uncontrollable urge to look down to see if he'd, Oh, please, God! zipped his trousers. The music began. Mitchell stepped off the maroon carpet onto the white runner. Within two steps, Myra flanked him on the right and Walter the left. He felt his mother's fingers touch his, and held her hand. He felt his father's fingers touch his, and held his hand. Walking slowly, in time with the music, he tried to hold his head steadily forward, but, shifting from side to side, his eyes searched for and, finding them, nodded at familiar faces, as, Oh, God, Mitchell thought, this has to be the longest walk I've ever walked! Finally, reaching the dais, Myra and Walter veered to the left as, Mitchell, Don't trip! went up the two steps, turned around and, standing beneath the huppa, faced the people. But now... Turned in their seats, the people were all looking expectantly towards the trellis. The music stopped. The room perfectly silent... The music began again, and... Marsha was there! Catching his breath, his heart pounding, his eyes became moist because, Oh, my God, from across room, Mitchell saw Marsha's face through the sheer, white veil... and, Oh, my God! he had never, ever seen anyone as lovely, anyone as beautiful, as Marsha... his Marsha.

BECOMING

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Marsha's snow-white gown was velvet over lace. The bodice was covered with white sequins and seed pearls. The long overskirt was scalloped in a tulip cut, and shoulder length, detached sleeves of white velvet covered her arms and wrists. Wearing a crown of seed pearls, the rear of the veil fell to below her waist. On her right arm, Marsha held a bouquet of long stemmed, white roses, and in her left hand, a white, leather-bound Bible trailed a short streamer of small, white orchids. She stood, a stunningly beautiful picture, magnificently framed within the trellis of flowers. The music of the orchestra trailed off, once again leaving the room in momentary silence. Three hundred and thirty-three people looked at the tall, slender girl in the white gown and gossamer veil, and as a ground swell picks up momentum... "She is so beautiful!" ...The collective whisper becoming Mitchell's thoughts... "Oh, so beautiful!" Hearing the whispers... "Lovely!" ...Seeing the faces, the girl became hopelessly stage-struck. The plaintively melodic strands of a single violin playing "The Wedding March." Swallowing, closing her eyes a moment, instinctively, Oh, God! moving out of fear itself, Marsha stepped out from under the trellis and began the, Oh, God! long journey to the huppa... And as she did her knees began to wobble and she became faint. Only by sheer willpower and her inherent stubbornness was she able to remain standing for the three seconds it took until she was taken in tow and held, Thank God! by her elbows by Rhea on her right and Eli on the left. Her eyes cast downward, concentrating on keeping her feet moving--one, the other, one, the other--her hands shaking, Marsha truly heard the nervous rattle of the bouquet of flowers she held within the crook of her left arm... Oh, God! Why are we stopping? Hands leaving her elbows, Oh, God! Eli took the bouquet of long-stemmed roses, Rhea the white, leather bound Bible, then going to the right of the dais, they left their daughter to stand... Alone, Oh, God! As now... A pair of patent-leather shoes, approaching from before her, came down the two steps and a new hand, a hand with a completely different touch, taking hold of her right elbow, "Marcie," she heard someone whisper, "I love you!" Mitchell's touch and voice registering on her mind, once again she allowed herself to be propelled forward, up the two steps, and now, the hundreds of people at her back, she was able to lift her eyes and with a glance at the profile of the young man to her right, Marsha looked forward as, releasing her elbow, reaching to the side, taking her sweating hand, Mitchell clasped it tightly as... "Ba-ruch A-ta Adoni, Eh-lo-hei-nu meh-lech ha-o-lam."

BECOMING The ceremony began... "Do you, Mitchell, take Marsha..." "I do!" Leaning forward, he sipped sweet wine from a silver goblet. "Do you, Marsha, take Mitchell..." "I do!" Lifting the veil, she sipped sweet wine from a silver goblet.

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"With this ring, I do thee wed." Repeating the Rabbi's words, Mitchell put the wide band of white gold onto Marsha's finger. "I now pronounce you man and wife." "I now pronounce you man and wife." With these words, Mitchell stamped upon the bulky napkin that had been placed beside his right foot, shattering the wine glass within. "Mazel tov!" Turning to his bride, lifting her veil, Mitchell Lipensky kissed Marsha Lipensky. "Mazel tov!" In the eyes of God! "Mazel tov!" * A reception line formed and the hundreds of people filed by. Relatives and friends, and those who were strangers to either the bride or the groom, and to one or the other family, and twice there were people that, truly, no one knew. The people came into the line offering... "Congratulations!" And wishing, "You should have a long, healthy, and prosperous life!" And envelopes, oh, yeah, lots of envelopes were pressed into Mitchell's hands, that he stuffed into the thickening inside pockets of his rented tuxedo. "Mazel tov! You're a beautiful couple!" said a lady. "A long and healthy life to both of you!" said a man. "Be happy, mein kinder!" "Hey, Mitch," winking at him slyly, "don't do anything I wouldn't!" "Yeah. Lurey, I'll remember not to do anything you wouldn't!" "Mazel tov!" ... "Thank you!" Mitchell said.

BECOMING "Mazel tov!" ... "Thank you!" Marsha said. "Thank you!" ... "Thank you!" ... "Thank you!" "Stand here! Let's get a picture of the bride and groom kissing under the trellis." ... "Under the huppa." ... "With the parents." ... "With the grandparents." ... "The entire wedding party, there!" A bottleneck formed at the open bar: "A martini, bartender." ... "White wine." ... "Beer, please." ... "Scotch'n'rocks." ... "Straight up!" ... "On the side." Speaking from behind his hand, "Kat a kool at the drub with the gib tits!" Looking, "What broad with big tits you talkin' about, Lurey?" Joey Solomon asked. "Oh, her!" "I heard it!" an older woman said. "Her hands were shaking so badly the flowers rattled." "Where the hell's the food?"

573

Dinner: The bride and groom were the center of attraction at the head table, with Myra and Walter to the right, Rhea and Eli to the left, and their immediate families at their sides. All others were at their places, at their assigned tables, with the exception of the two that no one knew, who sat wherever there was an empty chair. A toast by Walter: "Welcome to the family, Marsha!" A toast by Eli: "Welcome to the family, Mitchell!" A toast by Roger: "To the newlyweds!" Circulate from table to table: "Hi! Hope you're enjoying yourself!" ... "Hello! Hope you're having a good time!" ... "Hi! Glad you could come!" Dance time: "Lets get the newlyweds up here to lead us in the first dance, and in their first dance as Mister and Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky!" "Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed, we vowed our true love, though a word wasn't said." Fox trot ... rumba ... jitterbug ... bunny hop ... Form a line, hold hands, "Ha-va-negila!" Kick your feet, "Ha-va-negila!" form a circle, "Ha-va-negila!" kick your feet higher, faster, higher, faster! More pictures. More movies. Tomorrow's memories. A couple put their hats and coats on. Thanking the Goldmans and Lipenskys, giving Marsha and Mitchell one last "Good luck to you kids," they left. Then another couple, and soon, another. The large room began to empty.

BECOMING The orchestra played "Good Night, Ladies." The Wedding, the Night of... December 18, 1955, 1:23 a.m.

574

Eli sat in an easy chair, smoking. Walter sat on the other chair, eating grapes from a fruit basket sent by the hotel. Her wedding gown hanging on an oversized hanger in the closet, having changed into flannel pajamas that she'd buttoned to the neck, Marsha was lying on the far side of the bed with one arm pressed tightly against the pain in her lower abdomen and the other, shutting out the glare of the lights, lay across her eyes. Sitting on the end of the bed, having taken off the jacket and cummerbund, Mitchell still wore the crumpled tuxedo shirt and trousers. The mothers, Rhea and Myra, were sitting on the edge of the bed counting cash and checks. Marsha wanted them out so she could take a pain pill and go to sleep. Mitchell wanted them to leave immediately, if not sooner, because, his stomach bloated, he had been fighting an army of gas bubbles that, advancing through his intestinal tract, were trying, oh, yeah, to find escape through his rectum and now, squirming, thinking the profound thought, Where do farts go if you really gotta fart, but don't? Tightening his anus against the onslaught, again! Further thinking, I want them out of here so I can--although he hadn't figured how he was going to muffle the sounds against Marsha hearing and, knowing himself, he knew there would be sounds, but at least then it would only be the two of them, and all he wanted to do was to--get into the toilet and fart. "Two thousand, twenty!" Myra said. "And three thousand, one hundred, forty. That makes," Rhea added, "Five thousand, one hundred, sixty dollars! Not bad!" Looking from Mitchell to Marsha, "You kids do want me to hold it for you, don't you?" His mind momentarily diverted, "Over five grand! Wow, that's great, Rhea!" Mitchell squeezed Marsha's foot, but... Too tired and too much in pain to become too excited about the money now, raising herself onto her elbows, "That's enough to buy a house with?" Marsha asked. "Sure," Walter said, popping another grape into his mouth. "More than enough for a down payment, with some left over for some furniture, too." Also knowing that this money was more than she needed for the down payment on the slum property, "But, not if you let it run through your fingers!" Remembering that his parents had taken his Bar Mitzvah money without asking, or even telling him, "Marcie, I don't see any reason why your mother shouldn't hold the money for us, do you?" "No, Mitch," she said tiredly, "that's just fine." "Breathing a sigh of relief, "Good," Rhea said. "But please," Marsha said, looking from parent to parent, "please go home!" "Yeah!" Clenching his buttocks tightly, standing, "It's been a long day!" Besides thinking of the porcelain bowl in the toilet as something akin to heaven's throne, even though he had accepted the fact that they would

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not be having intercourse, Mitchell could not wait to get into bed and cuddle, spoon fashion, next to Marsha... and if a breast, or two, somehow fell into his hands, well, he could sleep with that. Standing, "Okay then," rolling the checks and cash together, "you can endorse the checks tomorrow." Rhea put them into her purse. "And I'll"--Uh-huh! Oh, yeah! Sure she will!--"open a savings account for you two on Monday." "Rhea," Mitchell surely did not want to hold them back, but he did want her to know, "we're going to be needing some stuff when we get to New York: a television and a few things. So how's about giving us, uh, about seven, eight hundred and you can deposit the rest someplace till we'll be needing it for a down payment." As if the thought had just occurred to him, "Yes," Eli said, although for years he had been reading newspaper ads for... "you'll be a vet then, and it'll be easy to get a G.I. loan on a house in Morton Grove." The thought of his daughter living as close as Morton Grove, a half-hour or so away, and maybe even having a baby--though this thought was utterly incomprehensible--was an absolute dream for Eli and, for the first time since Marsha had announced her engagement, Eli felt a bit of optimism. Counting the money as she handed it to him, "Seven, forty, eighty, eight hundred. Tell you what, Mitch, let's make it an even thousand. That'll leave forty-one hundred, sixty dollars..." More than enough to cover me. "...that I'll put into an account for you." "Yeah," watching as she counted off another two hundred, "thanks, Rhea." "Come on," standing, Eli patted Walter's knee, "let's get out of here and let the kids..." Not aware that Marsha was menstruating, and realizing that on this night his daughter, his baby, was going to be sleeping with a man sexually, so far as he knew, for the first time, the implication hit him and Eli's new found optimism dissolved. Pulling himself off the chair, "Yeah, I'm about ready for some sleep myself." "You, want us to take some of your stuff?" "Here," handing Rhea Marsha's crown and veil, shoes, and the white leather Bible that were on the dresser, "take these." "Anything else?" Everything else in the closet, positive that he would not be able to hang on much longer, "No! Go on! Go home!" "'Night, kids, see you in the morning." The door closed. Oh, yeah! moving towards the bathroom, but... "Mitchie," sitting up, "mind if I get in there first, please. I've got to take a pain pill!" Looking longingly at the bathroom door, also knowing, besides the sounds, that when through he'll be leaving the room, to say the least, smelly, and maybe it would be best to let her in first. "Yeah, okay," he said, nodding his head, "only make it fast, please!"

BECOMING

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"Thanks." Hefting her green, imitation lizard overnight case off the floor, going into the bathroom, Marsha closed the door behind her. A bit snug when he'd first put them on, throughout the evening food and drink had caused his stomach to bloat and the waistband of the trousers had been cutting into his waist for hours. Opening them, "Ummm!" they dropped in a heap at his feet. Scratching at the itching red welt about his hips, he removed the crumpled shirt, picked up the pants, fished the oversized hanger out of the large white plastic bag in the closet, draped the pants across the bar of the hanger, and, making sure all of the pearlized studs were held snugly in their button holes, hanging the shirt and jacket over the hanger, he dropped the patent-leather shoes, along with the tie and cummerbund, into the bag and zipped it up. Taking his kit, going to the second vanity that was just outside the bathroom, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, then, grimacing, biting his lower lip in concentration as another siege of gas rumbled through his stomach, "Marcie, please, I've got to get in there!" The idea exciting him, even considering Marsha's condition, earlier Mitchell had thought, Maybe I'll sleep naked tonight. But now, seeing the reflection of his still-red, welted, protruding stomach in the mirror, digging through his bag until he found, and put on, the pajamas he almost didn't bring, then, sitting on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs, once again biting his lip, concentrating, he stared at the bathroom door till, hearing the toilet flush... Finally, the door opened and Marsha came out. Rushing past her, closing the door, lowering his bottom he sat on the toilet... But with an extreme show of willpower held himself back, because, She's got to hear! Go slow. Try not to be too loud! he thought as.... With what is probably one of the first realizations that there is more, much more to marriage then just romance... Oh, my God! Mitchell thought, as... The pain pill having taken effect, Marsha tried not to laugh as... Holding his head in his hands, Oh, my God! As... The harsh sounds reverberated through the room, as... Unable to hold it back, Marsha put her head under a pillow to stifle the sound of her laughter. Through, washing his hands, he delayed as he tried to think of what to say, if anything, then came out of the bathroom. Sitting up on the bed, Marsha did her best not to smile. Embarrassed, looking at her sheepishly, "I'm sorry," he said, holding his hands forward, chest high, palms up, as though to apologize, "Guess I, uh... I guess I had a little gas." "I guess..." Closing her mouth, holding her lips tightly compressed, fighting back laughter. "...you did! But you don't..." Unable to hold back any longer, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. "You don't have to apologize, Mitchie, it's a natural," she gasped, "body function... I guess."

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"Oh, yeah," walking to the bed, climbing in, "everyone sounds like an erupting volcano on their wedding night." He began to laugh. "My God, Marcie, I wanted them out of here! I had so much gas I thought I was going to float up to the ceiling, and I couldn't go in there..." motioning to the toilet, "with them all in here." "Yeah, me, too. I thought they were never going to leave." "Marcie," he said seriously, "you were beautiful tonight. You had to be the most beautiful bride God ever made... I love you!" Laying onto her side, facing him, "You, too, Mitchie." "Bride?" Smiling, he lay closely next to her. "No, dummy," smiling back, "groom, and I love you, too." Their lips touched softly, then, with more passion, and as he hugged her he felt her soft, warm breasts pressing through her pajamas onto his chest, and she felt the hard prod of his penis, poking through his pajamas, against her thigh. "Honey." "Yes?" Thinking of 'the other way to skin a cat,' looking into Marsha's eyes. Wanting to, but, really, "I took a pill and I'm so tired, and I just want to go to sleep." "Sure, baby, I know." Moving his body back, stuffing his penis back through the fly of his pajamas and between his thighs, reaching above the headboard, turning the light off, "Good-night, baby. I love you." "I love you, Mitchie." In the eyes of the law, and... In the eyes of God... On this night Marsha and Mitchell slept in each other's arms. And so began... 53 The First Day of Their Lives: Meeting Each Other December 18, 1955: 8:43 a.m. Shining through, a bright beam of light shone between the slightly parted drapes. Sleeping with his arm over Marsha's shoulder, cuddled against her back with his face in her sweet smelling hair...

BECOMING Mitchell Lipensky had a rock-hard erection that, once again, this time by its own volition, had oh-so-conveniently poked through the fly of his pajamas. Instinctively snuggling even closer, it pushed oh-so-comfortably between the backs of her flannel-covered thighs.

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The ray of light brushed against his eyelids and, partially awake, remaining in this comfortably erotic semi-sleep, breathing the odor of Marsha's hair, he felt the warmth of her body and the oh-so-nice heat that surrounded his penis. The physical part of his erection was caused by a very full bladder. The other part, the mental part, by the fact that it was parked within Marsha's crotch. But, though he assumed she was wearing a tampon, he was not aware that what he felt against his penis was the bulk of a Super Kotex... Which, quite possibly, may have been the reason Marsha did not feel it. Awake now, reluctant to move because, If I move, he thought, she may move, too. And he was so comfortable, and so... God, he thought, I want to do it so bad! But because of her period he knew she wouldn't and he won't, and he thought of Chriss' other way to skin a cat, but, alas, he knew that Marsha would never go for that, and he did not want to wake her, but he did, oh, yeah, have to urinate, so, carefully, pulling it from between her thighs, he went into the bathroom... After, Mitchell brushed his teeth and washed his face. Coming from the bathroom, seeing that she hadn't changed positions, about to get back into bed, he had, Sure, why not? an urge to lie next to her completely nude... Removing his pajamas, carefully, so as not to wake her, he crawled under the blanket and once again, oh, so carefully, ensconced his--now it was all mental--erect penis within the back of her thighs.... The rhythm of her breathing not changed, after a few minutes, reaching across her arm... Oh, God! So soft! So warm! So nice! Mitchell held a breast, over her pajamas. Having taken two pain pills before going to sleep, still Marsha didn't move. Cuddling even closer, Yeah, sure, why not? slowly, carefully, unbuttoning a button, his hand, inching through, Mitchell held, Oh, God! So warm! So soft! So nice! But... Not accustomed to sleeping with anyone, awakening disoriented, Marsha felt the warm weight of a body against her body, and an arm across her arm, and especially the fondling touch of a hand on her bare breast caused an involuntary reaction, and, turning quickly, bringing her elbow around, it crashed into Mitchell's skull, which... "Shit!" caused an involuntary exclamation. "Mitch? Mitchie?" Awake now, realizing what she'd done, "Oh, baby, I'm sorry! I didn't know it was you! You okay?" Her elbow actually glancing off his forehead, lying on his back, holding his nose, "Oh, doo, id's okay." "Mitchie," getting onto her hands and knees, leaning over him, "I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?" "Oh, doo," Hanging freely, he easily saw Marsha's dangling breasts beneath the top of her pajamas and, God! they looked so nice! "I always sped the first day of by odeymoon gedding hid in da dose." Kissing his forehead, "Are you really hurt?"

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Slipping his arms around her back, rotating onto his stomach, laughing, pinning her beneath his chest, "No! Luckily you got me on the head... God, all I did was touch your boob and you clobbered me." Relieved to see she hadn't hurt him, "Well, you scared me," she pouted. "I'm not used to having some big, hairy guy grabbing a'hold of one of my boobies while I'm asleep." "A big, hairy guy? Me?" He attempted to kiss her, but... "Mitchie," turning her head, "I haven't brushed my teeth yet." "Okay." So instead, nuzzling her breasts, "Oh, God," unbuttoning the buttons, "Marcie, you're so beautiful!" He looked at the dream of Marsha's... his wife's sleep-creased breasts. Marsha was aware that he wasn't wearing pajama tops but, "Mitchie," her arms about him, her hands on his buttocks, "where are your bottoms?" "Right there, sweetie," Kissing a dusky-pink nipple, "you're holding 'em." that even then, exciting him even further, was beginning to change in color and definition. Sensing the level of her own excitement increasing, never having seen Mitchell--or for that matter any other male fully nude--oh, yes, she'd seen his penis through the fly of his pants at the planetarium, but later that night, when they had slept together, it had been too dark to see anything. And, oh, yeah, curious, too, pushing against him, but not having to push too hard, forcing him onto his back, throwing the blanket off, Marsha saw, for the very first time, the wholly nude body of a man, of her husband, and she felt a rising heat. Surprising herself, Marsha realized the heat was not from embarrassment, as, watching its course, she slowly, lightly traced the tip of a finger over his lips, down, through the hair of his chest, around a copper-colored nipple--where she, too, wondered at the tightening effect--then the other nipple, and down, into his navel, through--feeling her heart race--the dark tangle of his pubic hair. Teasing him, and herself... Oh, God! she thought as, tightening her hand, she held the, oh, so warm, so soft hardness of God's miracle of human engineering. Watching the downward movement of her finger, watching, Oh, God, feeling her hand tighten about him, the feel of her hand hardening him even further, "Baby," he said huskily, putting a hand behind her neck, pulling her face to his, "take yours off, too, baby. "I want to see you naked, too. And, if you'd like, there's other ways to do things." Things? Realizing, at least thinking she knew what he meant by "other ways to do things." "Oh, baby," kissing him, "I'd like to, really, I'd like to, but no!" Well aware of what she would like to do, Marsha knew that, for her, there was nothing either of them could do about what she knew they both, so badly, wanted to do. Also, she did not want Mitchell to see a bloody, gloppy Kotex pad. "Maybe soon," she said, "but not now." Not wanting to give in, "Why not now?" Thinking of Chriss' little piece of dangling string, "What's so terrible now, that's going to change tomorrow?" "I didn't say tomorrow. But so you know, I bleed real hard the first couple of days, and have to wear a pad." "Women's stuff" still far above him, "Pad?" "I thought you knew, Mitchie. I use a Kotex the first few days, then switch to tampons. Right now it would be too embarrassing, and as soon as I can I will get all undressed for you. So please baby, have a little more patience." Not waiting for a reply, bounding from the bed, she went into the bathroom.

BECOMING ..."Mitchie," she called through the closed door. At the other sink, shaving, "Yeah, Marcie?" Flushing the toilet, "What time is it?" "Looking at his watch, "Nine thirty-five." "What time are we supposed to be in Skokie?"

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"Whenever we get there. We're supposed to call your folks when we're about ready to leave here, and your mom'll call mine and they'll meet us there." "I'll be ready in about twenty minutes. You want to call there?" "Yeah, sure. As soon as I'm done shaving." Washing her face, "Can you believe it's over, and that we're really married?" Rinsing the shaving soap off. "We're both still virgins, ain't we? I'll believe it when we're not." "Yes." Rinsing the soap off. "Well, we won't be for long." Knowing she should leave well enough alone, Marsha did enjoy teasing him--and did enjoy knowing he was looking at her, and especially enjoyed seeing the reaction she caused in him--and wanting to see the look on his face, drying hers, opening the door, coming out of the bathroom, "Mitchell!" startled at seeing him standing just outside the doorway, still nude, "you're not supposed to just stand around here all naked!" "Why not? Like you said, we are married, and married people do...." Drying his face, not expecting her to come from the bathroom bare-chested, lowering the towel, "uh, go naked in front of each other." Except for the time at the planetarium, when she'd seen him in a flaccid state--and then she had thought it was more the way he had been sitting than his actual flaccid size--though, to be honest, she hadn't really thought about it because each time she'd seen it he'd always been in an erected state, and now, thinking, it's cute! Marsha looked at the white nub of Mitchell's penis within the black triangle of pubic hair... And Mitchell looked at Marsha's breasts that, more than merely exciting, he truly thought of as absolutely beautiful, and standing nude, looking at her, watching her look at him, Mitchell did become excited, again, and his penis did begin to engorge with blood, again. Fascinated, as though hypnotically watching the swaying head of a cobra, swallowing, blinking her eyes, Marsha watched as, jerking twice, within a moment it stood stiffly, horizontally away from his body. As the transformation took place, from soft to hard, from limp to erect, Marsha, once again felt a warm flush and again, she cursed the premature timing that had caused the delay in allowing her to do what she had dreamt of doing since that night in June, six months ago, when Mitchell had first kissed her at the beach. Now, not knowing what to say, what to do, knowing she had to do something, forcing her eyes upward, stepping backward, closing the door behind her, looking at her face in the mirror, Marsha tried to regain her composure... Finally, reaching into the open top of her green, imitation lizard overnight case, she removed the plastic bag containing her makeup. Never loosing his composure, tickled that Marsha had lost hers, actually flattered by her reaction, packing the

BECOMING shaving gear into his kit, zipping it, he went to the closet. *

581

The day before, having gotten over whatever it was that had made her angry earlier in the day, Myra had driven Rhea, Marsha and Rosalie to the Palmer House at 4:30 p.m., where they'd ensconced themselves, along with the bridesmaids as they showed up, in room 1812 to do whatever was necessary to make themselves beautiful, and change into their gowns. Changing into their tuxedos at home, Eli went to the hotel with Roger and a very pregnant Brenda, which was the reason she'd declined "standing up." At his request, letting Walter drive, Mitchell and Walter came in the Ford convertible. Not allowed in the room, whoever it was that stuck her bare arm through the slightly parted door to get his luggage was heard to say, "That's really classy, Lipensky!" Because Mitchell's "luggage" consisted of the then-empty plastic bag from the tuxedo rental shop and a brown-paper A&P shopping bag containing his shaving kit, jacket, shoes and one complete change of clothing. * Dressed in jeans, a corduroy shirt, white socks and brown loafers, "Almost ready?" "Yeah, Mitch. Be out in a second." Her makeup and toilet articles back in the plastic bag, with yesterday's underwear in a second plastic bag, Marsha removed a fresh brassiere and panties from the case, along with what she had worn to the hotel yesterday, that she'd folded neatly and put into the case: jeans, blue cotton blouse, bobby socks and black penny loafers.... Through dressing, everything packed inside, she closed the square lid and snapped the brass catch closed. Dressed well before Marsha, dialing "O," Mitchell gave the hotel operator the Goldman phone number. While waiting for the connection to be made, laying on the bed with his back propped against the headboard, thumbing through the stack of cards that came with the cash and checks that Myra and Rhea had noted the amounts on as they'd opened each envelope, looking up as Marsha came from the bathroom, "We're supposed to take these with us and send thank-you notes?" "Yes. We got thank-you cards and envelopes with the invitations." Speaking into the phone, "Oh, hi!" Liking Eli, he found it easy to address him. "Dad. It's me, Mitchell." "Morning, Mitch," feeling ill at ease talking to him today. "You kids, uh, out of bed and dressed?" Not quite sure of what to say, "How'd everything... uh, how's Marcie? You going to be leaving soon?" "She's fine, Dad. Yeah, we'll be leaving in a minute. You want to call Skokie and tell them we're on our way?" "Sure, Mitch. See you in a little while... Bye." "So, Marcie, you ready?" "Just about. You got all your stuff packed?" "Yeah. All the tuxedo stuff's in the tuxedo bag, and all my other stuff's in the bag there." pointing to the A&P

BECOMING shopping bag.

582

"I've got to hand it to you, Mitchell; you sure travel in style... You know I'm not a snob, but if you don't mind, I'd rather not walk out of the Palmer House carrying a shopping bag. Why don't you see if it'll fit in my case? I left it in the toilet." "Oh, yeah," getting off the bed, "sure you're not a snob!" Going into the bathroom, coming out carrying the overnight case, "Jesus, Marcie," swinging the case up, letting its own weight slam it onto the bed, "what in the hell you got in here?" She had brought it to the hotel, knowing full well how much it weighed, "Pennies." "Pennies?" Popping the catch lock, lifting the hinged lid, he looked under Marsha's pajamas and the plastic bags... prompting the question, "Why?" because the square bottom was buried beneath layers of pennies. "It's my bank. For years, whenever I had pennies I threw them in, and I'd take daddy's whenever he had some. When I was packing yesterday, I didn't know what to do with them, so I figured we might as well take 'em with us, and they'll be the start of our saving account." Getting the A&P bag, "How many you think you got there?" "I don't know. A thousand, maybe twelve hundred." Actually, there were 2,397pennies in the green, imitation lizard case. Putting his kit into the case, "Wow!" Teasing her, "What's that, then? Ten, twelve bucks." "Hey, big mouth! How much you got saved?" "Not sure." Leaving yesterday's underwear and pajamas in the A&P bag, folding it in half, he put the bag into the case. "Last time I talked to my broker..." Slightly overloaded now, Mitchell forced the top closed, "we figured..." but, not noticing, a bit of one of the paper-string handles caught between the lid and case. "oh, 'bout a few million." "Yeah! How come now's the first time I've heard about it? Where'z'at, huh?" "All tied up." Yawning, buffing his fingernails on the front of his shirt, "You know how it is with us really rich guys." "Yeah, sure I know how it is with your really rich guys." Looking about the room to see if they'd forgotten anything. "Looks like we've got everything." "Yup!" Hefting Marsha's case off the bed, going to the closet, putting the case down, he helped Marsha on with her jacket, then put his on. Holding the tuxedo bag by the hanger, laying it across his shoulder, opening the door, he again lifted the green, imitation lizard case. Attempting to hold the long gown folded across one arm, Marsha found that the crinoline undergarment had a mind of its own and wanted to go where it wanted to go, so instead, the bulky gown had to be held folded in

BECOMING half, in both arms.

583

Not thinking of leaving the key, taking one last look about, stepping into the hall, the door to room 1812 was pulled shut. The elevator door opening, the seven people inside looked knowingly at the cumbersome wedding gown in Marsha's arms and the bulky tuxedo bag slung over Mitchell's shoulder and, knowing that the young couple were newlyweds and knowing, so they thought, what they had done last night, nodding, smiling, making room for Marsha and Mitchell, the seven moved to the rear of the elevator. Four stops and five additional people later, "Whew!" Mitchell whispered as the door opened and they finally stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. "Felt kind'a like their eyes were digging into my back." "You felt it too? Yeah!" Stopping a moment to get their bearings, looking about the huge, richly appointed lobby, feeling extremely conspicuous due to the highly noticeable, dead giveaway wedding gown in her arms and the oversized tuxedo bag held over his shoulder, wanting to return the key and officially check out of their room, Marsha followed Mitchell across the mirror-like marble-floored lobby to the front desk. In addition to the people milling about the front desk, there were also knots of people awaiting the announcement of the start of the Palmer House's well-publicized Sunday morning brunch. Many of the people standing about had noticed the couple as they got off the elevator, and having nothing better to do--many of the men envious of Mitchell and the beautiful young woman at his side, and many of the women envious of Marsha and the handsome young man at her side, but mostly, jealous of their youth and the excitement of this, the first day of their lives together--watched the young couple as they crossed the lobby. "Marcie," said from the corner of his mouth, "do you have the feeling that all of these people are staring at us?" Looking straight ahead, "God, yes!" Slipping out of her arms, catching the train, having a hard time holding onto the unruly wedding gown, "I can't wait to get out of here!" At the desk, Marsha stood next to Mitchell as he handed the key across and officially checked out of room 1812. Still sensing eyes on their backs, they angled across the lobby, heading, as quickly as possible, to the five wide steps leading to the lower foyer, the three revolving doors, and the freedom of Wabash Avenue, when, suddenly... Because the top was not securely shut due to the caught paper-string handle of Mitchell's A&P shopping bag, to say nothing of the excessive weight of 2,397pennies... The clasp of Marsha's green, imitation lizard overnight case popped open and the A&P shopping bag, his shaving kit, her pajamas, two plastic bags and... "Oh, my God!" Pennies... All two thousand, three hundred and ninety-seven pennies fell to the mirror-like marble-floored lobby with a

BECOMING loud, oh, so loud... "Oh, my God!" ...clatter, and... The people that had not been looking before were looking now as...

584

Two thousand, three hundred and ninety-seven pennies--the perfect little copper wheels they are--skittled and scattled under the feet of those milling about, or checking into or out of the hotel... that hopped and hurdled around the feet of those waiting for the Palmer House's well publicized Sunday morning brunch... that bounded and bounced down the five wide steps leading to the lower foyer and into the triangles of the three revolving doors, and... "Oh, my God!" Marsha, with her highly conspicuous wedding gown with its unruly crinoline under-garment, and Mitchell, with the oversized plastic bag in one hand and the handle of the open-mouthed lid of now empty, green, imitation lizard overnight case in the other hand, stood, turning helplessly in circles watching the rolling progression of two thousand, three hundred and ninety-seven pennies, and... "Oh, my God!" Dropping to his knees, Mitchell stuffed Marsha's plastic cosmetic bag, her plastic dirty underwear bag, her pajamas, his kit and the A&P shopping bag back into the green, imitation lizard overnight case as... "OH, MY GOD!" Well-meaning men, children, and even a few women throughout the lobby were on their knees picking up pennies with the intent of... "OH, MY, GOD, they're going to bring the damned things back!" And... Embarrassment in the past was as a wisp of a cloud to a mountain, a pea to the earth, a pee in the ocean, and... "Mitchell, hurry!" Closing the lid, snapping the catch shut, standing, he looked at the kneeling, stooping, misguided, albeit well-meaning people, and, "Lets get the hell out of here!" Grabbing Marsha's hand, he pulled her--with the train of wedding dress fluttering behind as a flag in a wind--across the lobby, down the five marble steps, towards the revolving doors... But somehow having enough presence of mind to realize that the trailing wedding gown would never make it through a revolving door, he swerved, dragging Marsha to the right, through the stationary doorway, onto the street and the freedom of Wabash Avenue, where... Breathing deeply, trying to catch their breath, frosty vapor coming from mouths and nostrils, Marsha and Mitchell stood at the curb looking into the lobby, then, realizing the humor in the situation, looking at each other, as though on cue, exploding into laughter... "Remember..." barely able to speak, "when you called when the lid was stuck in the frying pan and I said this was going to be fun! Remember?"

BECOMING

585

"Yeah, Marcie..." Stopping to catch his breath, handing the bewildered doorman the ticket for the car, who handed it to car hop. Unable to stop laughing, "I can't believe it!" she gasped, "Seemed like there was a million of 'em!" "Yeah, no shit! Believe it! At least a million!" "Hey, Mitch, know what?" "What?" "I love you!" "Yeah, and I love you, too! And so much for our savings account." "Nah." Reaching into her coat pocket, bringing her hand out, she opened it, and there, in her palm were three pennies. "Here, we'll start again." 54 Going Home December 18, 1955: 12:15 p.m. For the past half hour, from the time they'd loaded the last of their clothing and what wedding gifts they were taking, and kissed and said goodbye to their families at the curb in front of the house in Skokie, Marsha had sat on the far side of the car saying practically nothing. As he drove, glancing at her now and then, taking her quietness as a sign of sadness because she was leaving home, respecting her silence, leaving Marsha to her own thoughts, Mitchell didn't speak either. Nearly nine hundred miles from Chicago to New York City, the trip would take them through the states of Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and into New York. Once out of Chicago they'd travel on a "super highway," but would not pick a state turnpike until Ohio. A cold day, the sky was murky-white, but the wind was minimal and, thankfully, there were no predictions of snow for this portion of the mid-west or eastern states. Because it was mid-day on Sunday, traffic was light, and they were quickly on Lake Shore Drive, approaching the turn-off for Solidarity Drive, the road to the Adler Planetarium. "Hey, Marcie," breaking the silence, "you want to stop for a while and fool around?" "Huh?" Shaking her head, realizing where they were, moving closer, putting her hand on his knee, "Sorry, baby, I kind of drifted." Draping his arm around her shoulders, "Don't be sad. They said they'll be out to visit, and before you know it, we'll be coming back. And just wait till you see the apartment." "Are you kidding, Mitch? I'm not at all sad because we're leaving here! I'm so glad to be with you that I'd go anyplace!" Glancing at her, "What's the matter, then?"

BECOMING "I'd rather not talk about it." "Hey," insisting, "what's the matter?"

586

"Okay. My mother knew I had my period, and if course she had to tell your mother, and knowing her, she had to make a joke of it, and now, not only your dad knows and my dad knows, but your brothers know, too, and by the time the day's over everyone who calls to tell her they had a good time last night will know, and by tonight the whole world'll know that I have my period and we didn't... uh, sleep together! And that stupid story she had to tell about the guy that couldn't, uh..." "Get a boner." "Yeah! Get a... what you said... on his wedding night. God! Why's she always have to try to be so funny all the time?" Surprised by her vehemence, "Marcie, she didn't mean anything by it!" Coming to the defense of his mother, "And I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill. I really don't think she said anything that terrible for you to be this upset!" Looking at him, "You don't, eh?" she said angrily. Matching her tone, "No, I don't!" "Mitchell, you're married to me now! Don't you think it's about time you started defending me, your wife?" Moving back to the far side, once again Marsha stared out the window, and once again they drove in silence, until... Knowing it was about time to end this, "Holy smoke! That was just about the funniest thing that's ever happened to me!" Turning her face from the window, knowing it was about time to end this, too, but Marsha's stubbornness not allowing her to say the first word, "What was?" "What was? Jesus!" He laughed. "How's about dropping about a million pennies back there! And we didn't want to be conspicuous." Passing the "State of Indiana" sign, "Almost the funniest?" Marsha smiled her first smile in almost two hours. "What could possibly be funnier than that?" Reaching to her, pinching the collar of her coat, urging her to sit closer, again placing his arm onto her shoulders, "Did I ever tell you about the time I blew up our kitchen?" "No, I never heard that one... Really, you blew up your kitchen?" "Yeah! Well, come to think about it, it's only funny thinking about it now, because it sure as hell wasn't too funny then!" "Yeah, I'd guess not! How the heck'd you blow up your kitchen? "It was back on the west side. I was, oh, sixteen"--in retrospect, knowing it was a really stupid thing to do, he did not want to tell Marsha that he was just weeks away from his seventeenth birthday--"and this shvartzer kid, his name was Junior Johnson, gave me a bullet..."

BECOMING * The story told, "You're lucky they'd bought the house in Skokie, I'd'a killed you. That ain't so funny."

587

"Yeah?" Thinking a moment, "To look at me, Marcie, would you ever think that I'm probably the only person in the whole world that's ever, uh"--using one of her words--"pooped on a bird?" "You pooped on a bird?" Laughing, "You're right, I don't believe it." "It's true!" Making the motions, "Cross my heart." "Cross your heart, huh? Istilldon't believe it!" "It's true!" "How'd'j'ya do it, then?" Looking at her, smiling, "I'll tell you when I get to know you better." Considering, he thought he might tell her about the episode with Ina Dorfmann, but in order to tell that story he'd have to go into details that he was positive he didn't know Marsha well enough to tell, either. There was also the time he fell in the toilet, in Hebrew School, but how to explain that? "Well," she said, "so far as I'm concerned, you still haven't come up with anything funnier than the pennies." "How's about you? Anything funny ever happen to you?" Quiet, thinking of the loneliness of her childhood, and her life due to her mother's mental ostracism of her from the time she was an infant right up to the time she'd announced her engagement to Mitchell, "No," she said after a long pause. "Nothing too funny has ever happened to me." Sensing a newfound sadness about her, "Oh, yeah!" he came up with, "There was this time I fell out of a basement window." "Mitchell, how could anyone fall out of a basement window?" "Oh," grinning at her, "it wasn't easy." * At five-ten, almost five hours into the journey, inside the state of Ohio they stopped at a Howard Johnson's Restaurant. Finished eating, they used the washrooms, replenished the Ford with gas and were back on the road within forty-five minutes. Nearly six o'clock, on the road for about six hours, it was becoming dark. Pulling the knob that turned the headlights and dashboard lights on, glowing a cheery, radiant green, now was the first time they had see seen the dashboard lit. Warmly comfortable, with her legs folded beneath her, snuggling even closer, Marsha lay her head upon Mitchell's shoulder.

BECOMING Putting his hand onto her lap, she held it. "You don't ever swear, do you?" "No, I guess not... Well, sometimes I do, when I get real mad." "Back at the hotel, when pennies were rolling all over the place, you did say damn or damned." "I don't remember."

588

"Well, you did! I heard you. You said damn or damned. But all those pennies had to be worth a fuck, or, at the very least, a shit. But only a damn?" "I never swear." "Oh, yeah you do! I've heard you say much worse than that!" "Oh, yeah? When?" "Yesterday morning, in the car, you said fucking and fuckless." "Mitchie," said good-naturedly, "you're such a liar!" "No I'm not! Really, you did say..." "I did not... Oh, yes," Remembering, "you said it first, and you made me real mad so it doesn't count." "Well, that's true, of course. No one ever swears when they're mad. What do you mean, it doesn't count? Who says fucking and fuckless don't count?" "Me do! I says!" Smiling at this exchange, "Come on," he prompted, "say fuck." "No." "Okay, fuck's kind of a hard word to learn on because it's kind'a like the king of all swear words. What say we start with something easier. How's 'bout, uh, shit? Go on, say shit." "Mitchie, no!" "Okay, shit's kind of a, uh, shitty word to learn on. How's 'bout piss?" Trying to keep a straight face, "Uh-uh," but couldn't, and began to laugh. "It's not like I'm trying to get you to say a real high-powered word like fuck anymore. Piss is a nice word. Come on, Marcie, it's real easy. Say piisss." "No," she giggled. "I can't." "Okay, then, how's 'bout, uh, pee? Try to say pee."

BECOMING "Pea." "That's not fair! I'll bet you said pea, like in mashed potatoes and peas." "Pea." "You said it like in piss?" "Yeah, that's what I said, pea, like in pea."

589

"I don't believe you. But I guess a pee's a pee. Okay, but you sure I can't get you to say fuck, or maybe, piss?" "Nope!" "Ok, then, what do you say when you get mad, really mad?" "When I'm really, really mad?" "Yup. When you're really, really mad!" "Kockie, doodie, pea, pea." "Kockie, doodie, pee, pee?" "Yup, that's what I say, kockie, doodie, pea, pea." "Oh, yeah, I can see it now, I'm on the ship and some son-of-a-bitch... You wouldn't consider saying son-of-a-bitch, would you?" "Nope!" "I didn't think so. Anyway, some son-of-a-bitch is giving me a hard time and I level off and call him a kockie, doodie, pee, pee. Yeah, I can just see me doing that!" Kissing her forehead, "I love you, you kockie, doodie, pee, pee." * Eight fifteen. Midway through the state of Ohio, almost nine hours since leaving Skokie. Stopping at another Howard Johnson's, having eaten and used the washroom, as gas was being pumped into the Ford and an attendant checking beneath the hood... "Think we'd better start looking for someplace to sleep?" "Yeah, Marcie, I figured another hour or so. I'd like to get a little further up the road so we don't have too far to go tomorrow, in case it starts to snow." * "Marcie," about forty minutes since leaving the service oasis, her jaw, once again locked in stony silence, Marsha was, once again, on the far side of the seat. "what's wrong?" Putting his hand on her shoulder, "You're not mad at me again, are you?"

BECOMING "No." "What's the matter, then?" "Mitchell, shhh, I'm concentrating." "Concentrating?" "Yeah."

590

Other than lights from an occasional roadside business or a farmhouse, all that could be seen beyond the soft glow of the dashboard were the taillights of cars before them, the headlights of cars to the rear, or those approaching from the other side of the turnpike. "Honey," holding her shoulder, "what's the matter?" Whispering a word he couldn't quite hear, "What?" Turning the radio down, "I didn't hear you." "...Gas." "Gas? No, we're fine. We've still got almost a full tank." "No, Mitchie, I've..." Pressing her forehead against the window, closing her eyes and tightening her jaw, "got gas." Taking a moment to register, "Oh, that kind of gas! So get rid of it!" "Yeah, sure, how?" As though it were the simplest solution in the world, which in fact, for him it was, forgetting his embarrassment of last night, of course, "Fart." "Mitchell!" Turning to him, looking at him, "I can't do that?" "You can't do what? Fart? Hell! Just about everyone knows how to fart! Even me!" he said jokingly. "Remember last night?" "Yeah," smiling, "I do! But I've never done it..." "No, no!" Interrupting, "I know you're a nice girl, Marcie, but I just can't believe that you've never farted, even once!" Not wanting to laugh, "As I was saying!" feigning anger, "I've never done, uh, what you said, in front of anyone, and most certainly not in front of a boy!" "Boy? Marcie, I am not a boy, I'm a man!" Now his turn at pretended anger. "And I'm your husband and I give you permission to fart! Oh, by the way, you wanna try f-a-r-t?" "Mitchell, no!" Laughing, even as she bit her lip against the urge, "I don't need your permission to do anything, but I just can't do that in front of you. It's too embarrassing." "You'd rather be in pain, then?"

BECOMING "No, of course not!" "Then go ahead, do it!" "You guys think girls are like you and that we can do all the disgusting things you do!" "Like you told me last night, it's a natural body function. And besides, if God didn't want us to fart, he probably wouldn't have given us assholes... How's about..." "Forget it! I won't say that either!" "And you're the one that keeps telling me how much girls are like guys." "Well, yeah, we are, in some ways." "The go ahead, I dare you... fart!" "But not in that way! No, I can't, I just can't!" "Okay, honey, I'll stop at the next..." chuckling, "gas station." * While Marsha was in WOMEN, he used MEN.

591

Because they were at a Howard Johnson's again, and so long as he was thinking of doing it, and not telling her, they sat at the counter where she had a cup of hot chocolate and he two cups of black coffee. Before leaving the oasis, the gas tank was, once again, topped off. * "Mitch, we going to find a motel soon?" "Yeah, baby, soon." * "For Eddi and Mick in Cleveland Heights, here's Tennessee Ernie and 'Sixteen Tons'." The radio droning on: "For Maxine and Miles in Painesville, here is 'The Shifting, Whispering Sands'." ..."For Shawn, Brian and Alyssa in beautiful Ashtabula, Ohio..." Asleep, Marsha's head lay upon Mitchell's shoulder. "For Steve, Karen and all you kids in good old Erie, P.A., it's 'The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane'!" Running parallel to an east bound train for the time it took for the train to pass, remembering the lonely train ride through Pennsylvania and New York state on his way to Cape May almost three years ago, Thank you! he thought. Glancing at Marsha's serene face, Thank you, God! Thank you!

BECOMING ..."For Lonnie and Pat!" ..."For Ida and Jim!" Lifting her head, opening her eyes, muttering, "Where are we?" Without waiting for an answer, snuggling lower on the seat, putting her head onto Mitchell's thigh, Marsha's eyes closed again.

592

..."For Carter, Herb and Dave, and all the gang at the Westlake Inn in downtown Altoona, here's one from the smash play 'Damn Yankees'." "Whatever Lola wants," Mitchell sang along softly, "Lola gets." ... "Snow this morning throughout New Jersey, New York, and well into Maine and Connecticut." Reaching over the rear of the seat, taking a blanket off the back seat, he covered Marsha. ..."For Donnie, Harry Belafonte!" ..."For Bonnie, Nat King Cole!" Readjusting her body, in her sleep Marsha unknowingly emitted a short, fluttering sally of stomach gas. Glancing at her, putting his hand on her hip, he smiled. "For Laverne, Joanie and Reed, and all you late birds in Teaneck, New Jersey, here's Mitch Miller and 'The Yellow Rose of Texas'!" Snow began to fall. "Your request is our demand, so, for Maynard, Luke and Judy in Younkers, though long gone, here is 'Autumn Leaves'." The Ford crossed the George Washington Bridge, and soon the... "For Leni, Laurette and Larry, and all you early birds in Brooklyn... 'Hearts of Stone'!" * ...Henry Hudson Parkway. About ten minutes from entering the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, "Marcie... Marcie, baby." Still on her side curled in a ball, Marsha still slept with her head resting on the outside of his thigh. "Honey," shaking her shoulder. Taking the blanket along, sitting up, yawning, she opened her eyes. The wipers clicking wetly back and forth, there were two heavily beaded semicircles of slushy snow on the windshield. "Snow? Mitchie, it's snowing!" Glancing at her, smiling, "No kidding!"

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Looking at the clock in the dashboard, "Three-thirty! Mitchell, I can't believe I slept this long!" Calculating the time since leaving Skokie. "My, God, you've been driving for seventeen hours!" "Not really. Considering the time difference between Chicago and New York, it's only sixteen hours." "New York" not registering on her, "You've got to be exhausted! Don't you think it's about time we find someplace to sleep!" Beyond exhaustion, between the wedding yesterday--actually now the day before yesterday--and the hours on the road yesterday and last night, he'd driven in a wide-eyed daze for the past three hours, reviving and getting a second wind only as he outran the late night signal from the Pennsylvania station and picked up the early morning signal from New York City. Now, running on the last dredges of reserve energy, pumping him up, the adrenalin of his anticipation of Marsha's reaction to the apartment making him all but hyperactive, "Yeah, baby, we are going to stop, in about a half-hour.... Look out your window." Rubbing the condensation on the window with her sleeve, "My God, Mitchell!" Shaking her head in disbelief, cranking the window down to see past the inner moisture and outer slush, cold air immediately filling the car's interior, "I can't believe it! That's..." Off in the distance, midway across the channel but perfectly visible, even in the falling snow... The lady is there! Floodlights shining from the base up and her crown down, in the distance the lady appeared to glow an almost eerie green. "...The Statue of Liberty! Oh, my God, Mitchell, she's beautiful! I can't believe it!" Her head turning to the right, continuing to look as they drove on. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to drive all night? You should have woken me! At least I could have kept you company." Quiet a moment, then, "We'll be home soon, won't we?" she asked softly. "Yeah, Marcie, we'll be home soon." "God, Mitchie... home, our home." Though the simplest of statements, it filled both their hearts.... ...Our home. Seagate The thickening snow was beginning to lay on the streets as the dirt-coated convertible turned off the Shore Expressway onto Ocean Parkway, went south past Neptune Avenue into Brighton Beach, made a right turn on Surf Avenue and drove slowly past the darkened and desolate, skeletal-like amusement structures of Coney Island. "Marcie, just wait until summer." He'd dreamt of this moment, of showing Marsha Coney Island, and it didn't matter that it was four in the morning, nor that it was the middle of winter and snow was falling. "You'll love it! We live close enough so we can walk to the boardwalk whenever we want, and every Wednesday during the summer"--although he had told her all this before, now, his voice animated with excitement, speaking rapidly, he told her again--"they shoot off fireworks from a barge out in the ocean. I used to watch 'em from the tower at Rockaway. And boy, I can't wait till you try a Nathan's lobster roll!"

BECOMING "I'll never eat lobster." Shaking her head, "they're so ugly!" "I promise," looking at her, "you'll learn to love 'em!"

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A block from Brighton Beach, Surf and Neptune avenues angled towards each other to become one street at the guarded entrance to Seagate, then continued through the small peninsula as Neptune Avenue. Having been told about it before, more than once, now, seeing a gated, guarded community for the first time, the sight of it made Marsha feel protected, and a bit pretentious. As the Ford came to a stop, sliding the window open, "Good morning." the guard inside the heated shack poked his head through. Rolling the window down, "We're, uh"--now being the first time he'd ever said the words--"Mister and Mrs. Lipensky." Never having seen Mitchell, or knowing the car, studying a clipboard... "We live here, on Neptune: 2915." "Yeah," the guard said, "here you are." Lowering his head so he could see into the car, "Nite, folks." The man pushed a handle, and the barrier rose. Putting the shifter into D, Mitchell drove into Seagate, where older brick and wood-frame structures, many with twinkling Christmas lights even at that hour, intermixed with modern houses and newer one- and two-story apartment buildings. Coming to the end of the long block, pointing to his left, to an older, three-story, wooden structure, "There's Aunt Ida's, and this..." turning right, "is where we live." Parked cars were scattered along the curb of the long, two-story, yellow brick cul-de-sac building and Mitchell was able to park almost directly adjacent to the front door of the well-lit lobby. "So, you like it so far?" "Yes, I do," looking at him, "very much!" "Honey, if you don't mind, I'll take just what we need for now and get the rest later. Okay?" "Sure." Opening the door, "I'm glad you said that," Marsha stepped out. "Oh, God!" He'd been sitting in the same position for so long, standing, moaning, having to force himself into an upright position, pushing his hands into the small of his back, "Just your green case, okay?" "That's fine. It's got everything we'll need for now." Taking just the green case, walking up the three concrete steps, Mitchell opened the plate-glass door to the pushily carpeted lobby. "You never told me there's an elevator." "Yeah," stepping inside, "there are few things I didn't tell you." Pushing 2, the door slid shut. "I knew it would be nice, but never thought it would be so..."

BECOMING "Classy?" "Yes," she said. "Classy." Coming out of the elevator, he led Marsha down the carpeted hall to, "Here we are." the door marked 219. Putting the case down, fishing in his pocket for his ring of keys, "You ready?" he asked. "Mitchie, yes! I've been ready for months."

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Knowing how he'd dreamt of doing this, "Okay, don't look till I tell you. I want the lights on before you come in." Unlocking the door, "Your eyes closed?" Knowing he'd planned this, going along with him, "Yes." "Good." Going inside, he turned the lamps at either side of the sofa and the ceiling light in the kitchen on. Sitting on the sofa, so he could see Marsha's reaction when she opened her eyes, "You're right in front of the door. Simon says, 'take two steps forward and open your eyes'." Marsha did... "Oh, my God!" Said softly, her eyes widening, "Oh, my God, Mitchie, it's beautiful!" Looking from right to left, Marsha saw the double dresser on the short wall, the door leading to the bathroom, then a waist-high room divider with lilac- and lavender-painted one-inch dowel rods that went from the divider to the ceiling. Beyond the divider was the kitchen with a pine-colored, wood-grain Formica and chrome table with four lavender-padded chairs. To the left of the kitchen, centered on the adjacent wall, were lovely drapes on either side of the double-hung window. Beneath the window was the sofa Mitchell was sitting on, with a lamp table on either side and a coffee table before it. The lilac-painted walls and lavender carpet contrasted beautifully. All in this one-room apartment, in this first home of Mitchell and Marsha Lipensky, appeared to be new and beautifully, tastefully appointed. Holding her breath, her eyes returning to Mitchell, letting her breath out, "I can't believe you did this for me, all by yourself!" "Well, I didn't do all by myself. Mrs. Tennenbaum helped pick the colors and stuff and had it done. But you like it, Marcie? You really like it?" "Like it?" Coming into the room, closing the door, "My, God, Mitchell, I love it!" Now that they were home, and now that he had seen Marsha's reaction, her long awaited reaction to the apartment, Mitchell's adrenalin flowed in the opposite direction, and as he lifted himself off the sofa to go to her, a total, complete fatigue overtaking him, "Marcie," draping his arms over her shoulders, "I'll carry you over the threshold tomorrow, okay?" "You poor baby," stroking his cheek. "Sure, come on, I'll help you open the bed." Moving the coffee table, removing the two cushions from the sofa, pulling the bed open, Marsha was surprised to see the bed neatly made and covered with the feather-down quilt given to them by her grandmother. Going to the closet, wearily taking two pillows off the shelf, he laid them on the bed.

BECOMING "Go on, Mitchie, you use the bathroom first."

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Putting the green case onto the kitchen table, "Thanks, baby; I'm about ready to pass out." Taking his kit only, he went into the bathroom. Marsha drew the drapes, then, going to the kitchen, looked through the drawers and cabinets. Having spent quite a bit of time thinking about how she wanted her home kept, Lots of organizing to do here, she thought, and, I know how we're going to spend tomorrow! Really, today. Done in the bathroom within minutes, except for his shirt, which Mitchell draped over a kitchen chair--actually disappointing Marsha--he was still dressed. This being the first time she'd handled it since the hotel, surprised at its lightness, taking the case into the bathroom, "I'll be right out, Mitch." "Yeah, honey." Removing his clothes, crawling into bed wearing nothing, "I'll wait for you." When Marsha came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, the lights were still on and Mitchell was sound asleep. 55 The Second Day of Their Lives December 19, 1955: 9:40 a.m. A thick beam of sunlight casting through the seams of the drapes laid a swath of brilliance across the bed. Turning from his left side--the position he kept from the time he'd hit the bed--to his right side, the brilliant line of light lay across his face caused a dull red glow beneath his eyelids. Opening his eyes, quickly screwing them shut again, disoriented a moment... remembering where he was, turning back to his left side, Mitchell looked at the disarray of black hair on the pillow next to him. For some unknown reason, each of the three times they'd slept together, he'd automatically gone to the right side of the bed and Marsha to the left. Except for the melodious sound of Marsha's breathing, the room was perfectly quiet. Luxuriating beneath the comfort of the feather quilt, feeling the warmth of Marsha's body, he had an all but uncontrollable urge to press against her, and his hand actually ached for the feel of a breast. And his penis, swelled with desire, and a very full bladder and, oh, yes, how he wanted to wake Marsha to see if he could get her to do to him what she had done to him at the planetarium. But knowing, to say the least, that it would not be nice to wake her, and besides, he was rather sure she wouldn't. Wondering if she was sleeping nude too, but rather sure she wasn't, moving closer, realizing she was wearing her flannel pajamas, nonetheless his penis nesting, snuggling even closer... Waking again, it was an hour later and though he'd had to urinate earlier, now he really had to. Leaving the comfort of the bed and the warmth of Marsha, going into the bathroom, he closed the door, and so long as he was up, Mitchell brushed his teeth, took a shower and shaved. Coming from the bathroom nude, going to the bottom drawer of the dresser--the only drawer he kept for himself--he took underwear and socks, then a sweat shirt and a pair of jeans off hangers in the closet, dressed, put his coat on and, quietly opening and closing the door, went downstairs.

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Most of the gifts and clothing having been sent ahead--part of a gift of luggage from one of Marsha's aunts--there were two suitcases in the trunk with the remainder of Marsha's clothing that Rhea and Eli had brought to Skokie yesterday. The balance of his clothing, some of it folded and some on hangers, was laid out on the back seat. Stepping through the plate-glass door, squinting against the glare of brilliant sunlight reflected upon a world of snow, Mitchell breathed deeply of the invigorating, salt-tinged, cold air, than ran across the plowed street, through the calf-high snow that lay upon the winter lawn, up the five weathered, wooden steps and through the outer foyer door of Aunt Ida's house. * In the 1920s, the home of Meyer and Ida Charney had been one of the showplaces of Seagate. But when Myer passed away in 1939 leaving little but obligations, in time, Ida had been forced to convert the imposing three-story, wood frame structure into three separate apartments. Ida now lived in four rooms on the first floor. Knocking on the door, stamping his feet on the hairy, kapok mat, "It's me, Mitchell!" "Mitchell!" Taking the security chain off the door, Ida opened it. "Come in! I was worried about you because of the snow." At age seventy-eight, not prone to stooping, Ida still carried her tall, thin body upright. Her gray hair was intermixed with wide strands of black. The skin of her face was comparatively taut for a woman her age, and only Ida's liver-spotted hands and arms reflected her true age. Coming out of the vestibule into the overly heated, musty-smelling apartment, "Hi! I wanted to let you know we got here okay." "I knew you were driving yesterday, and hoped you'd have sense enough to stop when it began snowing." "Actually, I didn't. We got here about four." "So, all's well that ends well." Invited to the wedding, having never flown, declining due to the long trip, "Tell me, how'd the wedding go? How's your bride, and where is she? Your mama and papa, they're well?" Smiling at the barrage of questions, "Aunt, Ida, the wedding was beautiful, and except for you not being there, everything went great. Mom and dad are fine and Marsha's still in bed." "Good, Mitchell. I'm glad everything went so well." "I've got to unload the car, and just wanted to let you know we got here okay." Looking forward to, and happy to have her grand-nephew and his new bride living close by, "Mitchell, when your Marsha gets up, I want you to call me and bring her for breakfast," Looking at the clock on the wall, "or lunch. Let me know which when you call, okay?" A bit uncomfortable due to the heat, "Sure, Aunt Ida. I'll call here as soon as she gets up." Backing out of the room, into the vestibule, running down the stairs and across the street, opening the trunk, he hefted the suitcases out.

BECOMING Her feet bare, wearing a pair of slacks that had been sent ahead and a brassiere she'd found in one of her drawers, hearing the door open, "Hi!"

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The sofa bed closed, the door to the bathroom open, "Hi." Putting the suitcases down, unzipping his jacket, "When'd you get up?" he asked as, standing in the doorway--the thought that Marsha was really here still unbelievable--he watched as she brushed her hair. "A few minutes ago... Where'd you go?" "Over to Aunt Ida's to tell her we got in okay. She wants us to come over for breakfast, or lunch, whichever you want, and told me to call when you got up." "Tell you what; soon as I'm done, I'll call Aunt Ida and introduce myself. So, in the meantime," looking at his reflection in the mirror, "why don't you bring another load up, and when we're done eating, you'n'me'll schlep the rest... How's come you look so cute?" "Me? Cute? Really?" Coming closer, looking at himself over her shoulder, "What's so cute about me now that's cuter than usual?" Smiling, wrapping his left arm about her bare stomach, bringing his right hand up, under her arm, holding Marsha's right breast--that felt so nice--hugging her... "Mitchell," squirming, "your hands are freezing!" Well aware, "Oh, yeah, sorry." Releasing his hold about her stomach, but not her breast. "So, what's so cute about me?" Each looking at other's reflection. "Yeah," trying to sound stern, "I'll just bet you're sorry!" Turning to him, "On second thought, nothing's cute about you, now." Smiling, placing her arms about his neck, "Your face, you big jerk! Your cheeks are so red you look like a pixie." "Yeah," looking at himself in the mirror, "you're right! I am truly an adorable person." Bringing both hands up, pretending to grab hold of both breasts... Squirming away, "Mitchell, don't you dare!" Opening a dresser drawer, taking a sweater, carefully pulling it over her head, "By the way, even though almost everything's got to be changed"--actually, she'd expected to find everything still in boxes--"you did a pretty good job of putting our stuff away. Thanks." Passing on the backhanded compliment, "You're welcome." "How's it outside?" "Beautiful. Cold. Sunny. There's maybe six inches of good-packing snow on the ground, and I thought that later we might make a snowman." "Maybe tomorrow, but today we've lots of stuff to do." "Like what? What could possibly be more important than making a snowman?" "What could be more important than making a snowman, huh?" Taking a pair of rolled bobbysocks out a

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drawer, sitting on the sofa, "How's about shopping for groceries?" Putting a sock on, "Looking at your big, fat, tubby belly..." Looking down, he sucked a non-existent gut in. "...you sure don't look like you miss any meals." "Yeah, that's true, I never miss a meal!" "And between the money we had, and what we took from the wedding, we've been carrying more than a thousand bucks around, so we've got to open a checking account." Pulling the other sock on, "And also," she laughed, "I know how much you enjoy watching The Mickey Mouse Club, so we'd better buy a television someplace." "Yeah!" Singing, spelling, "M-I-C-K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E!" "And it that's not enough," ticking them off on her fingers, "we've got to go to Aunt Ida's for breakfast, and we've got to line the cabinets, and drawers, and the shelf in the closet, and put everything away where it really belongs... We've lots of stuff to do today!" "Yeah, okay, I guess we've lots'a'stuff to do." Pretending to pout, "But do we gotta do it all today? Do we gotta?" "Yeah, little boy, we gotta!" Standing, "Go on, get another load... Where's Aunt Ida's number?" Still on the phone when he returned with an armful of his clothing, "Yes, okay, Aunt Ida, we'll be there in a few minutes... Bye-bye." Looking at Mitchell, "How do I look? Think I ought to put some makeup on?" "For Aunt Ida?" "Yeah, for Aunt Ida, and you, too!" "As far as I'm concerned, you look great without any." He did--he truly liked how Marsha looked without makeup. "Thanks, but I'm going to put some on anyway." He watched as she applied eyeliner and a bit of lipstick. Turning, holding her arms from side to side, "Okay?" "Yeah, you're beautiful. Let's go all ready; I'm starving!" "Okay, okay, already! Let me get my coat." Besides her pink leather coat with the black fur collar and fur-lined, calf length boots--spotting it on the back seat with his clothes--she also wore Mitchell's 'N' baseball cap: the N for Niles Township High School, but she referred to it as his nudnik hat. Nudnik, as in pest, as in nag, as in one that annoys. "So," she finally asked, "aren't you ready yet?" "Aren't I ready?" Going to her, taking her face in his hands, he kissed her.

BECOMING "What's that for?" Thinking she looked adorable in his nudnik hat, "Just 'cause you're so damned cute." "You're just saying that 'cause I said it to you." "Yeah, that's right, you're not so damned cute."

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Taking the elevator down, hand in hand, "My, God!" walking outside, Marsha's eyes partially closed against the brightness, stopping on the top step, "what a beautiful day!" "It's really pretty here, isn't it?" Looking at the mix of older and newer well-maintained houses across the bare-limbed, tree-lined street. "Lovely, just lovely! And the air..." breathing deeply through her nostrils, "smells wonderful!" "We're on the tip of a tiny peninsula, remember, and what you're smelling is salt air." Starting down the stairs, Mitchell ran his hand along the concrete ledge, filling it with snow, which he compressed into a ball and, looking wickedly at Marsha, conveyed the thought that... "Don't you dare!" Running towards the Ford, with Mitchell purposely only steps behind, she scooped a double handful of snow off the hood and, turning quickly, flung it in his face. Not expecting this, snow in his hair, on his eyebrows and running down his face, stopping cold, "Why, you..." pinning her against the fender with the weight of his body, pretending he was about to mash the ball of snow onto her face, instead, his snow-flecked, cold lips found hers, and her soft, warm lips responded. Parting, looking into his eyes, "Lets not make war." "Yeah, baby," he said seriously, "let's make love, please!" "Soon, baby," she said just as seriously. "I promise, soon." * "Come in, Marsha, come in!" Holding the door open, Ida stepped aside. "Aunt Ida, how nice to meet you, finally." "Mitchell was right." Taking hold of Marsha's hands, "You are lovely!" Feeling tiny pinpricks of hair on her cheek as the old lady kissed her, "Thank you." "It's going to be so nice having you here, my dear." Leading then into her overly-heated kitchen, "How do you like Seagate?" Motioning to the chairs around an old oak table, "Sit, please." "Thank you, but we got here too late..." "Or too early." Mitchell interjected, holding a chair for Marsha. "...for me to see much of anything. But what I've seen so far, I like. It's beautiful here."

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"Yes, here, but outside the gate things are changing." Reflecting a moment. "It used to be so lovely here--it still is, inside--but outside? Coney Island and Brighton Beach, I mean." He had seen Coney Island and Brighton Beach in daylight, and the signs of decay, that Mitchell vividly remembered from the west side of Chicago--but still, not even remotely understanding the reasons for--were conspicuously visible here. "So," going to the refrigerator, "you want breakfast! You like bacon, sausage?" Knowing Mitchell would eat just about anything, Ida posed the question to Marsha. "Or maybe you keep a little kosher?" "No." Surprised, though, that Ida didn't, "I'm not kosher at all, not even a little." Seeing the questioning look on Marsha's face, "Meyer, my husband, alav ha-sholom--may he rest in peace--liked ham, so when we were married, I asked, 'Meyer, you want to keep kosher?' And he said, 'maybe a little,' so we never did." "That's kind of how it was with my mom and dad, too." "The little I remember of Walter, your papa, I thought he wasn't the kosher type." * "You want another bagel, more tea, maybe?" "No, Aunt Ida," putting her cup down, "this is plenty, thank you." "Living so far from your family, you don't think you're going to miss them, your mama, papa?" "No," glancing at Mitchell, "he's my family now... It must be very nice here in the summer, living so close to the beach and Coney Island. I love the beach, and it's going to be perfect for me here. Of course I've got to get a job, but even so, I know I'm going to love it here." Sopping up the last of his egg yoke with a piece of bagel, "Aunt, Ida, maybe you can help us." Looking at him over the rim of her cup, "If I can." "We're going shopping today for groceries, and we want to buy a television, and we've got to open a checking account. Can you tell us the best places to go?" "For a bank, I use Coney Island Federal; it's on Neptune, just past Ocean Parkway. For groceries, try the A&P on Brighton Beach Avenue, and for a television... probably it would be best to go to Bensonhurst. Try under the el tracks; you should be able to buy anything there. Also," looking at Marsha, "Bensonhurst would be the best place for you to find work... You worked in Chicago? You didn't go to college?" "No, I didn't want to go to college." Finishing the last of her bacon, "I wanted to work, and was in training to be a corsetiere..." "She's a meat packer!" Mitchell interrupted again, using Marsha's joke, but both women ignored him. "...and I figure with my training selling women's undergarments I shouldn't have any trouble finding a job." "Then Bensonhurst is certainly the right place for you to look, and it's so easy to get to. All you do is take the

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bus outside the gate, and it's a ten-minute ride to the subway. Brighton Beach is the end of the line, so you can only go one way, and it's two stops to Bensonhurst." "Thanks, Aunt Ida. That's where I'll look, then." "I've a great idea!" Looking from Marsha to Ida, "Why don't you come with us today? If there's anything you need from the A&P, or anyplace else, we'll take you. Then you can come along with us when we get the TV, and you can show us Bensonhurst." "Maybe Aunt Ida would rather not go out in this weather." Turning to Ida, "If there's anything you need, though, we'll be glad to get it for you." "Thank you." Looking at Mitchell, "I could use a few things, but Marsha is right. Old people don't like snow. You never know what's under it and it's too easy to fall. And at my age you do your best to never fall." "You're sure, then?" "Yes, but I'll give you a list, and if you'd be kind enough, I'd appreciate it." * Driving slowly, he pointed to the sights of interest, but quiet and unresponsive, Marsha merely looked out the window. "Marcie," glancing at her, "why so quiet? Anything wrong?" Not looking at him, "No, nothing's wrong!" Sensing a tightening in his stomach, "I'm getting to know you, and I know when something's eating you. What's wrong?" "Mitchell," turning in his direction, "you are not one person anymore! You are not single! You are married!" "Yeah," the tone of her voice angering him, "I know that I am not single! I know that I am married! So?" "So? You don't act like you know that!" "What the hell's wrong? What in the hell did I do now?" "How's about before you make a decision that involves both of us," she said harshly, "how's about discussing it with me first!" "Decision? What decision? Discuss what with you first?" "Your aunt Ida!" Thrown by this, silent a second, "Aunt Ida?" Looking at her questioningly, "What about Aunt Ida?" "As far as I'm concerned, this is our first real day together." "Yesterday wasn't?"

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"Yesterday doesn't count because we had to do that! Today's the first day we're together doing just what we, the two of us, want to do!" "Uh, we're not doing exactly what I wanted to do, but, yeah, so?" "You didn't ask me if I wanted to have breakfast with Ida!" "Yeah, but..." "Okay, I didn't mind that. As a matter of fact I enjoyed it and I'm glad we did and I'm glad we live across the street from her, and I'm sure we'll get along just fine, but then..." "So what in the hell's the fu... uh, problem?" "You had to ask her to come shopping with us! To buy a TV with us! To even open a bank account with us!" "But she didn't did she? She's not here, is she?" "No, she isn't! But that's not the point!" "Jesus! So what is the point, then?" "The point is, before you go making plans for us--for you and me--how's about remembering that there is an us, and that maybe I'd like to be asked and given a choice!" "Are you telling me that before I do anything, before I say anything, I'm supposed to get approval from you first?" "No, not everything, Mitchell, but if it affects me too, then yes! I'd like for you to use your head once in a while and talk to me first so that maybe I can voice my opinion, too!" "Use my head once in a while? Shit! I didn't know I was making a life and death decision there! I only accepted breakfast for us! And so long as we were going anyway, I asked an old lady if she wanted to get out her house for a while! Big deal!" He glared at her, but Marsha had turned back to the window. * Potatoes, tomatoes, onions, a head of lettuce, oranges, apples, bananas. Marsha pushed the cart. Mitchell walked alongside. White bread, chocolate chip cookies and, of course, Twinkies. She dropped a box of Cream of Wheat into the cart and then a box of Shredded Wheat. They hadn't spoken for about thirty-five minutes, and their silence was deafening. Napkins, paper towels... "Marcie." ....Toilet paper. "What?" answered without looking at him. "Look, baby," draping his arm about her shoulders, "I've been thinking, and I guess you're right"--he really didn't think she was right, however, and although he still felt that she was making a mountain out of a

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molehill, so he thought, regarding his mother yesterday, and like yesterday, he found that he could not stand having her angry at him--"I should have asked you first. I'm sorry, and from now on, before I make any arrangements that involve us, you and me, I'll try to remember to talk to you first. Okay?" Unpopped popcorn, potato chips. Marsha was still silent... still... till, passing through the candy aisle, taking his hand, "All you have to do is remember that it's not just Mitchell anymore; it's us, you and me, Mitchell and Marsha." Relieved that she'd forgiven him, and that she was talking to him again, "Okay," he said. As they were walking through the candy aisle, "Look," taking a box off the shelf, dropping it in the basket, "they've named a candy after us: M&Ms." Salt, pepper, cinnamon. Milk, butter, eggs. The multitude of staples was filling the basket. Face soap, scouring powder, steel-wool pads, a floor mop and a dust mop. Writing paper along with envelopes and a small, round bottle of Carter's indelible blue/black ink. Approaching the meat counter, "Any idea of what you'd like for dinner tonight?" "Actually," Mitchell said, "I thought we'd go out for dinner tonight. I'd like you to see Times Square, and there's this great Chinese rest..." "No," making the decision--by herself--"I want to make dinner tonight. Tell you what!" Making another decision, picking up a one-pound package of ground chuck, "You like meatloaf...." Unsure if she was asking or telling him. "...I'll make a meatloaf!" "Have you ever done it before; make a meatloaf?" "I've got a cookbook. What could be so hard about making meatloaf?" By now needing a second shopping cart. Mayonnaise, mustard, two types of salad dressings, catsup, flour and sugar. They got aspirin, Band-Aids, cough syrup and a thermometer. Glancing at Marsha, a thought passing between them, remembering something he was rather sure they'll be needing, soon, very soon, he hoped, Mitchell put a small, round bottle of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly into the cart. "Wow," Loading the last of the bags into the back seat because the trunk was full, "that sure cost some dough!" "Sorry, Mitch, but when you don't have anything, you need everything." "Yeah, I know. It's not your fault things cost so much. But, Jesus, almost sixty bucks!" * The woman sitting behind the desk, Miss Eunice Doupe, asked, "How much do you wish to open your account with?"

BECOMING "Eight..." Stopping, thinking, Better ask, he looked at Marsha, "eight hundred okay?" "No"--making the decision--"let's make it nine." "That'll only leave us about a hundred. We'll need money for... Excuse me, Miss, uh," looking at the nameplate on her desk, "uh, Dopey?"

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She'd heard it at least a million times. "The correct pronunciation of my name," the thin-faced, middle-aged lady said impatiently, "is Due-pay!" "Oh. Yeah! Sorry, Miss Due... uh, pay, excuse me." Holding his hand in front of Marsha's ear, "This is supposed to be our honeymoon," he whispered, "and we'll need cash for spending 'cause there's lots of places I want to take you to see." "Okay, make it eight hundred." Looking at Miss Doupe, "Can we write a check today?" Marsha asked. "We're on our way to buy a television, and..." "Yes!" Miss Doupe answered curtly. "So long as you're depositing cash, I'll give you some temporary checks to use until yours are printed. Until then, ask whomever you give a check to, to call here for confirmation... Now, what name would you like on this account?" "Lipensky," taking Marsha's hand, "Mitchell and Marsha Lipensky. L-I-P-E-N-S-K-Y." * "Know what?" Taking his eyes from his driving, looking at her, "What?" "That lady back at the bank--she's a bitch." "Yeah, she is!" Laughing, "You said bitch. You're learning!" "And if she wants her name pronounced Dou-pay, then damn-it, she ought'a spell it that way." "Wow, a damn-it, too, eh!" "Big deal; you taught me how to swear." * The guard on shift recognizing the car from when it had passed through better than two hours before, "You permanent residents here?" "Yes, Lipensky," Mitchell answered. "We're at 2915 Neptune." Consulting the clipboard, "Got'ch'ya! Hold on." Opening the desk drawer, making a notation on the clipboard, the guard handed Mitchell a numbered "Seagate" decal. "When you get home," he said, "put it here," tapping the upper left corner of the windshield.

BECOMING Marsha carried an armful of bags into the building as he ran across the street, bringing Ida her groceries. Mitchell then began the many trips to and from the elevator, as Marsha began to put it all away. "Marcie, why are we putting all this stuff on shelves, if we're just going to have to take all off to line the shelves?" "Because," she said, "this is the way I want to do it."

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Cold foods in the refrigerator. Boxed and canned goods on the shelves in the kitchen cabinet designated as the pantry. Cleaning things beneath the sink, and medical items in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. And, because Marsha thought, When we need it, we'll need it! the bottle of Vaseline went into the top drawer of the dresser along with the writing paper, envelopes and ink. While Marsha finished in the kitchen, returning downstairs with a cup of water, Mitchell soaked the Seagate decal and pasted it on the inside, upper left-hand corner of the windshield. * They compared prices in three stores, then returned to the first and purchased a fifteen-inch, blonde-wood veneer, Crosley console television set. The carton didn't fit in the trunk, so Mitchell lowered the top and, the salesman lending some muscle, the two men put the box onto the back seat before raising the top again. It was becoming dark and snow was beginning to fall as they parked in front of the building. With the help of Marsha, they were able to wrestle the carton out of the back seat of the car, to the elevator and into their apartment. * Marsha studied the "Niles Township, Jewish Congregation, Sisterhood Cookbook" given to her by Myra. Following the instructions step by step, she put the ground chuck into a bowl, as... Mitchell cautiously unpacked the television set. The book: 1- lb. ground beef. It's only a pound, Marsha thought, so I'll put a little less of everything in, as... Mitchell positioned the television set... The book: 1 t salt. I'll use three-quarters of a teaspoon. ...in the right hand corner, to the left of the long closet... The book: t dry mustard. Uh-oh, don't have any dry mustard. Oh, well, we'll have to get along without dry mustard. How much difference can there be? So in went a half teaspoon of French's Prepared Mustard. ...and plugged it into the wall socket. The book: t ground pepper. Oh, almost a teaspoon ought to do it... And, her eyes drawn to the next ingredient. The book: 2 T...

BECOMING "Marcie," Mitchell called, "this about where you want it?"

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"Uh," her concentration broken, she looked up. "Yes, Mitch, that looks about right." Back to her meatloaf: 2 Tablespoons pepper. Eh, I'll use one and a half, and, filling a heaping tablespoon, sprinkled it over the meat, then another half, as... Mitchell turned the set on, and... The book: 2 T chili sauce. Oops, don't have any chili sauce either. But, Catsup ought to do. ...the black and white picture erupted into a series of squiggling horizontal bars. The book: cup water. Marsha thought, just as little water. As... Looking in the carton, Mitchell found the rabbit-ears antenna, and... The book: 2 eggs. Marsha cracked one egg, and dropped it into the bowl. ...attached them to the terminals behind the set. And... The book: 1 cup corn flakes. They hadn't bought corn flakes, so, shrugging her shoulders, she crumbled shredded wheat into the bowl. ...the squiggling lines solidified, and as he turned the rabbit ears, squaring at the corners, the picture become the six o'clock news. The book: Beat eggs and water, add seasoning, blend well and put into a cooking pan. Uh, the egg and water already laying upon her pound of ground chuck, oh, well. Having washed her hands before beginning, closing her eyes, putting her right hand into the bowl, ground chuck, salt, pepper--lots of pepper--French's Prepared Mustard, catsup and crumbled shredded wheat squishing and straining through her fingers, Marsha "blended well." An hour later, lying on the floor nibbling potato chips, watching "I Love Lucy," "Marcie, that smells fantastic! You sure I can't help set the table, or something?" "Tomorrow, maybe, but tonight I want to do it all myself." In addition to meatloaf, Marsha had made mashed potatoes and a fresh salad, and had warmed up a can of peas. Setting the table with Melmac dishes given to them by Morris and Jennie, "Mitch, can I ask you a question?" "Sure, honey." "How come, do you think, your grandparents got us dishes these colors?" Thinking a moment, he came up with the only possible--though not too logical--answer: "It makes sense if you think about it." "Yeah, how so?" "You got them at the shower your aunts threw for you in October, right?"

BECOMING Having no idea what he was talking about, "Yes." "Halloween's in October. If they got them for us now, in December, they'd probably be red and green."

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Thinking a moment, coming up with the same illogical answer, "Yeah, I guess," she said, adding, "Okay, it's ready! Come and get it!" "Marcie, that looks wonderful!" Aligned perfectly, two orange dinner plates were directly across from each other. To the right of the orange dishes were black salad bowls. To the left of the dishes was a folded paper napkin and upon each napkin a stainless steel knife, fork and spoon. Directly in front of the orange dishes were clear, twelve-ounce plastic glasses filled with ice cubes and strawberry--pop in Chicago, in New York--soda. At one side of the table, a large pad of butter melting in the middle, was a black bowl filled with mashed potatoes. At the other side of the table, with butter melting within also, was an orange bowl with peas. Next to the orange bowl were black and orange salt and pepper shakers. Alongside the black bowl were the two bottles of salad dressing. At the exact center of the table, steaming on an orange platter, looking picture perfect, was Marsha's meatloaf... Of which she served her husband a man-sized helping, along with peas and potatoes. Marsha then served herself. Watching the look of pride on her face, waiting for her to finish serving... Now, the look on her face changing, "Marcie, what's wrong?" "Mitchie," blinking her eyes, "I feel like crying." Actually, "What's the matter, baby?" he could see that she was crying. "Nothing's the matter, it's just that I'm so happy. I still can't believe that we're really married and here," motioning to the room, "in our own home, and that I've just made our very first meal." "Marcie, I love you!" Holding his glass of strawberry pop--they're both Chicagoans, after all--forward, "May this be the first of a million meals together." Lifting her glass, the plastic klunked as the rims touched. Looking at each other, each felt the emotion of this once-in-a-lifetime memorable moment. Putting their glasses down, Marsha watched for Mitchell's reaction to her meatloaf as he cut a large piece of it with the edge of his fork, speared it, put it into his mouth, chewed a second or two, and... Marsha got his reaction, because, Ulp! taking a forkful of mashed potatoes, "What's, the matter?" he shoveled that in, too. "Uh," forcibly swallowing, "nothing, it's..." swallowing again, "great." Watching her watch him, he took another piece of meatloaf--a much smaller piece of meatloaf--but before putting it into his mouth, loading his fork with mashed potatoes, putting it in his mouth, "Mmmm, it's great, Marcie," he said through pursed lips, before taking swig of strawberry pop to wash it down. Puzzled, Marsha cut into the meatloaf, put it into her mouth, and... Ulp! Yaght! Gagging, running into the bathroom, spitting it into the toilet, "Don't eat it!" she yelled. "It'll kill you!" In the kitchen, God, Mitchell thought, looking skyward, Thank you!

BECOMING Gargling with mouthwash, "I don't know what I did wrong." Returning to the kitchen, "I followed the directions." Taking the cookbook from their makeshift pantry, opening to the meatloaf page, scanning the directions, "Uh-oh, guess I made kind of a little mistake." "Yeah?" he asked. "What kind of a little mistake?"

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"The book says to use a half-teaspoon of ground pepper for a pound and a half meatloaf, and I thought I'd use about a quarter-teaspoon, but..." she said sheepishly, "I used a"--remembering at the time that it did seem just a bit excessive--"a tablespoon and..." "A tablespoon! A full tablespoon of pepper?" "Well, yeah, but that wasn't all." "You used more than a tablespoon of pepper?" "Well, yeah. Actually, I used a tablespoon and a half." "A tablespoon and a half of pepper for a one pound meatloaf?" "Well, no." "Well no, what?" "I used a heaping tablespoon and a half..." "For a one pound meatloaf?" Biting her lower lip, "Yeah," blinking her eyes rapidly. "Poor baby." Coming to her, kneeling before the chair, putting his arms about her waist, hugging her, "It's okay, baby." Putting her head on his shoulder, "Oh, Mitchie." "Look at it this way, baby"--tempted to say "almost"--"anyone can make a meatloaf." His hand on her back, feeling Marsha gasp, "And if this meal were perfect," patting her on the back, "sooner or latter we'd forget about it, but this way it's kind of, uh, memorable, and we'll always remember it." Feeling her gasp again, and again, "So please, honey, don't cry." Marsha was not crying, really--she was laughing. 56 The Third Day of Their Lives December 20, 1955: 7:53 a.m. He awoke, as usual, before Marsha, and as usual, with the mental and, oh, yeah, physical urge to make love, and again, had to fight the urge to wake her.

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Not having much in the way of dinner the night before, feeling the rumbling in his stomach, getting out of bed, he considered taking a shower, but knew that he wanted to wash the car, so, Why take a shower if I'm only going to get sweaty anyway? Instead, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, got dressed and, because he didn't want to wake Marsha, passed on the bowl of Shredded Wheat he'd considered eating. Taking some money, hoping to find a bucket in the basement, Mitchell went downstairs. The streets and gutters running with rivulets of melting snow, the temperature outside was in the mid-forties. Why wash it today? he thought, It's only going to get filthy again. But the car was caked with mud and, even though he felt it a waste, he felt compelled to clean it and, yeah, there was a bucket in the basement, and a length of coiled hose outside, that he thought he'd seen attached to a spigot in front of the building. Driving to the A&P, he bought automotive soap, a large sponge and two cheap terry towels. * Finished, Christ, it's beautiful! lighting a cigarette, he sat on the front stoop for a few minutes looking at the once-again lustrous car, then stored the bucket, auto soap, sponge and towels--laid out over the bucket--in their assigned shed in the basement. Coming off the elevator, having no idea where it was coming from, reminding him just how hungry he was, the mouth-watering odor of frying bacon caused his stomach to rumble. Not sure if Marsha was awake yet, he opened the door quietly, but at the stove turning the frying bacon, "Hi, honey!" hearing the door open, she looked over her shoulder. Pleasantly surprised that the odor was coming from here, nestling against her back, "You know how to fry bacon, do you?" "Yes, smarty pants, I know how to fry bacon--and eggs, too!" Curious, "How'd you know when to start cooking this?" When Marsha awoke, after using the bathroom and getting dressed, going downstairs to look for Mitchell, she had seen him sitting on the stoop and knowing he would be upstairs momentarily, went back to the apartment to get the bacon started. And now, in a round-about way, the bare beginning of the 'I know you better than you know yourself' myth was perpetuated on yet another unsuspecting novice husband when, "Oh, I knew you couldn't stay away from me very long," she said, "and that you'd be upstairs any minute, starving." Simply said, "Oh." he did not quite believe this, but yet--remembering his mother's "Walt, I know you better than you know yourself," Mitchell--did not quite disbelieve it either. Changing the subject, "Do I have time to hop into the shower?" "Sure," turning the fire off, "go on," she said, thinking, Wonder if I should tell him now or wait till tomorrow? If I wait, she reasoned, it'll probably be over by then. And if I don't tell him now, I won't have to fight him off all day. Since that night in October, when Rhea had announced herself at exactly the wrong or--depending on how whomever was looking at it looked at it--right moment, Marsha had desperately wanted to complete the act because--as Mitchell viewed sex as a physical act--Marsha, being a woman, assumed that sex, when she

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finally did it, would not only be physical, but emotional as well. And as he craved the sensation, and idea, of being, literally, physically within her body, Marsha, too, desired the feel of him within her body. But also because she knew that their sexual coupling would be the cement that would ultimately bind their marriage vows. Also, but of far lesser importance, Marsha thought her hymen had been ruptured when she was fifteen, when after horseback riding she had discovered a swatch of blood in the crotch of her underpants, and had been curious ever since to know if, in fact, her hymen had ruptured. And also, because--once that moment of barely restrained passion last October had passed--Marsha realized that she had waited all of her life for this, and discovered that she wanted to do it her way and, over the two months that had followed, had built and mentally orchestrated a scenario for her first time--actually, as it turned out, their first time. One thing Marsha knew for a fact: she positively wanted her first time to be at night. Sherri Notari, the manager of Lanathins, had told Marsha to pick any negligee in the store as a wedding gift. Marsha had choosen a long-admired gown that she felt was the absolute height of sexual sophistication, and she had, vividly--exciting herself in the process--imagined Mitchell's reaction when he would finally see her in it. Factually, the level of her excitement was so heightened that Marsha knew if he pushed her, or if she allowed a little more leeway than she'd allowed in the last two days, she may find it impossible to curb her desire, and the thought of intercourse at any time during her menstrual cycle, especially this first time, no matter what stage her cycle might be in, was something she did not want to happen. And, surprising even himself, Mitchell had not pushed her. He knew--at least from what experience he'd had with Marsha--that she was passionate. And he also knew that as soon as she felt it possible to do, they would. So rather than making a pest of himself and arousing himself and Marsha needlessly, and to no avail, backing off, he fought to control his urges, but, oh, God, it had been hard... ...for both of them. "Marcie, when we're done eating, what say I help you clean up and then we go into the city so I can show you around." "I know you're not going to like this, but we never got around to lining the shelves and drawers yesterday, and really, I'd love to get this out of the way so I can relax the rest of the week. Also..." "You're right," pointing his fork at her, "I don't like it!" "I'm sorry, Mitch, but I've been thinking about doing this stuff for two months now and I won't relax till it's done! And I'll tell you something else I want to do today; I'd like to look for a job." "Come on, Marcie, this is supposed to be our honeymoon! You've plenty of time to..." "No, Mitch! This has really been on my mind, and when it's done I'll be able to relax... Come on." Reaching across the table, taking hold of his hand, "Let's do the shelves, then take me to Bensonhurst so I can look for a job...Please!" What could he do? With his help, Marsha lined the drawers of the dresser, the shelves and cabinets, and the long shelf in the

BECOMING closet, then everything was put back--rightfully so--where, and the way Marsha wanted it.

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Driving to Bensonhurst, Mitchell waited in the car as Marsha, with her glowing Lanathins recommendation in hand, went into four stores, filed an application in the second, and got a job--at Lord & Taylor starting on the third of January--in the fourth. On their way home they stopped at the A&P to buy a few more needed items and--to keep the ingredients straight--a pound and a half package of ground chuck. This time Marsha used: t of dry mustard. 2 T of chili sauce 1 cup of corn flakes. And... t ground pepper. This time the meatloaf was delicious! 57 The Fourth Day of Their Lives December 21, 1955: 9:42 a.m. Spreading cream cheese on a toasted bagel, "Know what I'd like to do today?" "Yeah," she looked at him, "go to the city and show me the sights." "No, wise guy! It's so beautiful out that I feel like going for a long ride, maybe even getting lost someplace." Taking a spoonful of Cream of Wheat, speaking in her Yiddish dialect, "Dot drive ve took hon Sunday, it fussant long enough for you, Mister La-pish-ky?" "Yeah," laughing, "but that was three days ago. Tell you what, Marcie, how'd you like to see Long Island?" "Sure. Vitch'hever vey ve go, hit's hokay vit me." Dropping the dialect, "My period's over." The smile leaving his face, "Huh?" "Yeah. You heard me. I'm not bleeding anymore." "God, that's great!" Taking both her hands in his, "But I don't understand. You said it would take six days." "It started Friday night, and sometimes this happens; it'll start when it shouldn't and end early." Standing, "Marcie," going to her, dropping on his knees before her, "let's do it now, honey! I've waited all my life to make love to you. Please, let's do it now!"

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"Mitchie," holding his face within her hands, "I've been waiting all my life, too, and you know I'm just as anxious as you, but I've been thinking about it, and because this is the first time for both of us, I think it's real important that we do it right, and in a way that we'll both remember all our lives." "Believe me, Marcie," said with passionate enthusiasm, "I'll remember, no matter how we do it!" "I know, baby," speaking seriously, "and so will I. But making love, really making love, for the first time, I don't think should be done at," glancing at the clock on the wall, "ten o'clock in the morning on a bright, sunny day." "Okay," purposely missing her point, standing, "I'll pull the drapes." "No, Mitchie!" Holding him back, "We've both waited so long, all our lives. Let's wait just a little longer. Let's wait till later, when it's nighttime, and I promise," smiling seductively, "you won't be sorry!" "I'm sure I won't be sorry no matter when we do it, but..." Looking into her dark eyes, "Okay, honey, if that's how you want it, we'll wait till tonight." "Thank you." But knowing his intent might not be as strong as his drive, also knowing that once they were outside he'll have no choice but to wait till later, standing, carrying her cup and dish to the sink, "Give me a minute to straighten up here, then let's go get lost someplace." * They drove east on the Shore Parkway to U.S. 687, went north to U.S. 495, east to U.S. 295, north to 25A, and east through Little Neck to Great Neck, then north to King's Point. At King's Point they had a romantic, leisurely lunch at a restaurant overlooking Long Island Sound. They drove through King's Point Park where Mitchell tried to get lost, but now, because he wanted to, for the first time in his life, couldn't, and somehow the Ford kept finding its way back to the main highway. They held hands. They hugged. They kissed. They talked. But the thought of later, and what later held was never far from the minds of either Marsha or Mitchell. God's Carrot Throughout most of the evening, and now, because it was later... and almost time, each felt the monumental stress caused by this long day's anticipation of the start of the act, which by now was anything but spontaneous, anxiety over the act itself, and tremendous, possibly undue expectation because of the act's legendary, climatic completion. For Marsha, sexual intercourse was something she'd thought about with mild curiosity throughout most of the last several years, but in the abstract rather than the personal, both because of her hatred of her mother's promiscuity, and also because she had never known anyone whom she loved enough to even imagine herself being in any type of truly sexual situation with--untilMitchell. As for Mitchell, he truly believed that God was against his ever completing the act of intercourse. The thought of now, and the expectancy of finally completing the act, tonight, was almost more than he could fully comprehend, and Mitchell was positive that somehow, someway, something was bound to happen, and

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as much as he was looking forward to being with, for the very first time, a fully-nude Marsha, and just looking at her, and touching her, and actually, veritably, entering and becoming a part of her body... ...Mitchell Lipensky could not help but wonder, What's going to happen now? Since dinner and through the evening, they'd sat closely together, solicitous of each other's slightest wish. Each wanted to get on with it, but both, for some reason, felt shy, and what had been impulsive and instinctive now became... obvious, and both prayed for some motion by the other that would initiate the stimuli for spontaneous action. * Finding the words at nine-thirty, standing, stretching, "Think I'll hop in the shower." "Good idea." Glad he finally made a move, "I'll go after you." Taking his robe, going into the bathroom, he closed the door. Within ten minutes the shower went off. Within another five, having showered, shaved, brushed his teeth and hair, coming from the bathroom wearing his closed and belted robe, "Sorry, I got it all steamed up." Marsha had opened the sofa and made the bed. Looking at him, thinking, We're going to be together! Really together! The knowledge of what she knew was soon to happen, truly happen, soon, registered on her mind, and because Mitchell would, literally, be within her, her heart began to pound. Afraid her voice would betray the thrilled yet fearful emotion she felt, saying nothing, taking the imitation lizard case along with her, going into the bathroom, Marsha closed the door. Removing the robe, he lay upon the top of the blanket, nude. Within a few minutes he heard the sound of the shower. Simultaneously feeling erotic anxiety and nervous apprehension, knowing--having learned a bit about his wife in the last four days--that without a doubt it would take Marsha, at the very least, minimally a half-hour, yet, staring at the door, Mitchell waited for it to open. The television was on, but his visual concentration was so focused on the bathroom door, and his mental concentration so focused on what he knew was soon to happen, truly happen, God willing, soon, maybe, that he was not aware that the television was on, or of the flickering shadows he saw from his peripheral vision. We are going to do it! Actually going to do it! I am going to be inside Marsha! Nothing bad is going to happen! Nothing is going to stop it... Nothing! These thoughts did not necessarily come as statements of fact, but more as a confirmation of what he was trying to convince himself as unalterable, iron-clad facts. Marsha and me, we're really going to make love! Mitchell no longer thought of the word "fuck" in relation to his wife. When he thought of intercourse with Marsha, he thought "it" or "make love." But when he thought of himself individually, he still thought "fuck." I am going to get fucked! Closing his eyes, trying to make himself think of this as a categorical fact, I am going to put this--holding his limp penis--inside Marsha! Inside! Marsha! I am going to be inside Marsha! Holding himself, imagining himself in Marsha's vagina, he manipulated himself until he was no longer limp... Opening his eyes, taking a deep breath.

BECOMING Since he was fifteen God had dangled that carrot in front of him and always pulled it away... But No! Nothing was going to happen to stop it now... Nothing! Coming off the bed, he stood before the dresser mirror.

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At twenty-one years of age, Mitchell's face was youthful and handsome. His eyes were clear and his hair shone with a healthy sheen. His chest and arms solid. His stomach and buttocks tight. His calves and thighs muscled, and... His penis jutted rigidly forward and all but quivered with expectation because in just a few minutes... He looked at the bathroom door. In just a few minutes Marsha would come out and for the first time in both their lives they were going to complete the act of love, together, with each other... And God had given this to them. Going back to bed, the water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door. Coming off the bed, going to the dresser, he opened the top drawer. Going back to the bed, he put the foil-bound prophylactic on the end table, covered it with his handkerchief, laid down again and, the water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door. Seeing it, realizing, coming off the bed, he turned the television off. Going back to the bed, he laid down and, the water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door. Remembering, coming off the bed, returning to the dresser, he opened the top drawer. Going back to the bed, he put the small, round bottle of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly onto the end table, next to his handkerchief-covered, foil pack prophylactic, then, once again, laid down. But, thinking the bottle of Vaseline a bit too obvious, taking it off the end table, he put it onto the floor, alongside the bed, out of sight, but within easy reach. The water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door. Coming off the bed yet again, turning all the lights off with the exception of the lamp atop the television, returning to the bed, the water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door. Lying nude on top of the blanket, he began to feel a bit obvious, so, standing, lifting his side of the blanket, laying down again, covering himself to the waist, he looked at the bathroom door... Silence. Mitchell watched the door... Ten minutes... Fifteen minutes...

BECOMING Twenty-five minutes... The knob turned. The door opened. "Oh..." Afraid any sound or movement would dissipate the dream before him, for... Marsha was the living embodiment of a thousand longing daydreams. Marsha was the hand-held, lingering remembrance of a thousand empty, passionate nights.

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Mitchell felt a tightening in his throat, a binding within his chest, and a stinging in his eyes, and he was sure Marsha could hear the thumping of his heart, because... A study of youth and beauty... Illumination coming from the open bathroom door framed and back-lit, while the muted light from the one burning lamp, glowing through its parchment-like shade, cast Marsha in a buttery-yellow blush. Marsha's long, black hair was brushed straight back, revealing her sharp widow's peak. Draped over both shoulders, thick strands of luxurious hair lay upon the upward swell of her breasts. Cinched at the waist, the long, diaphanous gown opened into an inverted V from below the shadow of her pubic hair and widened as it fell along her long, slender legs, ending at her bare feet. The upright V of the gown widened from the waist up, leaving Marsha's chest bare, but covered her breasts with a transparent, white sheen. Easily visible, her breasts laying slightly to the sides of her chest, the dark-pink areola of Marsha's nipples had a soft, white cast, and.... Not sure how to proceed, Marsha stood perfectly still, as... In this protracted moment, in this flickering point in time, the absolute beauty of his nineteen-year old bride became indelibly etched onto the mind of Mitchell Lipensky. Taking a step towards the bed... "Marsha, no." Finding his voice, throwing the cover off, coming off the bed... Not quite the reaction she'd expected. Surprised, disappointed, Marsha looked at Mitchell. Expecting him to be aroused, his penis engorged... It wasn't. But Marsha had no way of knowing that Mitchell's reaction was far in excess of anything she could possibly imagine... For this moment in time was the culmination of his dreams and fantasies, and for Mitchell, if the Ark of God were to suddenly be placed before his eyes, it would not--it could not--be more revered than... "Marsha," standing before her, this moment in time more holy than sexual. "Oh, God, Marsha," having no way to describe how he felt, feeling his words inadequate, "you're beautiful!" His voice husky, "So beautiful!"

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The heartfelt emotion bringing tears to his eyes, placing his hands on either side of her face, "I love you! Oh, God, Marcie, I love you so much!" Whispering, "Mitchell, I love you." Placing her arms about his waist, "I love you!" Moving her body against his... Their lips met, and... The electrical contact of her lips upon his lips, and her body against his body caused an immediate, non-holy reaction as blood pumped into millions of soft, sponge-like cells and Mitchell's penis jerked upward and moved outward. His arms encircled Marsha and, feeling her flesh through the sheer, silken material, holding the small of her back in the palm of one hand, and the swell of a buttock in the other... "Marcie, I love you!" Her body now pressed tightly against his body, the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs against his thighs, pushing against and through.... Feeling him there, within the breach of her thighs, "Mitchie, oh, God!" Holding both buttocks, her nails making sharp indentations in the soft flesh, "I love you!" Moving back a foot, Mitchell untied the sash. Moving back a foot, Marsha shrugged her shoulders. The sheer gown fluttered to the floor. Standing two feet apart, "My, God, Marcie." Still finding it difficult to speak, "My... God..." Taking his hand, moving to the bed, Marsha lay upon the blanket as... Standing above her, looking at her, unable to take his eyes from the beauty, the absolute beauty of the fully nude body of Marsha, of his wife, as... Reaching to him, encircling him. His eyes closed to the ecstasy of her touch, "Oh, God!" "Lay next to me, Mitchie. Touch me, love me." He lay next to her and their lips met, urgently, urgently, till... Tasting the savory taste of Marsha's flesh, his mouth moved from her mouth to the warmth of a soft breast, to the hardening orb of a nipple. His hand trailed down her stomach, onto the silken floss of Marsha's hair and, Oh, God! Touching the hair, sensing the quiet, mysterious thrill he always felt at his first touch here, probing softly, his fingers found and parted the tight, fleshy folds of Marsha's moist labia, as... Sensing the quiet, mysterious thrill she'd felt the first two times he had touched her there, because spiritually, this time, now it was right, the sensation more intense now, widening her thighs, Marsha opened her vagina to the touch of his hand that, sending a sweet chill throughout her entire body, "Oh, God! Do it now, Mitchie!" Unable to wait. Anxious, so anxious! "Please, do it now!" Now? Now! What he'd wanted, what he'd waited all his life for. Foreplay is nice... wonderful, in fact, but really, foreplay was all he'd ever had. Oh, God! Not wanting to wait. Anxious, so anxious! "Yes, baby, yes!"

BECOMING

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Moving from her side to within her open thighs. In the buttery light seeing what he could see within her open thighs, kneeling within her open thighs, having the presence of mind to... Reaching to the end table, taking the foil pack from beneath his handkerchief... His, oh-so-anxious fingers dropped it onto the silky fine, curly hair. Picking it up, looking at her face. Her lower lip held captive between her teeth, her eyes half closed, Marsha watched Mitchell with ever mounting anticipation as... Ripping the pack open, taking the prophylactic out, he placed it onto the head of his penis... backwards. Turning the rolled latex, replacing it, he unrolled it. Hoping he was impressing Marsha with his act of consideration, having to move out from within her thighs, leaning to the far side of the bed, groping a moment, his fingers found the small, round bottle of Vaseline. Coming back to within her thighs, opening the bottle, dipping two fingers in, he anointed his tightly clad, rubberized penis... Her lower lip held captive between her teeth, her eyes half closed, Marsha watched Mitchell with ever mounting anticipation as... Leaning to the side again, putting the bottle onto the end table, wiping his Vaseline-Petroleum-Jelly-covered fingers on his handkerchief, once again he positioned himself between Marsha's thighs and her waiting, oh, so anxious vagina. Now! He hadn't been drinking homemade Dago Red, and the room was not spinning. She was not lying unconscious under the steering wheel of her father's 1950 Pontiac. She was not saving herself for an unknown, far-in-the-future marriage. He was not holding back for a distant, far-in-the-future marriage. She was not sixteen and her father was not a sergeant in the Bayside, New York, Police Department. There was no tampon string dangling from between her thighs. Her mother did not have to go to the toilet. They are married, in the eyes of God. She was no longer menstruating. The phone did not ring! No one was knocking on the door. There was no tornado, hurricane, earthquake or volcanic eruption... There was just Marsha... And, oh, yes, she was ready and she was waiting, oh, so anxiously! Now! Now! For the moment it took for him to position himself for insertion, he could not help but think of God's carrot. And now! Now, parting her labia. Now! I'm there! he thought, as...

BECOMING Huh? As...

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Unbelievably, the process reversed and blood ran out of millions of hard, extended cells and, "Huh?" his penis wilting, he tried to insert it... but couldn't because... Waiting, when nothing happened, hearing his... "Huh?" "Mitchie," sitting up on her elbows, looking at him, "where'd it go?" "Uh..." Huh? Uh? Thinking he might be having a heart attack, "What's wrong?" What's wrong? Still kneeling between Marsha's thighs, the greasy Vaseline-smeared prophylactic hanging from his fully retracted penis as an icicle from a stumpy protrusion, "Marcie, I..." What could he say? "Mitchell, are you okay?" Looking at her, "I don't know!" "What happened to, uh, it?" The expectant look he'd seen on her face before had changed to that of concern, but he didn't see the look as concern; Mitchell saw it as disappointment. "I don't know!" "But are you okay?" His feelings now were of dismay and embarrassment. "Yeah, I'm okay, I guess." Further knowing he looked ridiculous with a greasy prophylactic hanging from his shrunken penis. Turning away, he yanked it off, painfully, along with a couple dozen pubic hairs. "Mitch..." "Marsha," His feelings now of anger, and having no one to take it out on, "please, don't ask me!" He almost shouted, "I don't know!" Lowering his tone, "I don't know what the hell happened to me!" Angrily flinging the prophylactic across the room, it landed with a wet plop on the dresser. Having no idea what to say, what to do, he scrambled beneath the blanket. Unsure of what to do, lying atop the bed fully nude, looking at the back of Mitchell's head, bewildered by what had caused his penis to go limp, and by his apparent anger at her. Thinking, at the same time, Did I do something wrong? Also, How badly he must feel about what happened... whatever it was that happened. "Should I get into my pajamas?" she asked softly. In addition to anger, in addition to embarrassment, Mitchell now felt guilt at taking his anger out on Marsha, who, after all, did nothing but look beautiful. But his embarrassment, plus having no idea of what to say, prevented him from saying anything. Now came another emotion: Betrayal! He felt betrayed. Betrayed by God--again! And he felt betrayed by his own body, because when there was nothing to stop him, he'd--but really, it was God--stopped himself.

BECOMING Waiting for an answer, when none came, Marsha began to get off the bed...

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"No, honey," turning, facing her, "don't get up!" Taking her hand, urging her to lie next to him, "I'm sorry I snapped at you." "Was it me?" She asked tearfully. "Did I do something wrong?" "Wrong? You?" He'd love to find a reason for this, other than himself. "No! Are you kidding? No! It sure as hell wasn't you, Marcie. You're perfect; you're beautiful! No one could ever want more than you! No! You're great! It was..." He wanted to say God, but knew, besides looking ridiculous, he would sound ridiculous, too. "It was me." Now sorry he had told her that he was a virgin, too, because now he was afraid she'd think it was his lack of experience that had caused this... personal catastrophe. "I don't know what happened. I was there, then it just... I don't know, it just, uh, went away. "Marcie, please believe me! This has never happened before!" Yes, thinking exactly what he was afraid she might be thinking, And you've never had intercourse before, either. Blaming this on her husband's lack of experience. Relieved that he wasn't ill, though, Marsha did feel a deep sense of loss because of what should have happened, and could not believe that after waiting all of her adult life, after all of her months of planning for this night, Marsha could not believe that she was still a virgin. Knowing how bad he felt, a remembrance of something she'd read coming to mind, It's possible, I suppose. Trying to placate him, "Know what I think?" Maybe, maybe in a way it was her fault. "Maybe it was the pepper." "Pepper? How in the hell could it be pepper?" "I heard, or read someplace, that sometimes too much spice, or spicy food, can affect people--uh, guys--in some ways, and maybe this... that," her head nodding vaguely in the direction of his crotch, "is one of the ways." "Think so?" Willing to believe just about anything, "You really think so?" "Yeah, you always got one, uh," vaguely tilting her head again, "you know, before." "Yeah! Never had a problem getting 'em! Even when I didn't want 'em, I'd get boners!" "So? Who knows? Maybe it was the pepper." "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "It's been over twenty-four hours since then," Actually, Marsha's first attempt to make a meatloaf had been over forty-eight hours ago. "And I only took a couple'a bites." "I know, Mitch"--although, in Marsha's mind the pepper theory was a very distant possibility, actually, she really thought it was due to his inexperience--"but what else could it be, then?" "Yeah"--grasping at straws, and he was sure willing to grasp at this one--"maybe you're right." Mitchell and Marsha were still lying next to each other. She was still naked and he was still naked. He moved his mouth to her mouth.

BECOMING They kissed, they hugged. Mitchell caressed Marsha's breasts and Marsha caressed Mitchell's penis. And it was not limp now! No, it was not limp, not at all!

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Coming off the bed, going to the dresser, getting another prophylactic, he opened it, rolled it and rubbed Vaseline onto it. Getting back into bed, between Marsha's open thighs, Don't get soft! Please, God, don't let it get soft!... "Shit!" Rolling the prophylactic off his penis, "Ouch!" along with another twenty-one pubic hairs. "What the hell's wrong with me?" "Yeah, I'll bet it was the pepper." Just about as disappointed as he, doing her best not to show it, "Come on, baby," attempting to console him, "let's let it go for tonight, and we'll try again in the morning." Totally embarrassed, "Yeah, Marcie," he said. "Maybe you're right, maybe it is the pepper, or"--fishing, looking for some excuse, any excuse--"maybe I'm still tired from the drive and all the excitement of getting married and having you here with me." If Marsha's pepper theory was a very distant possibility, "Yeah," a new thought striking him, "I'll bet that's what it is! Maybe I'm right!" "What?" Terribly upset, "Maybe, when a guy sits too long in one position, maybe something happens like, uh, the blood or something gets cut off... Nah." Disappointment sounding in his voice, "That's not it, I'd'a never had a boner in the first place then"--he'd had lots of those in the last four days. "Maybe it's that I'm just too excited when we do, uh when we try to do it. "Think so?" And once again, any straw, "I've been looking forward to making love to you for so long now, Marcie. Yeah"--doing his best to convince himself--maybe that is it! "Maybe I'm just too excited." Oh, yeah! That makes a lot of sense. Having absolutely no way of knowing, even so, speaking with positive knowledge, "I'm sure this happens to lots of guys when they're first married. So don't worry about it, Mitch, I'm not"--oh, yeah she was--"and I'm positive you'll be able to do it in the morning!" Extremely worried, "God, Marcie, I sure hope so." "Don't worry, honey," stroking the side of his face, "I love you no matter what, and we'll have all our lives to make love." "Yeah," trying to lighten the situation, "and we'd better do it before I go bald." "Huh?" "These damned rubbers, they're scalping me!" 58 The Fifth day of Their Lives

BECOMING December 22, 1955: 9:05 a.m. They wake. They wash. They brush their teeth and try again.

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Now, though, with the added pressure due to Marsha's assurance that, "I'm positive you'll be able to do it in the morning!" Mitchell was even more apprehensive then the night before, and, fortunately for him he wasn't given the opportunity to scalp himself because, unfortunately for him, he could not raise an erection. "Maybe," absently dipping a teaspoon in and out of a cup of coffee, "you can talk to someone about it." "Yeah?" Snapping back, "Who in the hell am I supposed to talk to?" Frustrated, both were becoming irritable. "And who in the hell do you think I'd even tell about this?" "Mitchie, let's try again in a little while, but without a rubber." "No rubber? What if..." "What if what?" she said angrily. "From what I've been told, you've got to get it in to make a baby!" Knowing she'd hurt him, sorry she'd said it, coming from the table, sitting alongside him on the bed, "Mitchie, you've got to talk to someone about this! Maybe there's something they can give you." "Yeah, like some kind of a little blue pill, huh?" Subconsciously hiding, he'd been laying with his arm across his face. Sitting up, looking at Marsha, "Great idea! Yeah, that's what I'll do! I'll just call my skipper and say, Hi, Cap! This is your pal, Mitch Lipensky. And the reason I'm calling, you see, is because I've just gotten married to this really beautiful girl and I can't seem to keep it up. Or now, I can't even get it up!" Verging on hysteria, wanting to calm down, but, "Is that what I'm supposed to do, Marsha? Huh? Or maybe I should call Aunt Ida and ask her for advice?" Forcing a smile, "Yeah, that's a pretty picture." Putting her arm across his shoulder, "Look, honey, I know how badly you must feel about this, but I meant a doctor, or someone like that." "Yeah," smiling back, "I can see that, too." Taking her hand, kissing her palm, "I don't know any doctors, and if I want to go to Public Health, unless it's an emergency--and I don't think they'll think of this," nodding his chin downward, "as an emergency, I'll have to wait till I get back to the ship to make a request." Thinking a moment, "But you know what?" Getting an idea. "What if I hop in the car and go to the drug store. There's one on Serf, a couple'a blocks from the gate. I'll talk to the druggist. They're almost like doctors, and maybe he can tell me what to take." "That's a great idea, Mitchie! Like I said, maybe it's not so uncommon, and maybe they do have something for it--a pill or something. And if they don't, maybe he can tell you what to do. You know, an ice-pack or a heating pad." "Yeah, that's kind'a like what I thought." "Want me to go with you?"

BECOMING "Good God, no!" * Returning thirty-five minutes later. She'd made, but not closed the bed, "So?" and cleaned the kitchen. Smiling, "Shit!" Mitchell said, then laughed. "Poop? What do you mean, poop?" "No, 'shit.' That's what he told me to do: shit!" "I don't understand. What's... what you said have to do with, uh, our problem?"

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"Marcie, the owner of the place is the pharmacist. He's an old Jewish guy, and when I came in he was talking in Yiddish to another old Jewish guy, and when I told him I have something important to ask him, he said, 'So ask!' And I told him that I wanted to talk to him in private, so we went to the back of the store and I told him that I'm a newly-wed and that I can't... and believe me, it wasn't easy to tell a perfect stranger that I couldn't keep an erection. And... Marcie, this old guy looked at me like I was nuts, and asked if you're ugly, and I told him 'No, she's beautiful!' And he said to me, like this: 'Oy, mein, Goot. Me! I should have such problems!' Then he told me that if I want to stay healthy and have everything in my body work the way it's supposed to, 'You should move your bowels every day!' He asked if I had one today, and I told him no. And he told me, like this, 'Go home, shit, be healthy.' When I left the store, him and the other old guy were laughing. And you know what?" Relieved to see his sense of humor had returned, "What?" Coming into the kitchen, sitting, "To tell the truth, I can't remember when I've, uh, made. Maybe not since the wedding. Remember?" It's embarrassing to go to the toilet to have a bowel movement when you live in a one-room apartment with your new wife in the very next room where she was able to hear every little--or not so little--peep. "Do I remember?" She laughed. "How could I forget?" "Hey, look. That's really embarrassing for me. I don't go 'round making fun of you because you fart in your sleep!" "Me?" Sitting on his lap, "I do not!" "Yeah, you do!" "Do not!" Nuzzling her neck, "Do not, what?" "You know; what you just said I do." "Fart?" Tempted to hold her breast, but not wanting to start anything he was afraid he couldn't finish. "Oh, yeah, you do!"

BECOMING "I do not! ... Really?" She blushed. "I make poopers?" "Poopers? You call them blasters, poopers? Yeah, really!" Her blush changing from pink to crimson, "No, I don't believe it!" "Okay, then, don't believe it... Anyway, I've a great idea." "Yeah?" Winding her fingers in his hair. "What idea? ... Do I? Really? No! No, I don't." "Yeah, you do! You really do! Sheepshead Bay." "I don't believe you! What's Sheepshead Bay?" "A place for oysters and stuff... And it's 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?"

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Kissing her 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." "I like that idea." Taking his hand, holding it to her breast, "Why don't you try what the old guy said first?" "What?" Sensing the start of an erection, "Oh, take a... poop?" "Yeah! Go poop!" Squirming a bit, "I don't gotta. And you know what they say." Knowing 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 brassiere cup. "Seems like poopin's easier than..." Marsha said as he popped her breast 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... "You really think they'll help?" "Umm!" The tip of his index finger making circular motions on her hardened nipple, "First of all, they 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?"

BECOMING "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."

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"Yeah, that's for sure!" Pulling from his hand, standing, going to the closet, "So, come on!" Taking her coat, "Let's go!" Throwing him his. "What are you waiting for?" * By eleven-thirty, most of the major streets of New York City and its boroughs had been cleared of the moderately heavy snowfall of the night before. The mercury line on outdoor thermometers stood at 39. And as can only happen on a winter's day after a night of snow, this day was invigoratingly crisp and the sky brilliant blue and sparkling clear. On the fifth day of their marriage, after three 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 convertible, and drove out of Seagate, through Coney Island, onto the Shore Parkway going east, to Sheepshead Bay. Parking in Lundy's parking lot, "'old on, Mum!" In a terrible mock-Cockney accent, "Don't 'open the door, Mum." With an exaggerated show of chivalry, running behind the Ford, he opened Marsha's door and, bowing, doffing his blue, knit watch cap, "Mum!" Lundys was on the north side of the street, facing the bay. Across the 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, six- to ten-foot waves breaking on the slabs of rock, throwing 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?"

BECOMING "Yeah! You got it! That's the tower." Since that first evening at the J, when they had became reacquainted, Mitchell had spoken of Rockaway Lifeboat Station, Captain Ewing, and "that damned tower!"

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"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 were dreaming. Having no idea Marsha felt as he, "Yeah." Feeling melancholy also, "That's where I spent a million hours looking here, wishing I was here 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 towards the tower, "it had to be there. Right?" "Shit! 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 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.

BECOMING * "Come on, baby. This air's making me hungry." "Mitchell. you're always hungry! I can't wait to see what you look like when you're fifty."

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"Yeah, well," hand in hand, crossing the street, "we can't all be skinny wenches like you. But I'll bet when I'm a fat old guy of fifty, you'll still be as pretty as you are now." "Nah, at the rate of bad stuff you're teaching me, I'll probably be a fat old broad and between us we won't even be able to sit on a sofa together." "Or lay in the same bed." "Yeah. I can see the two of us trying to make love." "Yeah. We won't be able to get close enough 'cause our tummies'll be in the way... Always a problem screwing, huh?" * "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, grey 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!"

BECOMING "Are you crazy? No!" she said emphatically. "No! No! No!"

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"Okay." Biting through the tail, dropping it into a bowl, "Ummm," chewing the 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 if 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, dunking it in the melted butter, 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?"

BECOMING "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?"

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"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," speaking as if to a child again, "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 side, I 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!" * Raising the top, going back to the Shore Parkway, they drove the two miles to Flatbush Avenue, then over the Floyd Bennett Bridge into Rockaway. Stopping outside the U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station, Mitchell pointed to his old bedroom window, then drove the bone-jarring, four-mile road past The Rockaway Bar & Grill. Past Pete's Tavern. Past The Rockaway Eatery and Bait Store. Past the last of the winter isolated cottages to the end of the road, to the tip of the peninsula... and the tower. Due to the lonely memories held here, to Mitchell Lipensky here the air was colder, here the wind was sharper and here the sky was darker. Although, in fact, corralled by the Atlantic Ocean and Sheepshead Bay, at Rockaway Point the wind is always stronger, the wind-chill factor always lower, and in winter, sand, grit and snow blew with equal stingingly velocity. Surveying this barren point of land, Marsha had the same illusory sensation she had earlier as she'd stood on the opposite side of Sheepshead Bay looking here. "Good, God, Mitchell..." Now, though, the surrealistic landscape caused an involuntary shudder. "...this has to be the loneliest place I've ever seen."

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"Yeah, but in summer..." His words trailed off as, staring at the tower, mentally transported across the one-hundred-and-seventy yards of sandy soil that he'd so often trod, and up the fifty-seven steel steps he'd so often climbed, where, transposing himself with the seaman on watch, remembering, sad memories of this forlorn place tumbling through his mind, quiet for a number of long seconds... "Sometimes..." Shaking his head as if reviving from unconsciousness, picking up the thread of conversation as if he hadn't had a loss of thought, "it's lonelier than at other times." And Mitchell hadn't the slightest doubt that the Ford convertible was being watched through the same high-powered binoculars that he'd used watching a cherry-red convertible. "Come on, Marcie. Take a walk with me." "It looks really cold out there." "I know, honey, and I'm sorry, but there's something I've wanted to do for a long time now. Come on... please." Zipping and buttoning their coats, pulling their hats low on their heads, opening their doors, he held an arm about her waist as they made their way across sand, stone and snow to the rock barricade that held the ocean from the land. Holding her hand, helping her up, they climbed onto a flat chunk of high and dry granite. Looking seaward a moment, turning Marsha in his direction, with one arm about her shoulders, with his other hand beneath her coat, where he held an, oh, so soft, so warm breast, Mitchell kissed Marsha's cold, ocean sprayed salty lips. "Look, Marcie," pointing, "see there?" Northeast, across the white-capped, churning water, there was a misty horseshoe of land. "That's where we came from. That's Sheepshead Bay." Having no ghosts to bury here, shivering, not in any mood for a geography lesson, "Mitchell, the wind's terrible! I'm freezing! Can we go back now?" "Sure, honey." Not sure why, "This was just something I had to do." Helping her off the granite slab, his arm about her waist, starting back to the car... As Mitchell walked he felt a tightening in his chest and an almost... What? Nostalgic attraction. Turning his head, looking back, looking at the shack he tried to see through the impenetrable windows, but all he saw was the reflection of sky and clouds, and... Transposed, becoming the seaman in the shack once again, a deep, oh, so deep wave of loneliness assailed Mitchell as... He stands inside the overheated shack with the binoculars pressed against his eyes watching... Oh, so enviously watching... himself and Marsha, just as he'd watched so many people on so many watches. Watching, if for no other reason than to break the sheer and utter monotony of the four-hour watch, and... The loneliness overtaking him, "Oh, God!" The words breaking from his heart, stopping, turning, "Marcie!" Hugging his wife to his chest, "My, God, how I love you!" Looking in his eyes, "I love you, too, Mitchie." Seeing tears, "Honey, what's wrong?"

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Having no understanding of this emotion, and having no words to describe it, "Nothing, baby." Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, "It's the wind. Guess I got some sand in my eyes." Opening the door for Marsha, he walked around the front of the car, but before reaching the driver's side door, stopping, Mitchell stared at the sharply defined, silhouetted tower, and for some unfathomable reason felt as though something had been lost here... As though some part of himself had been lost here never to be found again... Actually a part of Mitchell Lipensky had been lost here.... For it was here he overcame his love of Susan. For it was here he learned to, if not cope with loneliness, then to adjust to loneliness. For it was here, also, that he fell captive to undisguised prejudicial hatred and the resulting treatment, and because of it... it was here he learned, in some small way, to protect and defend himself. For it was here that Mitchell Lipensky grew from a boy to the semblance of a man. The ghost of his boyhood was here. Sighing, Mitchell waved, both to the man watching from the tower and, unknowingly, to himself--to the boy; to the part of him that was gone forever. Shaking his head, attempting to rid himself of the depression he felt, forcing a smile, opening the door, looking in the car, "I've always wanted to do that." Watching him through the windshield, "What? Wave?" Marsha said, "We'll teach you how to use the potty next." "No!" Having the knack of making him laugh, his depression dissipating, "I've always wanted to neck with a girl on the rocks, there." "Necking? Oh, is that what we were doing? Freezing is more like it." About to step into the car, hesitating, taking one last look at the tower. "Mitchell!" Pulling his eyes from the steel structure, looking into the car, "Yeah?" "Will you get in the fuckin' car already! I'm freezing my ass off!" "Jesus, Marsha! Where'd you learn to swear like that? I'm going to tell your mother!" 59 The Sixth Day of Their Lives The Widening Spiral December 23, 1955

BECOMING It didn't work! Nothing worked! The clams and oysters did not help, not one bit, except for... Not one, but two bowel movements. But not even that...

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Not even the wisdom of the ages coming from the wise and all knowledgeable sage of Surf Avenue with his free advice and all-encompassing shit panacea... No! Not even that worked. "Shit!" Throughout his life Mitchell had very often thought of his penis as having a mind of its own, coming to attention at the most inopportune of times... Now, he had no doubt! It didn't matter! No matter how hot he was! No matter how passionate his mind told him he was before, during, and right up to the time he became poised, his penis, that self-serving, unloyal member, would desert him. No longer was there any spontaneity in their lovemaking... their attempted lovemaking. Mitchell no longer used a prophylactic, but he did continue the use of Vaseline, because now... Marsha had, rightful apprehension regarding Mitchell's ability to maintain an erection long enough for penetration, and her mind--oh, yes, it did--dwelt on the same thing his mind dwelt on. And her desire became secondary and her lovemaking rote and her moisture--the loving moister needed for penile entry--dried up, and... Marsha's completely understandable lack of passion only added to Mitchell's trepidation and now, it was not only impossible for him to maintain an erection, but each time they tried it became more difficult for him to achieve an erection, and... Marsha became more aggravated, and... Mitchell became more exasperated, and... Each time they tried, he tried not to think about it. To think of only Marsha, and that she was there, for him! To enjoy Marsha and what she had to offer. He tried! Oh, God how he tried to concentrate on her beauty: on her so soft, so beautiful breasts; on the so sweet taste of her nipples; on the so smooth texture of her inner thighs; on her silky pubic hair and her willing, Oh, God! so willing vagina, but... Don't think about it! I do not want to think about it! So then he thought about not thinking about it, and thinking of not thinking about it didn't help one bit. * On the sixth day of their lives, Mitchell took Marsha to see Manhattan.

BECOMING Trying their best, each put forth a facade of enjoyment. They went to the top of the Empire State Building. They went into the crown of the Statue of Liberty. The saw the play "Tea and Sympathy," tickets courtesy of the U.S.O. They had dinner at the Chinese restaurant he had told her about.

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Getting lost in the pre-Christmas crowd on Fifth Avenue, they delayed going home for as long as possible, but... Eventually they did go home, where... They went to bed with heightened apprehension, which added to the ever-mounting tension, and... "God-damn it! What in the hell's wrong with me?" ...anger. "What's wrong with you, Mitchell? I'll tell you what's wrong with you! Your mother! That's what's wrong with you!" "My mother? Marsha, what in hell's my mother got to do with this?" "It's that god-damned joke she just had to tell!" "Yeah, sure! Everything's my mother's fault, huh?" "Yeah, she just had to tell..." In a mimicking, mocking voice, "the one about the guy who couldn't keep it up on his wedding night! Remember?" "Yeah, I remember! You bitched about that before!" "Yeah! Well I think it's been on your mind, and that's why you can't..." "You're full of shit, Marsha! I haven't thought about that at all! And so long as we're talking about my mother, I'll tell you who's fault I think this really is! How's about your mother?" "Oh, yes! I knew you were going to get around to that!" "Yeah, I am! If she'd just minded her own god-damned business, we'd have done it when we first got married, when we damn-well should have! But no, she said, 'Don't do it till I say so,' and of course, little Marsha always listens to her mommy!" "Mitchell, Shut up! Just shut up!" "Yeah, Marsha, I'll shut up, okay!" In insurmountable anger--at Marsha, but mostly at himself--turning from her, moving to the far side of the bed, Mitchell stared into the darkness. Turning in the opposite direction, moving as far to the other side of the bed as possible, feeling lost, feeling alone, and oh, so unhappy, Marsha cried.

BECOMING Mitchell heard her, but too bound in anger and too involved in self-pity, he did not turn to her. 60 The Seventh Day of Their Lives December 24, 1955: 10:14 a.m.

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She sat at the table in the kitchen writing letters to Rosalie and Shelly. She wrote of the apartment, Seagate, Coney Island and what she'd seen of New York City, but outside of saying, "He's fine," Marsha did not mention Mitchell, nor, because at that time she could not think of even one, "the joys of married life." Between letters, putting the pen down, she looked at Mitchell because... Since last night, Marsha had been thinking, very seriously, of going back to Chicago, because... We've never even had sex! she thought, Well, not all the way. And further thought, as, taking a Kleenex from the box at her elbow, dabbed at the growing moisture in her eyes, as, stifling a sob, Marsha now thought... As had Mitchell, Maybe we can get it annulled. Laying on the sofa, facing the kitchen, pretending to read a Max Brand pocket book novel, but glancing at Marsha over the top of the book every few seconds, Mitchell urgently wanted to do something, to say something. He well knew the problem was his, but no longer had any idea of what to do about it. He knew Marsha was unhappy, but really didn't know what to say. He wanted to apologize for what he'd said about Rhea, but did feel that he was right and could not bring himself to say the words. They hadn't spoken to each other, not one word, since last night and now, the silence and depressive atmosphere were becoming too much... "Marcie," standing suddenly, throwing the book onto the sofa, "let's get the hell out of here!" Looking up, her voice weary, "Where do you want to go, Mitchell?" she asked as though not caring where they would go, or what they would do. "We'll take the ferry to Staten Island... Come on!" Going to the table, taking the pen from her hand, bodily pulling her to her feet. "You can't go aboard, but I'll show you Halfmoon, then maybe we'll head back to Manhattan, grab a bite to eat and see if there's another play we can catch, or see a movie or something... Come on! How's about it?" Screwing the cap on the pen, "Okay," she said halfheartedly. "If that's what you want to do." Taking the pad of writing paper and the bottle of ink, Marsha put both into the top drawer of the dresser. "Marcie, look, honey, I'm sorry for all this, and as soon as I get aboard ship on Monday, I'll make an urgent request to see a doctor, and do whatever I can to solve our... my problem." "Okay, Mitchell. Whatever you want." Her unconcerned attitude made him angry, but he held it down. *

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Though he attempted to speak to her, Marsha was unresponsive, and the car ride from Seagate to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal was all but silent. The darkly overcast day added to the depression. Standing inside, behind a water-stained window, Mitchell pointed to Ellis Island, then a few minutes later, the Statue of Liberty, that were both barely visible in the foggy distance. As the ferry docked at Staten Island, going outside, they climbed the staircase to the upper deck where Marsha was able to see the expanse of the huge complex. Still thinking of the Coast Guard in terms of red-roofed lifeboat stations, saying her first complete sentence since leaving the apartment, "I didn't think it would be so gigantic." Pleased to hear her voice again, "Yeah, it is a pretty big place... There!" he said, putting an arm about her waist, pointing, "There she is!" Looking at the forest of white smoke stacks, "Where?" "Look, see that pier?" Pointing to the first pier past the ferry terminal. "Okay, we're going to count piers. Stay with me now. One, two," moving his pointing finger, "three... You still with me?" Not moving her eyes, "Yes." "Okay. Now the fourth pier, and there, on the next one, that's her." "Oh..." That's the Halfmoon, she thought, Mitchell's ship. Once again Marsha felt as though here, now, was a dream. Turning her head, looking at him to be sure she was really here, with Mitchell... And Marsha suddenly remembered that there was no one whom she would rather be with and no place she would rather be then here, with Mitchell, and she snuggled closer, and... He felt the shift in her position and the easing of her posture. "Think I can go aboard and see it up close someday?" This, of course, totally canceling all thought of going to any home other than her home in Seagate, New York. "Sure. They allow visitors on Sundays, and some weekend when I have liberty I'll take you aboard. Besides, I want to show you off to the guys." Smiling her first smile in almost fifteen hours, "You mean I might even get to see you in uniform one of these days?" Her smile warming him, "Trust me, honey, you're going to get sick of seeing me in that uniform! The blues are dry cleaned, but the whites and denims get washed, and ironed." "Something I didn't tell you... I'm not so hot at ironing." "You'll learn, or if you don't, I'll keep doing them." Put at ease, the light chatter brought them back to each other

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"Marcie, I hate it when you're mad at me." His eyes becoming moist, "I can't imagine life without you now and I'm so sorry that things..." "I know, Mitchie." Always surprised by this visible show of emotion, Marsha always responded. "I'm sorry, too. Don't worry," she said sincerely, "whatever your problem is, we'll work it out." Crossing back, they drove to Manhattan, and bought each other a surprise Christmas gift at Macy's. They waited in line to see a matinee of the movie "Oklahoma" at Radio City Music Hall. They had a pizza after the movie. They got caught up in the Times Square, day-before-Christmas rush. They went home. December 24, 1955, 11:32 p.m. Except for a thin sliver of light coming from beneath the door, the one-room home of Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky was in complete darkness. In bed, wanting to, but afraid of starting something that they were sure they would not be able to properly finish, each lay on either side of the mattress. Although the distance that separated them was less than a foot, each felt as though in a black void and miles apart. "I've thought about it," Mitchell said to the darkness. "God knows I think about it all the time. Maybe that's part of the reason this is happening to me, and..." Interrupting him, "You really think this wouldn't be happening to us now if we did it then, in October?" Silent a moment, "Marcie, I don't want to argue with you again, so please don't get angry, but yes! Damn it, we shouldn't have listened to them!" Turning, facing her, "When we were at your place, before your mother came out, I was there! All I had to do was move a fraction of an inch and I'd have been inside..." Stopping, "Marcie, I would have been inside you." This stated as a simple statement, yet, in absolute awe as though this were the most wondrous thing in the world... and in the mind of each, at that time, truly, it was. "Maybe that's part of my problem. Maybe I've built it up so much in my mind that somehow I'm afraid to do it because what if it's not as great as I've always thought it would be. Damn! I don't even know if that's my problem. Maybe I'm just too tense." Sighing, "I don't know. I only know that I love you, and that none of this is because of you, and I'm so sorry that this is happening to you because of me." "I know you are." Turning from her back to her side, putting her hand on his shoulder, that he instantly covered with his. "And you've got to know how much I love you, Mitchie." He moved to Marsha's side of the bed. In the dark room, their lips found each other's... Within moments, his penis poking through the fly of his pajamas, he knew, he just knew that this time, now, it was going to work!

BECOMING What could he do? He couldn't stop trying! "Marcie," a bit hesitant, "you want to try again?" Hesitating also, "You think you can?" "Jesus, Marcie! I always think I can!"

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Hoping she'll be able to work up the enthusiasm, "Yes, baby, it's okay, let's try again. But if it doesn't work, let's promise not to get upset, okay." "Yes," but he knew he would, "of course." Marsha removed her pajamas. Mitchell removed his pajamas. She held him... And as always the mere touch of Marsha's hand sent a sensuous, erotic jolt through him, as... Knowing that her lack of fluid, that her dryness, that the absence of signs of her physical passion might also be affecting him. Not sure where this was going, actually rather thinking that this, as their other attempts, would be going no place, Marsha was far from enthralled, and even were she able to fake enthusiasm, her body did not, so she did not secrete any of the necessary fluid. Kissing, touching, holding, feeling. Attempting to caress Marsha's less-than-moist vagina, knowing--if he lasted that long--they'll need lubrication, "Hold on, honey. I'll be right back." Stay hard! Crossing the black room, groping for the dresser, Oh, God, silently praying, please don't let it get soft! Opening the top drawer, reaching inside, fumbling a moment he removed the small, round jar. Unscrewing the cap, leaving the cap on the dresser... Holding the jar in his left hand, digging the index and forefingers of his right hand into the jar, withdrawing his fingers, his mind telling him one thing, his fingers another, starting back to the bed, rubbing the contents of the jar over his, Oh, yeah, still extended penis. Unsure of the mixed message, putting his fingers back into the jar, just to be on the safe side, re-anointing himself... Oh, boy. The thought of this beyond instantaneous comprehension. Stopping, standing dead still, "Uh-oh!" Uh-oh? "Uh-oh, what, Mitchie?" His fingers and mind still in conflict, "Marcie, today..." "What's the matter?" Oh, boy, "Marsha, today, uh..." Afraid to ask, "This morning, when you were writing, uh...?" Becoming annoyed, "Yes?" Hoping, Oh, God! Hoping, "The, uh, ink? You didn't take the ink out, did you?"

BECOMING Thinking a moment, "Yes, I filled my pen. Why?" Uh-oh! Afraid to ask, "Where'd you..." afraid to know, "put the bottle?" "Where it belongs, back in the top drawer. Why?"

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Oh, boy! "Uh..."--the small, round bottle of Carter's indelible blue/black ink normally kept in the rear of the drawer, the small, round bottle of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly, normally kept in the front of the drawer--"Where in the drawer?" he asked. "Mitchell," now truly annoyed, "I don't remember! Why?" Struggling to remain calm, "Marcie, honey," he said in a strangely timid voice, "turn the light on, please." "Turn the light on?" "Yes..." Not sure if he'll be able to stay calm much longer. "...please." Having no idea why, "Okay." Sitting up, reaching to her left, turning the knob on the lamp... Marsha blinked her eyes as they became accustomed to the light. Mitchell blinked his eyes as they became accustomed to the light, then, daring to look, "Oh--my--God!" he looked. Marsha, looked, too. "My, God!" But not believing what she saw, blinking her eyes a number of times, having no idea what his reaction was going to be, biting her lower lip to keep from laughing, "My, God," she repeated as... Gazing downward, "Oh..." he said softly, "my... God." Because... The sight of this truly beyond instantaneous comprehension. "God," looking upward, "you really did it this time!" Mitchell said, "Not even you can think of anything worse than this!" Because... This, truly beyond all comprehension... "Why, me, God?" His eyes shifting downward. "Why me?" Looking at Marsha, "Ten minutes ago we were lying in bed wondering what was causing it... Me, not being able to keep a boner! All my life I've had a boner! For no reason I'd get a boner. All my life, no matter what I was doing I'd get a boner! No matter who I was with, I'd get a boner! And I've never been able to get laid! Oh, I've thought about it, Marsha!" he said seriously. "I've sure thought about it and don't ask me why, but now I know, for sure!" Looking skyward, "It's God! God doesn't want me to ever get fucked! And will you look ?" He giggled, "Just look! How come now it don't go away? And... Yes, it's still there! Oh, yeah, and... Yes, it's still standing at attention. Oh, yeah... In all its indelible blue/black magnificence. Unable to hold back any longer, Marsha began to laugh.

BECOMING Giggling again, "I just can't believe it." The giggle turning to laughter. "I cannot believe it!"

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"Mitch," struggling to catch her breath, "You said you wanted... oh, God, 'lead in your pencil'! How's about, oh, God..." Tears running from her eyes, barely able to get the words out, grabbing the pillow from behind her back, "ink in your..." almost choking on the words, "ink in your pen!" Marsha buried her face in the pillow. Tears running from his eyes, too, slumping to the floor, attempting to minimize the carpet damage, sitting with his legs spread and his knees cocked, Mitchell Lipensky's lower abdomen, pubic area and penis were splotched with ink. Blue/black streamers of it ran down his thighs and calves, over his feet and between his toes, and if someone were to look, if someone were so inclined, they'd see a dappling of the stuff around the orifice of his rectum. "Marcie," scarcely able to get the words out, "you ever hear of blue balls?" Gasping, moving her face from behind the pillow, "Yeah, I've heard guys mention it. But, Mitchie," breaking up again, "I'd guess that that," pointing in the direction of his wide-open, fully visible crotch, "ain't exactly what they were talking about." "No, Marcie, I assure you, this ain't what guys talk about when they talk about blue balls. What this is..." looking for a word, "...is unbelievable!" Coming off the bed, Marsha sat next to him. The two of them, sitting naked on the floor, laughed together... and the tension of the past four days evaporated. "Mitchie," she said when the laughter ebbed, "this couldn't happen to anyone in the whole world but you, and that," pointing to his now retracted penis, "is the funniest thing I've ever seen!" "Yeah, this even beats all those damned pennies." "Yeah, it does. And I thought nothing could ever beat that." "Marcie, get me a towel, will you?" "Sure." Standing, going to the kitchen, taking the towel from the bar behind the cabinet, soaking it and squeezing some liquid kitchen soap onto it, going back, squatting before him... Even if he weren't purposely looking, he couldn't help but notice the fully open view of his wife's body. Actually, now seeing more of the female anatomy than he'd ever seen, even as Marsha, futilely, attempted to wipe the ink from his feet and legs, Mitchell, once again, oh, yeah, achieved a full erection. Seeing it... Watching his penis rise two feet from her face, aware of the sudden flow of her fluid, thinking, Wonder if the ink'll come off? If Marsha were not afraid of the ink coming off within her vagina, she'd gladly impale herself upon it. But, that aside, at first she had thought it might be too embarrassing to have Mitchell look at her fully nude, fully open body, but, surprising herself--always thrilled at the reaction she usually received from him whenever he viewed any part of her nude body--Marsha now discovered that she actually enjoyed having him look at her naked. "Here," handing him the towel, "you try getting it off, there." Wondering how she was going to--no pun intended--handle it there--taking the towel, rubbing it onto his pubic area, leaving the hair soapy, coming away with nothing but a light-blue film on the cotton towel, "Think it'll come off, ever?"

BECOMING "Don't know, Mitch. Good thing you're not on duty tomorrow, huh?"

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"Jesus, I don't even want to think about what would happen if any of the guys in the shower saw me like this. "Looking at the stains in the lavender carpet, "What'll we do about the carpet?" Thinking a moment, no doubt hearing it from the same source that she'd heard pepper will keep a man from maintaining an erection, "Milk!" she said. "I've heard someplace that milk will take stains out." Going to the refrigerator, Marsha returned with what was left of a one-quart container and another towel. Pouring some of the milk on one of the smaller stains, she scrubbed, and some--but not much--of the ink rubbed onto the towel. "Not enough milk here, Mitchie. Why don't you go next door and see if Lou and Grace can spare any." Next door, the Weiner's had a one-bedroom apartment. "Mitchell, what in the hell do you want?" Angry at being woken, "You know it's..." squinting at his watch, "after twelve!" Standing in the hall wearing only his robe, "Yeah, Lou, I'm sorry to wake you." Mitchell said, holding a large glass forward, "But we need a glass of milk." "A glass of milk? You woke us for one glass of milk?" "Yeah. Believe me, Lou, I'm sorry, but we need it." "You need it? At twelve-ten, the two of you need one glass of milk?" Seeing that Mitchell was wearing a robe, assuming by his bare legs, with nothing beneath--strange Lou didn't notice his blue/black splotched feet and toes--knowing they're newlyweds, smiling slyly, "You guys," he asked, "got some kind of a... you know, trick you need milk for?" Debating with himself whether or not to show him, "No, Lou. No trick we need milk for." "Then what in the hell you need a glass of milk for?" Oh, well. "This, Lou." Opening the robe, "We had a, uh, little accident." Looking at him in disbelief, "How in the hell...?" "Don't keep ink next to your Vaseline." Marsha and Mitchell could hear Lou and Grace laughing through the wall for the next ten minutes. The milk not working on the carpet, they decided it would be best to tell Mrs. Tennenbaum, and offer to pay for a new carpet. Marsha suggested makeup remover. Using cotton ball after cotton ball, fortunately the nail polish remover removed some of the ink from his legs, and, "Holy shit, that burns like hell!" most of it from his penis.

BECOMING In the shower, taking a long shower, ink came from places he couldn't even imagine. In bed, wearing only pajama tops, she had tried waiting up for him. But by the time he finished his extended shower and came from the bathroom, Marsha had fallen asleep.

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Glad to see she was sleeping because by then he felt far from romantic. And, the laughter over, feeling more, much more than just a bit stupid --in the shower he'd reasoned, It's an understandable mistake... Yeah, sure! Like everyone goes around sticking their dicks in a bottle of ink! His legs and groin irritated by the scrubbing, to say nothing of the nail polish remover, deciding to sleep nude, Mitchell turned the lights off, got into bed... and soon fell asleep. 61 Christmas _ December 25, 1955, 3:56 a.m. Cold. The window open a bit, the curtain fluttered inward on the slight, winter breeze. Dark. But for the sliver of light from beneath the door, the room was in total darkness. Still. In the room there was only the lulling sound of breathing. Quiet. Cold. Dark. Still and quiet. The radiating heat of Marsha's body drawing him. Turning in his sleep, unknowingly, Mitchell came closer... And even closer... ...Until, nuzzling against the warmth of Marsha's naked buttocks, feeling her warmth, sensing absolute, luxurious comfort... The total of Mitchell's consciousness once again became deeply suspended. In the reach of her wondrous dream, sensing Mitchell's body against her, Marsha moved her hips, arching herself, nestling her buttocks into the warm forming contour of his stomach and thighs. His left arm beneath the pillow, his right arm under the blanket draped over her waist, where his hand lay upon the bare flesh of Marsha's stomach... ...Then instinctively moved upward, beneath the loose-fitting pajama top, to the soft warmth of a sleep-creased breast...

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...And the feel of Marsha's breast within his hand caused the gauze-like veil of his subconscious to lift for a moment, then return to the dream of Marsha: Of lying next to her. Of feeling the softness of her breast within his hand. Of feeling the warmth of her back against his chest. Of feeling the roundness of her buttocks nestled closely against his stomach and thighs, and... Marsha's subconscious mind, flitting towards consciousness... Mitchell's subconscious mind hovering just beneath conscious-ness... Both returned to their dream of lying close and comfortable, warm and safe... ...To the dream they each dream: That Mitchell is holding her closely. That Marsha is held in his arms, and... A part of Mitchell stirred and, moving in his sleep... Fractionally moving the dream of his turgid penis between the dream of the soft, enveloping fissure of Marsha's buttocks... In... out... in... out. Through the layers of darkness, Marsha felt the erotically stirring, teasing friction... In... out... in... out... As the very tip of Mitchell's penis probed into, and out of the moist, outer folds of her vagina, as... Dreaming, wanting him there! Oh, God! Wanting him there, Marsha arched even further, as... Dreaming... Wanting to be there! Oh, God! Wanting to be there, Mitchell drew himself, and herself even closer, and... The front of his thighs and legs formed tightly against the back of her thighs and legs, and his forward straining pelvis molded tightly, oh, so tightly against her sharply angled backside... In the ethereal wisps of their dreams... "Mmm," moaning in his sleep, Mitchell strained forward. "Mitchell..." Whispering his name, "Mitchell..." Suddenly awake...

BECOMING "Mitchell," Marsha said softly. "Love me." As...

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Placing a hand behind his head and a hand onto his hip, turning onto her back, bringing his face to her face, and his body onto her body... His wondrous dream became vaporous... then faded, and... ....Marsha and Mitchell kissed, and as they did, they... ...meld. "I love you!" Feeling his soul enfolded within the lubricious sheath of Marsha... ...enfolded within her warmth. ...Within the fathomless, mental, physical, all-enveloping warmth. "I love you." Coming from the heart of each... "I love you." With each thrust, he whispered her name... "Marsha..." With each withdrawal... "I love you." 62 Christmas Day Hallelujah! the beginning Epilogue Brighton Beach, New York Spring, 1956_ Standing at the curb, the old man looked forward, watching the stoplight, waiting for it to turn green. The lights on the four corners changed colors: from red to green, from green to red. A dark-blue convertible, its top open to the early spring sun, rolled to a halt. Stepping off the curb carefully, the old man began his shuffling journey across the wide street. Scraggly gray hair hanging over his wrinkled, age-splotched forehead, he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane that he held tightly within his gnarled hand.

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In the convertible, the young man placed his hand onto the bare, sun-warmed knee of the young woman that sat next to him. Approaching the convertible, lifting his head, the fog-cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the young man, and... ...for a prolonged moment the eyes of the old man and the eyes of the young man locked, for... ...there was a sort of unknown, but long-remembered, distant recognition. And a shroud of unbearable sadness griped the old man's heart... ...for he remembered "what was," when once he was young. The young man, though, had no fear, for after all he has a whole lifetime until he became an old man. Shuffling on... passing the car, stopping, turning, the old man peered through the open window, at the beautiful, dark-haired young woman... And a veil of tears covered the old man's eyes, as... Looking back at the old man, the young woman smiled, and... Nodding his head, sadly turning his eyes from the face of the young woman, the old man continued across the street. The lights changed colors: from green to red, from red to green. Stepping onto the curb, the old man turned to look at the girl and "him" one last time ... But the convertible was gone. A free ebook from http://manybooks.net/