Not Guilty
There are few things (short of nuclear holocaust) that are powerful enough to rouse me early on a Saturday morning. Fortunately love of my parents is one of those things.
That is precisely the reason why at 10:45am yesterday morning I was already showered, dressed, coiffed, made-up, and far from home standing on a train platform waiting for the 10:55 to Grand Central Station. My mother quietly bubbled with excitement behind me while my father, I expect, was surveying the grey New Haven skies and imagining the joys of walking around Manhattan in the rain.
Since realizing how easy it is to take a train into the city, “purchasing tickets to Broadway musicals” has been added to the list of “Stacey’s Impulsive Behaviors.” It’s an expensive habit, but no matter how I look at it, I just don’t see the downside. For example, when I failed to procure an anniversary gift for my parents by the day of their party, a few minutes online and I was all set. Now I’m the generous daughter providing them with a wonderful life experience instead of the dipshit that nearly forgot their anniversary because it took me two full weeks to realize it was August already.
Luckily the weather was considerably more pleasant in New York than it was in New Haven. Although humid, it was sunny, which meant that a.) we could walk to the theatre instead of having to pay for a cab and b.) we had the opportunity to look like idiots because both my mother and I were carrying umbrellas.
We didn’t even need to use our umbrellas as weapons because the streets were relatively empty compared to past visits when we could barely move for all the people on the sidewalk. My father pointed out the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, and Radio City Music Hall to my mother as we navigated our way to the theatre district. In no time we were outside the Ambassador Theatre, taking instructions from an usher who spoke some of the most garbled English I’ve ever heard.
“Peez arrrvywunn faaaarmmm a larrrrnn arrruuudd da teeeeatttta annn huvvv yeeerrrr tkttttttttz awrttt.”
“What did he say?” my mother asked.
“He said we need to form a line around the side of theatre over here and everyone needs to have their tickets in hand.” (I worked with preschoolers for two years. Bartenders are also good interpreters.)
I passed out tickets as we lined up.
“Stacey said not to look at the price on the tickets,” my mother told my father (something I warned her about several days ago when she watched me order Little Mermaid tickets for my sisters for their birthdays and saw the price on those). Of course, my father immediately looked.
“Is she insane?! Why do you let her waste her money like that?”
Fortunately, I missed this discussion. Probably because I was too worried about whether or not they’d like the show. I picked Chicago, which was one of their favorite movies for awhile. I was pretty sure my mom would love it, as she’s easy to please. Put anyone singing and dancing in front of her and she’s happy. My father is harder to gauge. However, if nothing else, I figured he’d enjoy it for the same reason I was convinced the Captain agreed to come along - to see women cavorting about the stage dressed like this:
What? It’s theatre. It’s classy.
I think everyone would have enjoyed the show much more if we hadn’t had to deal with the latecomers. About thirty or so minutes into the performance, half a dozen people showed up to try to slip into the row in front of us and four more needed to squeeze into the middle of our row. This caused a great deal of standing and shuffling in both rows, meaning that a hell of a lot of people missed a couple minutes of the show. My mother told one of the tardy theatregoers, “Next time try to be on time.”
“Our bus was late, thanks very much,” the woman snapped at her.
My mother was wholly unsympathetic. “We came from out of state, and we got here on time,” she ranted to me during intermission.
When one of the latecomers returned from intermission ten minutes into Act II, forcing the row in front of us to do the stand and shuffle AGAIN, I thought we may have to bail my mother out of prison. (I don’t think the “It was a murder, but not a crime” defense works in the real world.)
Not that I blame her. Had I been in charge, I’d have a strict policy on late seating: If you dare show up L-A-T-E, you are S.O.L.
Punctuality-challenged people aside, I think my parents really liked the show. After all, my mother thanked me for bringing her almost as many times as she complained about how rude New Yorkers are. (It was a lot of thank yous.)
Afterwards, walking back to the train station, I had an epiphany. “Hey, I’m already wearing black underwear! If we just find me a bowler hat, I could perform one of those numbers.” (Yes, I announced this in front of my parents. I suffer from doesn’t-think-before-she-speaks disease.)
Everyone stared. Finally the Captain piped up, “Please do.”
Just in case that precious moment wasn’t excitement enough, when we reached track 27, we discovered that our train (or something under it) was smoking badly.
As I watched them evacuate the cars I suggested, “Let’s go to track 21.”
“Doesn’t that train leave a half hour later?” my father complained.
“Yes, but it’s not on fire. I think that’s an improvement.”
Just as we reached track 21 and wondered if the empty train could possibly be the one we’d be taking, we heard an announcement that the 5:07 was switched to our track. Score! We were the first ones on the train and secured a section of seats that faced each other so we could all talk amongst ourselves on the way back. This turned out to be a very bad plan when the topics my mother chose included, again, the rudeness of New Yorkers, followed by stories of how I couldn’t wear diapers as a baby because they’d cause my ass to crack, peel, and bleed. I’m sure the Captain was captivated by such tales. I’m hoping my mother’s anecdotes were drowned out by the big mouth of little Julio, who sat several seats behind us. The child had such a set of lungs on him that even as he screamed, “Bridgeport! Look, Bridgeport!” I’m sure they could still hear him in Harlem. (He did eventually get quiet, which my mother informed me was because his mom fell asleep and he was busy poking her eyes.)
And so we made it to NYC and back without serious incident (only a few minor confrontations and a possible train fire - totally not our fault). I call that a successful venture.
Overheard at the Airport
Voice over intercom: Attention travelers, a piece of jewelry was left at the security checkpoint. A piece of jewelry for the belly button was left at the security checkpoint. If your belly button is bare, you need to return to the security checkpoint to pick up your jewelry.
Travelogue - 5 July 2008 (part IV)
The Captain senses I am bored. Maybe he’s being intuitive because I haven’t asked what we’re going to DO this afternoon for about twenty-five minutes now.
He takes me mini golfing. I am deluded in believing that putting is supremely easy. I expect to kick his ass.
I am embarrassingly bad.
People are stacked up on either side of us. I can’t stand knowing that they see how poorly I’m doing. I think it makes things worse.
Rain begins to sprinkle us by the sixth hole.
At the tenth hole I drag the ball more than tap it on my last stroke because it’s right next to the cup. The Captain suggests I gave it too much help. I snap, “It’s mini golf, not the PGA.” The woman ahead of us laughs.
The last hole is more or less guaranteed to be a one shot deal. Unless you’re me. It takes me four.
And I practically kick it in.
I decide I dislike mini golf.
Travelogue - 5 July 2008 (part III)
Whenever the Captain isn’t looking, I sneak a square from the fudge we bought yesterday. The sign in the window claimed “Best Homemade Fudge” and I’m pretty sure they’re not kidding.
He emerges from the hall and walks my way. I know that he plans to give me a kiss and in doing so will discover my secret. A guilty grin spreads across my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“Why are you smiling at me that way then?” he says as he leans down and pecks my lips. He pauses and looks at me accusingly. “And you didn’t even cut me a piece?”
I think that if an orgasm could be a food, it would be fudge.
Travelogue - 5 July 2008 (part II)
The Captain offers me lunch. He has forgotten the bread for our sandwiches. He has, however, remembered his Sam Adams, a bottle opener, and a plastic cup. As I eat my individually wrapped cheese slices, I curse men for their poor sense of priorities.