The Holiday Go and Shop

We were about halfway through the drive to our vacation destination when it started.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom," Keaton asked.

"Nope. I can make it to the end." I did not ask the expected follow-up question because I knew the answer, and I did not want to stop for I was on track to set a travel speed record of sorts.

"Okay," she mumbled.

Ten minutes later. "We have to stop in Stockbridge. I've got to go bad."

"All right," I replied, "but please don't turn this into a go and shop. I'm beggin' ya."

She wasn't having any of it. "Well they do have great little stores and restaurants. We can get a lobster roll. How does that sound?"

"That's a bribe," I replied. I could feel my position losing ground. "Look, we are on a record breaking pace here. Let's not throw it all away for a lobster roll." My argument was weak but it was all I had.

"What's the big rush? We're on holiday babe."

"It's not a holiday. It's a vacation. The closest holiday is like weeks away. What's with the holiday stuff?" I was deflecting.

"It sounds so European. Holiday."

"But we're going to New Hampshire. You know, 'the live free or hang' state."

She corrected me. "That's 'live free or die'."

"Whatever. It still sounds crazy to me. I mean it should be 'live free or maybe not so much'. Death is not a choice I would make."

"Are you done because death will be a choice I'll make for you if we don't stop in Stockbridge. My motto is 'I pee or you die'!"

And that's when I was reminded there is always a bit of danger lurking nearby when I travel with Keaton.

Mud Finnegan and the Half Sandwich

I was ten years old. Mom wouldn't let me go to the matinee with the guys to see The Alamo at the Royal Theater in downtown Bloomfield. "It's too violent," she said. I could tell it was a battle I would not win, so I dragged my heavy burden to my room and gave the situation a solid ten minutes of kid thought. I concluded my life couldn't carry on like this without serious change. I knew what would be required. So I got up, stood tall, and defiantly stomped down the stairs in search of the matriarchal menace. I found her in the kitchen.

"I'm leaving for Pennsylvania," I announced. "I'm gonna be a farmer!"

"What do you know about farming?"

"I watch Modern Farmer every morning. You should try it."

"Modern Farmer? Okay, I guess that will do." So she packed me a baloney sandwich, wanted assurance that I had clean underwear on, and demanded I write her when the potatoes came in. Then she pushed me out the front door and pointed to the west.

I proudly walked up the street, finally liberated from the fickle whims of an intrusive mother, warped by the communist propaganda in Family Circle magazine. At the top of the street, a turned left to cut through Carteret Park, my home away from home, before making a turn to the Delaware river, roaring about 63 miles to the west. I'd worry about crossing it when I got there.

As I was cutting through the park, I saw Mud Finnegan at one of the wooden benches busy doing something. I stopped to talk to him because he was twelve years old and pretty much knew everything.

"Hey Mud! Whatcha doin'," I asked.

"Fuckin' carvin' my initials dipshit," he barked. "What does it look like I'm fuckin' doin'?" There was a reason he was called Mud.

I responded, "Yeah, cool!"

He lifted his head and looked at me with those crooked eyes of his. "What the fuck is in the bag?"

"It's a baloney sandwich. My ma made it for me. I'm runnin' away to Pennsylvania."

"So ya say," he mumbled. He continued to look me up and down with those crooked eyes. "Listen up turdball! You need some fuckin' advice but it'll cost ya half of the sandwich though, ya fuckin' poor use of two good legs." (I often felt Mud could talk in half the time if he'd simply drop the F bomb but it's what made Mud ... well ... Mud. That and his renown knowledge of sex and female parts.)

I gave his offer some thought and figured I needed his advice, so I handed over half the sandwich. As he bit off pieces, he looked out over the open playground, his brows curled and his cockeyed eyes focused beyond the baseball diamond to the south. Then he spoke slow and thoughtful-like.

"Ya see Crane, it's like this. Ya think the fuckin' world is better in some fuckin' other place, but ya get there and the grass is still that fuckin' green color. Ya see what I'm tryin' to tell ya, ya midget fuck?"

I thought for a moment, but the only thing that was coming to mind was that he was nuttier than a Chunky bar, and this notion that he was all-knowing was highly overrated. He interrupted my deep thinking.

"Nice fuckin' sandwich."

"What?"

"I said nice fuckin' sandwich. Your ma makes a nice fuckin' sandwich."

"Oh yeah, she does."

So I hung around Mud a while longer until the proper amount of big kid respect time had passed. I also figured I'd never make it to the Delaware with only a half sandwich. I'd have to swallow my pride and save the farming for the next parental atrocity, which was sure to happen. It would only be a matter of time. I said my good byes. Mud never looked up and never spoke, as he was applying the final touches to his initials.

I sauntered home, gnawing at my half sandwich, more confused than when I had entered the park. I'd have to eat crow when I got home but was used to it, as this was not a first runaway rodeo. I'd survive the crow. I did conclude though that the next time I would require at least three sandwiches and no park stop and chats. Yeah, that would do it. There would be no stopping me. Fire up the tractors!

Reincarnation

I'm pretty sure in my prior life I was a shoemaker who made those court jester slippers with the bells at the end of the curled up toe, which is why I try to change subjects when people start talking about reincarnation.

Sports Radio and Social Issues

With the COVID-19 virus putting major sports on hold, Sports Radio hosts and their callers have plenty of idle time on their hands to discuss ... well ... non sports topics. Enter the heightened racial tensions, demonstrations, and yes, rioting, triggered by the murder of George Floyd, and we've got clash of worlds.

let me qualify myself. I am a die hard NY Giants, Rangers, Knicks and Mets fan. I've been a raving mad Villanova basketball fan ever since my son got his acceptance letter from Nova some 17 years ago. I love the four golf majors and the occasional UFC fight. And I religiously listen to our local sports radio station: WFAN.

Here's the problem. There is nothing worse than listening to sports fans discuss social issues. These are my people, except when they start swerving way out of their lane. They are fish out of water. They are square pegs jamming into a round hole. They are out of their element. And it doesn't take much before the flood gates open with crazy conversations.

The latest catalyst is New Orleans Saints quarterback, Drew Brees. He seems like a nice guy, but he put a match to the gasoline tank earlier this week. Someone asked him during an interview what would he think if kneeling during the anthem started up again. His answer was short and tone deaf sweet. He views taking a knee during the National Anthem as disrespecting the flag and country and there is no argument to change his mind, which turned out not to be true, as he apologized for "getting it wrong" 24 hours later. But the gas tank had already exploded. 

It became open season again on Colon Kaepernick, Black Lives Matter & White Privilege. And the arguments were, for the most part, hard to follow and in many cases actually intelligence-sapping madness. The latter is demonstrated below:

Joe (host): And on the line we have Benny from Islip. What's on your mind Benny?
Benny: Hi Joe. Long time listener. First time caller.
Joe: Great! Welcome to the show! So what's got ya calling in today?
Benny: Now Joe just hear me out. I'm a 53 year old white guy and I don't got no privilege. I worked 40 to 50 hours a week driving buses for 25 years now and haven't asked for nothin'. Understand? And this guy Kipernike--
Joe: It's Kaepernick, Benny. Kaepernick.
Benny: Kaepernick then. Whatever his name is. He comes along and puts his knee on the ground during our sacred anthem. And because I don't like it, I have privilege? Joe, I don't have privilege, I just love my country. Am I wrong?
Joe: Look, I understand where you are coming from but I don't think it's like that.
Benny: This guy makes millions of dollars playing a game. It's a game Joe! I wish I could play a game like that but I'm 5 foot four and have bad arches. So I drive buses. But he should be in love with this country for what he does but instead he disrespected it.
Joe: I understand but you have to admit Benny that maybe he wasn't wrong about some of this.
Benny: Why because that guy died, what's his name, George Flynn--
Joe: George Floyd. Floyd.
Benny: Yeah Floyd, that guy! Listen Joe, my nephew Alphonso is a cop and he tells me all the time that he never knows what a situation will bring. That's a lot of stress on these guys. You know he was resisting arrest Joe.
Joe: Who was? George Floyd?
Benny: Yeah, he was.
Joe: No he wasn't! Where'd ya hear that.
Benny: That's the part we didn't see. I mean of course the main stream media doesn't have that part. But listen, even if he wasn't, why do I got privilege? And why is this privilege, which I don't got, have anything to do with him taking a knee? I mean it's like Black Lives Matter. Why do their lives matter more than my life, and if I have privilege, than maybe my life does matter more, but since I don't, then we have equal lives. Joe, where am I wrong here?
Joe: I don't think you're wrong but it's not quite like that.
Benny: So ya agree?
Joe: No I don't, but hey do you have a sports question.
Benny: Yeah, actually I do. Why does the NFL make owners interview at least one black for a coaching job. I mean supposin' there aren't any qualified.
Joe: We're gonna move on. And now we got ... oh no ... Jimmy from Hohokus. How are you Jimmy? Long time no hear. What going on?
Jimmy: Hey Joe, been busy. My daughter got married two months ago and shortly after I got the COVID thing.
Joe: Sorry to hear that. I mean I'm happy for your daughter but the virus Bro. How bad?
Jimmy: Well I needed to go on a ventilator.
Joe: Wow bro, a ventilator?
Benny: Yeah, but that's only the half of it. While I was on the ventilator, the nurse, a real nice oriental gal, very sweet, comes in and tells me my wife just texted her station and asked, since she couldn't see me ya no because of the virus and what not, to pass along that she wanted a divorce. So I've been busy Joe.
Joe: Oh no! Really? A divorce? Wow that's cold Bro!
Jimmy: It's all right Joe. I'm okay. My girlfriend has been my rock.
Joe: Girlfriend? Already? That was quick.
Benny: Not really, I mean we've been off and on for a year or two.
Joe: Okay, I see. let's move on. Do you have a sports question Jimmy? \
Jimmy: Yeah, this has been bothering for awhile now, but it just happened again with the Drew Brees thing. So why does LeBron James always have to tell us what he thinks about this thing or that thing. Laura Ingraham was right. He should just play basketball and shut up. Am I right Joe?

That folks is going on all day long all over the nation. We need sports to come back so we can argue bad umpire and referee calls, terrible coaching decisions, trades and drafts. We need sports so we can stay in our lane. Please, for the sake of sports radio, let the games begin, albeit safely. 

The Gift of Gab

I've been told I have the gift of gab. It's more like a curse, particularly when I go to parties and a guest yells across the room, "Hey! There's Bob! He's a gifted gabber. Say something gabby, Bob! C'mon!"

Trapped, I reply, "So where's everyone from?"

And then the guest responds, "See what I mean? He's killer gifted. Just killer!"

Its obvious that I don't go to parties that really swing. The truth is (and I'm extrapolating from a classic Groucho Marx line), I should never go to a party that would have me as a guest.

The US Postal Service Interview

During my job interview to be a mail carrier, the local Postmaster asked, "Are there any situations or circumstances in which you might be inclined to shoot a fellow postal worker?"

I thought about the question, thinking it seemed a bit odd but I guess maybe they have to ask, given some of the Postal Service history. So I thought some more and I couldn't help myself, I said in jest (because I'm such a jesty character), "Well I suppose if someone sorted the mail in reverse alphabetical order using only the last name on the return address, I might be so inclined."

He replied, "Hmm ... we have a few of those. When can you start?"

The Talk

Not sure why or how but recently I was reminded of my son’s wedding reception speech. He was my Best Man and extremely funny at my expense. The bit that got the loudest laugh was about “The Talk” I had with him. Of course, “The Talk” is about sex. I don’t remember it going down quite like this but I suppose it’s possible. He was maybe 14 at the time and “The Talk” was brief.

“So son do you have any questions about, you know, um--”

"Sex?"

"Yeah, that?"

“Not really dad. I’ve got this covered.”

“That’s good cause I got no answers.”

Boom! Drop the mic! It was quick, simple and honest. Unlike the ordeal I had to go through. Mine was gut wrenching. And it went exactly like this.

Sometime late in the spring of my freshman year in high school, "The Talk" took place. It snuck up on me, when my guard was down. Even the warning shot was subtle. “Bobby, after the boys go to bed, your father and I want to talk to you about something very important,” mom volunteered matter-of-factly, as I was drying the dishes.

She was good at being matter-of-factly, but this was different. “… your father” was not a phrase casually tossed around the house. If we heard it, it was always preceded by “wait until”. I hadn’t done anything even remotely wrong lately. My third semester grades were solid. I wasn’t in trouble. I don’t think they saw me hide a sliver of extra steak under my mashed potatoes. No, this was different. Something ominous was in the air.

Clueless but cautious, I replied, “Sounds good.”

I pondered some more. In my best play-it-cool impression I added, “Anything wrong? Something I should know about?” Unlike the old lady though, my voice cracked under the stress, giving away the little game I was up to.

“Nothing’s wrong. We just think it is time to talk to you about something. That’s all.”

My brain instantly began doing what I can only describe as a rudimentary form of a Google-like search against “it is time to talk”. After some tedious searching through my cranial indexing method, bam! Pay dirt! A match!

“So my mom says to me, ‘it is time to talk to you about sex’,” Rye Bread Russell reported to the gang as we sat around the park table one evening, waiting for Rye Bread to show up so we could start swing jumping.

I ran the search again to be sure. I came up with the same result. I was finished, done for, doomed. It was going to be about sex. Mom lived for moments like this. She wanted her boys to know the facts so we’d grow up being knowledgeable, caring husbands. She didn’t beat around the bush either. Her style was direct and to the point.  This was going to be really brutal.

The old man on the other hand would rather have been left out of the whole affair. This was not his bag. Shooting hoops, splitting tops, making yo-yos sleep, hitting fly balls, those were the things he did best—things that didn’t require conversation or discussion or chatting. Dad was not big with the chatting and I was more than okay with that.

Apparently though, mom had made up her mind that it was important that dad be present, just in case I had a specific, male-only question. She was out of her mind. I think raising four boys whose ages spanned a paltry six years from end to end will do that to any normal human being. She was no exception.

And now because she had turned insane, I was going to have to endure the big talk—the sit down session of all sessions. For a brief moment I thought of breaking a limb to buy a few months. Alas, I was trapped. I was also certain that I’d have to ask one question just to show interest and get her off my back for fear of follow-up talks. What could I possibly ask? Dishes dried, I schlepped out of the kitchen to retreat to my third floor room to give this quandary serious consideration.

As I walked through the living room, dad was sitting in his favorite spot, staring blankly at the sports page, while the TV weatherman Tex Antoine prattled on about a low in the Ohio Valley.

“How them Dodgers looking this year, Pops?” It was my standard Spring sports question. I just wanted to make contact somehow to assess his response. Maybe my primitive Google memory search was faulty.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled from behind his paper curtain.

Normally, he’d go on about the pitching of Koufax and Drysdale. I’d then counter with the hitting of Mays and McCovey from the Giants, and we’d have at it. But he didn’t even invite the argument. He was obviously preoccupied. It was a dead giveaway. There I was, stressing out over coming up with one knucklehead sex question to ask. Meanwhile, dad was sweating bullets over having to answer it.

Suddenly, without warning, it spilled out of me like a backed up toilet.

“Guess were gonna talk about something later, huh dad?”

Dead silence from behind the Newark Star Ledger. I continued on my way. Then, he mumbled.

“Yeah, it’s your mother’s idea.”

Oh, no! Not, the ‘it’s your mother’s idea’. I suddenly had one of those mysterious shivers through my entire body. Someone must have stepped on my grave. My shoulders slumped as I ascended the stairs.

Now, if dad and I had it in us, we could’ve tossed around this “your mother’s idea” a little. Maybe we even could’ve worked out some innocuous dialogue—create a little win-win scenario. But no! We were the doomed stupid silent types. The deal was sealed. I was going to get the “sex talk” for sure. I entered my attic sanctuary, shut the door behind me, lit some sandalwood incense and pondered the possibilities.

Time passed quickly and harshly. I got the knock on the door. It was time.

Dad sat in his favorite part of the couch. He looked defeated, war torn. Mom sat next to him with her hand placed reassuringly on his leg. It was a sure sign he was under her control, that they were unified. There was going to be no “divide and conquer” that night.

I was invited to sit in a chair which mom had pulled from the head of the dining room table. It sat lonely and isolated in the middle of the living room. To be honest, it was weird, way weird! I felt like I was being brought in for interrogation. To top it all off, I was sure I could hear the faint asthmatic breathing of my brother Doug coming from the upstairs landing, just out of sight.

“So did I tell ya what happened to Otter today at lunch?” I tried to throw a curve ball, buy some time, and possibly subvert the whole discussion.

Dad didn’t disappoint. He fell for it instantly, “No what hap—”

“Your father and I think it is time to have a talk with you about sex,” mom interrupted. Dad sank back into the couch. I began to sweat and needed to pee.

“We want to answer any questions you have. Do you have any? That is, any about sex?” she inquired.

The ball was clearly in my court. I anticipated this. I had come up with a bland, generic question but my mind went blank under the scrutiny of mom’s probing eyes. She had a way of doing that to me.

“Um … um … um—“ I was wracking my brain, searching. What was that question I had? Nothing was coming to mind, nothing. I had to do something. I took a thoughtful pause. Nothing.

“Actually, no I don’t.” I heard the faint sound of snickering coming from the shadows upstairs.

Dad relaxed briefly. “Great! I guess—”

“So then you know that when a married couple decides to have a baby, they engage in sex during which the man has an erection and inserts his penis in the woman’s vagina,” she pressed.

I looked at her like a deer in headlights. What was she? Nuts? I couldn’t believe she had the chutzpah to be so blunt like that. I was trapped like a guilty witness under cross examination by Perry Mason. Dad looked at me sympathetically. He was bailing out, leaving me on my own in that solitary chair in the middle of the room.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, exposed. Suddenly though, out of nowhere, a burst of formidable savvy. I continued on, “Yeah, we learned all about that stuff in Health, in seventh grade. Yeah, it was pretty interesting. Yup, there were charts and even a movie if I recall. Real informative. Mr. Brown did a nice job explaining what you just said and all. Think I even got an ‘A’ on the test.”

It was as slick a piece of weaseling as ever there was, but would it work? Did I play it too strong at the end? I stopped for a response.

“Oh really?  That was two years ago. I don't recall any ‘A’ on any test on human sexuality. Why didn’t you say something to us then?” she asked.

She was calling me on it. I was sunk if I didn't do something real fast. Sensing defeat, I pulled out the wild card.

“Oh gee ma, com’on. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to tell you. Dad, help me here.” I pleaded for his rescue. He couldn’t hide anymore. I dragged him unwillingly into the fray. It was my only hope to end this torture.

Dad surprised me. He leaned forward, put his hand on her hand and looked her square in the eyes.

“He’s right. Do you really think he’d say something or bring home a test on that? I mean look at him.”

It was supportive, yet demeaning, all at the same time. I didn’t care. If it stopped the madness, I was fine with it. There was a long moment of silence.

Mom continued.

“Well that is good. No questions. I just wish you felt like you could talk to us about this kind of subject. Anyway, here is a book explaining how babies are conceived. Read it. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask us. We want to open the lines of communication. Okay?”

“Lines of communication” What was that babble? It dawned on me that she got this whole, hair-brain idea from one of her magazines. Probably it was that “Redbook”, that piece of drivel.

“Sure thing ma,” I quickly responded, sensing this ordeal was coming to a swift close.

And it did.

That was it. It was over. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the silhouette on the landing disappear. Mom got up and handed me this book called, “Growing Up”. It was okay. No real sweet pictures though. Just a lot of charts about nine months. She retreated into the kitchen. I got up and dragged the chair back into the dining room and proceeded up the stairs to bed.

“Good night dad,” I moaned.

“I’m thinking Koufax is going to win twenty five games this year. It’s all ours,” he replied.

He was back in the saddle.

“Not if Mays has anything to do with it.”

He smiled, “We’ll see. Good night.”

“Oh yeah, and keep those lines of communication open buddy,” he added with just a hint of sarcasm and a little wink.

“Sure thing Dad! Sure thing.” We had connected. 

“The Talk” was completed. I think it was sealed when mom very clinically spelled it all out in that one sentence. It was almost as if she had to say the three words, “penis, erection and vagina” or it wouldn’t have been official. She had to get them out on the table. Her job was done.

It would have been so much more simple if she had just left it up to dad and me. Probably would have been just like my discussion with my son. But noooo! She wanted us to sweat.

And we did!